#what is the point of this obscene show of money if not to ENTERTAIN US

[coulsons-band]

they need to start shaming people right there on the met gala carpet 'how does it feel to have all this money and all these connections and yet still give us nothing' 'did you look in the mirror before you left the hotel room' 'did you understand the theme or do you not know how to read'

[samingtonwilson]

A Bid on Bucky

Summary: You spend thousands of dollars at a bachelor auction for Bucky when you could’ve had him for free this entire time.

Pairing: bucky x reader

a/n: this fic is damning evidence that idiots in love is my favorite genre, your honor. i’ve more likely than not used this gif before but idc because im lov it

Tony Stark is a humanitarian— a fact you have neither forgotten, nor will he allow you to forget. 

Oftentimes, he’ll remind you verbally and, other times, a visual reminder will be posted on the team’s social media accounts. The pictures of him at the elephant sanctuary he helped found in Thailand are your personal favorites.

If news of his latest cause is not filling the pages of The Times or showing up on CNN’s special segment of Billionaires Who Care with Christiane Amanpour, it’s being distributed via monthly text reminder of reasons to leave Tony’s special coffee alone— last month you were told, “His donations allowed the doors of Planned Parenthood to remain open in developing nations such as Burkina Faso, and all he asks for in return is that his teammates do not finish his goddamn coffee.” 

Of course, because you all live for him sniffing out your mugs at morning meetings to discover the culprit, his reminders only lead to greater coffee theft as it, in turn, increases the redness in his face when he finds the morally corrupt heathenous criminal— who is usually Clint. 

In true Tony Stark fashion, though, his favorite way to remind you all, and the rest of the world, is through a gala. A gala where champagne flows like water, money is no object, extravagance is to be expected, and, as a member of the team, attendance is mandatory. 

At first, you hated the damn things. It’s not like you’ve ever cared about the private island one guest owns which another guest is so obviously jealous of, or if the deal to buy a chunk of land on the light side of the moon before that hippie Elon Musk usurps it all has successfully closed. 

But now? Now that you’ve learned how to direct the money those snots brag ostentatiously about into causes you truly care for with a couple little sly techniques, you fucking love the things. 

You and Natasha have a game, actually. Whose Shameless and Absolutely Disingenuous Flirting Will Lead to More Money Donated to (Insert Tony’s Latest Cause Here)? 

Natasha is the current titleholder as Smelly Von Oil Tycoon’s wife shooed you away before you could close the million dollar deal and Cowboy Hat McFast Food Franchise would have given up his entire company if Natasha kept batting her eyelashes at him. But in the end, just as every other time the two of you have played, you both felt like winners because the almost obscene amount of money was helping fund housing for Rohingya refugees living in Bangladesh. The competitive edge to it is just for entertainment. 

This time, though, seeing as this event is an auction and you are in no mood to flirt with red-faced old men with paper-thin skin, you have taken to auctioneering with Sam. 

Motioning to a projected photograph of a luxurious Paris hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower in your best Vanna White impression, you grin as brightly as you can. “And the last item Sam and I will be auctioning off together is a two-night stay at Plaza Athénée in Paris. First class airfare for two is included, as are two tickets to the Louvre. You’ve been to Paris, haven’t you, Sam?” 

“Why, yes, baby girl, I have,” he replies with a grin as broad as yours, the spotlight and his natural charm causing his deep brown eyes to sparkle like diamonds. You think for a second that you can actually hear Bucky scoffing in the audience. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I will say that it is called the City of Love for a reason.” 

“Of course, our unlucky-in-love Sam shared those kisses only with every bit of bread and cheese he came across but you can share it all with someone special.” At that, Sam elbows you gently in the ribs with a fond roll of his eyes. “We’re going to start the bidding at twenty-thousand dollars.”

Immediately, paddles shoot up and Sam begins calling out higher bids and paddle numbers while you lean your hip against the podium and take a long sip of your champagne which has since, unfortunately, gone lukewarm and flat. Your face pinches and you scan the crowd for a wandering waiter. 

Before you can, though, your head tilts just as you spot Bucky, a large button reading “BACHELOR #4” pinned to the lapel of his tux.

He’s laughing. Not openly and loudly like he usually does when the two of you are alone, but his shoulders are shaking and he’s grinning so the skin beside his eyes wrinkles. You think fleetingly that his cheeks might even be dusted in pink as he ducks his head. 

The sight makes you smile, too, and you set your champagne aside. It’s secondary now. 

“Congratulations to Mr. Baldwin and all the other winners of these wonderful vacations,” Sam says once the winner has been announced and ushered backstage. “Sadly, our time is up for the night.”

You nod and pick up your microphone again. “Yes, but you will be seeing Sam again tonight as a part of the Bachelor Auction. Give the crowd a spin, Sam, show them what they could be going on a date with.” 

Sam unbuttons his wine-colored tuxedo and spins slowly, a slight swing in his hips. He’s met with several wolf-whistles, a rose thrown on stage, and a brief retching noise courtesy of Clint, to which Sam replies with a wink and a scoffed, “The glory is too much to handle for the insecure and faint of heart, ain’t it, Barton? We got a doctor on retainer in case you pass out.” 

Sam holds out his elbow to help you down the stairs and you gratefully loop your arm through his, your other hand hoisting the hem of your dress above your ankles. 

You sigh after meeting one of the bid winners, smile falling from your lips the moment you turn away. “I should’ve bid on that Marrakech trip.” 

Sam cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit that you have yet to release him and simply follows you as you head to the bar. “Enjoy it last time?” 

“You mean when I was there to locate stolen Chitauri weapons?” you let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Steve didn’t even let me glance in the relative direction of a souq when that was the only reason I volunteered.” 

“So that’s a no?” 

You take the fresh flute of champagne a waiter offers and nod your thanks. “That’s a hell fucking no.” A pathetic pout and, “I deserve to love Morocco.” 

“Makin’ that face at me won’t help your cause. Makin’ that face at Pervert Santa Claus over there,” he points to a man, rosy-cheeked with a white beard and wandering eyes, who you recognize as the winner of the trip. “That’ll get you what you want.”

You make a face, tongue sticking out as you gag, and set your glass atop the bar. “First of all, even the prospect of sex with me will make his heart give out.”

Sam laughs into his tumbler of whiskey and rolls his eyes.

You grimace openly when the eyes of an elderly man— his arm around a woman who looks to be barely in her twenties— linger a bit too long and smile when he visibly shrinks. “And B., I only flirt with them to get donations. I’d sooner never leave this tower again than get with one of these ‘I only donate money to boost my public image’ types.” 

He hums and a slow, lazy smile curves his lips. He nods his head in the direction of something behind you. “Barnes’ got a different ideology.”

As casually as you can, you turn your body to lean your elbows atop the bar and tilt your head ever so slightly to glance where Bucky is standing. 

Standing and laughing. How is he still laughing? 

Arching an eyebrow at the woman he speaks to, you lift your glass to your lips. “Doesn’t look like she fits the bill.” 

“You’re joking,” Sam laughs, shaking his head as he sets his elbows on the bar as well. His shoulder brushes yours and, despite the itchy fabric of his tuxedo, you don’t mind. “That’s Maris Scheufele.” 

Long, chestnut brown hair swept over one shoulder to keep her back bare, her gown is silky, liquid gold. Dripping in wealth.

You purse your lips and turn back to Sam. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

“Chopard heiress.” 

“Chopard like—” with wide eyes, you point at the sapphire and diamond earrings borrowed from Pepper on your ears and the matching ring on your left index finger. “Like Cannes Film Festival Chopard? Like that Chopard?” 

“Yeah, that Chopard.” He has to stop from laughing at the look you offer him. He thinks he might see your skin turn green in a matter of minutes. “She’s more loaded than Cigarette-Breath Du Rideshare-App-CEO from the elephant benefit.” 

You manage a small smile and a quick roll of your eyes, only to have them once again land on Bucky and the Chopard heiress. Maris. 

You aren’t jealous— per se. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, after all. Childish, and inconsiderate, and rooted in insecurity. 

Sure, she’s cuddled up next to someone you’re in the midst of denying feelings for out of fear and the prospect of being undeserving. And, sure, she’s covered in diamonds and you’re usually covered in dried blood, dust, and dirt from HYDRA facilities. But you aren’t jealous. 

You know you’ve wasted your time, his efforts, and your emotions being anything but happy with Bucky. Chances lost never come around again, right? So you’ve made your peace with it. You’ve had to make your peace with it.

With how much you’ve messed up, how many chances you’ve lost. With how perfect she is and how perfect he looks laughing with her. 

Perfect. 

So perfect that your teeth grit and the grip you have on your champagne flute tightens.

“He’s gonna bring in the big bucks.” 

You snort. “I thought he had different ideologies.”

“He does. But you know she ain’t gonna let him get auctioned off to anyone else.” A corner of Sam's lips turn up in disgust as he, too, stares at them with little stealth. Nick Fury would be ashamed in you both. “Lookin’ at him like he’s a piece of jerky.” 

“Jerky?”

“Old, dried up beef.” He then hums in agreement with his own words. “Nasty, hundred-year old beef.” 

With a laugh— a laugh that has the cadence of a sob— you drop your head into your hands. 

You meet Bucky’s eyes when you pick your head up, his head tilted in silent question. Perhaps at your wet, ironic smile, perhaps at the pull of your eyebrows. 

You shake your head in response and it’s when he almost immediately returns to laughing at whatever Maris Scheufele is saying that you straighten with a frown. 

What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Maris.

“What the hell—” you pause to take the glass from Sam’s hands and polish off his whiskey. “What the hell is so funny?” 

The glass is snatched back. “Not you finishing my drink, that’s for sure.” 

Shrugging as you continue to stare at Bucky and Maris, you mumble, “Put the next one on my tab.” 

Sam snorts as he asks for another drink, facing you as he adds, “S’an open bar, you cheap ass.” 

Once you’ve been able to secure a fresh, much stronger drink for yourself, you loop your arm through Sam’s again and set your chin on his shoulder. Your noses nearly bump when he looks at you and you both laugh softly. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” He yelps and laughs when you pinch his side, lightly knocking his head against yours. Gentle eyes meet yours as he says, “Not tryna be harsh, but you had him and you let him go.” 

“I know.” 

“He spent weeks moping about it, you spent weeks moping about it.” 

“I know.”

“It was miserable comforting both you idiots.” 

“Yeah, you’re the real victim here.” 

Despite your dry tone, he nods in agreement. “You could tell him right now. Get all this bullshit over with and out in the open.”

Just the idea makes your heart rate spike. “He might reject me. Exact revenge for what I did.” 

“Barnes is a lotta things. Greasy, geriatric, testy, fuckin’ annoying as shit—” Sam hisses when you pinch him again, “— but vindictive ain’t one of ‘em.” 

Before Sam can convince you to move even an inch from the part of the bar you’ve dubbed yours for the night, warm fingers wrap around your elbow and tap your arm five times in quick succession. A secret identification code. 

A secret identification code that makes you smile despite yourself. You lift your head from Sam’s shoulder and hope you don’t look too eager as Bucky leans back against the bar, facing you entirely. “Look who it is.” 

He waves vibranium fingers and grins, a bit of that thirties charm you’d heard so much about shining in his blue eyes as he looks at you. “Hi, sweetheart. Wilson,” he adds with a playfully curt nod, chuckling when Sam returns it. “You were great up there. Prettiest MC I’ve ever seen. Almost had me buyin’ the trip to Morocco to make up for the shit Steve put you through.”

You feel Sam shaking in silent laughter and sigh when you hear his whispered, “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Only ‘almost’?” you ask with a pout Bucky grins at and wide eyes that have him swallowing over a dry throat. “What does a girl have to do for you to actually bid?” 

He shakes his head after a moment of simply staring, chuckling. “These poor bastards don’t stand a chance against you, do they? They’d probably sign their entire companies over to you and not think twice about it.”

“Just doing my part to save the Amazon,” you shrug. “Like you’re doing with the Bachelor Auction.” 

“‘Bout that,” he begins as he straightens his jacket and tie— all black. You trace his jaw, sharp and angular, when he glances away for just a second. “How long d’you think it’ll take Stark to put me out of my misery when nobody bids on me?”

“I wouldn’t be so negative. I know of one person who’ll definitely bid on you.”

His lips quirk up on one end, eyes dreamy as his head tilts in indulgence. “Yeah? Who’s that?” 

“Your heiress.” 

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice Sam jabbing his elbow into your ribs and cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “My what?” 

Though you weren’t planning on replying, Tony’s voice over the speakers doesn’t allow Bucky to question you further and you heave a sigh of relief. He calls all the bachelors to the stage and Sam pulls his arm from yours, bumping your shoulders together before he departs just as Tony begins telling a story of his first bachelor auction and how much he went for. 

Bucky remains still, however. Leant against the bar, eyes on you. 

“Bachelor number 4,” you say, pointing at the button he wears. You smile softly. “You’re needed on stage.” 

That seems to jolt him out of whatever stupor he was lost in and he stands straight. He takes a step forward and pauses, so close you can feel the heat radiating from him and smell his subtle cologne. “Bid on me if no one else does.” 

“I won’t need to.” 

Natasha finds you just as the bidding begins and orders herself a drink. She doesn’t say much, simply looking at you as you stare at Bucky standing next to Steve and Sam, and nods to herself. She remains a quiet, comfortable presence until Steve is brought to centerstage and nearly every paddle in the room shoots up. “You tell him yet?” 

“Nope.” 

“Thought so.” She nods her head to her left and you follow the movement to where Maris sits, back straight as she, too, looks at Bucky— but she’s grinning, paddle poised to be raised. “Scheufele being a cock block?” 

You’re visibly surprised when you turn back to Natasha, her ginger hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. “How did you— How the hell could you possibly know that?” 

With the crooked curve of blood red lips, she smiles. “I’m just that good. And Sam texted me about it ten minutes ago.”

She continues to watch you as the excited winner of a date with Steve rises from his seat. “He’s next.” 

“I know that.” 

“You gonna bid on him?” 

You snort, though unconvincingly, and shake your head. “And go against an heiress? I’ll save myself the embarrassment.” 

“Stark pays us buckets,” she tells you with a frown, picking a stray piece of lint off her silver dress. “You could afford to go against an heiress.”

Bucky’s eyes are narrowed as he looks over the crowd of people seated at their tables. The light bounces off diamonds and sequins, gold and shiny leather shoes. It stings his eyes, it makes him scowl. 

“And next, ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on Bachelor Number 4,” Tony announces, turning a bit to glance at Bucky as he trudges over, not bothering to look a bit more appealing. “James Buchanan Barnes, truly the human equivalent of a cat.” 

Bucky openly glares at Tony now.

“James enjoys silence, brooding, eating like a fuckin’ horse, and telling the same story more than once,” Tony continues, ignoring the roll of Bucky’s eyes. “Cute, cuddly, and a little dangerous, we’ll start the bidding at one-thousand.” 

Three paddles shoot up. One from Maris, and two toward the center of the room. Your shoulders tense, Bucky’s relax.

“Okay, do I see eleven hundred?” 

Two paddles remain lifted until Maris shouts from her seat in a lilting voice, “Three thousand.” 

Your jaw clenches, Bucky grins. 

Tony set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, three thousand going once—” 

“Thirty-one hundred!” 

It feels as if the entire room turns in their seats to gape at you, but you try to pay them no mind. You, wearing your jealousy and determination like armor, stand at the bar with an empty glass in your hand, waiting for Tony to call your bid. But before he can— 

“Thirty-two!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at Maris. “Thirty-three!” 

“Four thousand!” She’s smiling. A perfectly manicured eyebrow is raised in challenge. 

You see red. “Forty-three hundred.” 

“Six thousand!” 

“Sixty-five hundred!” 

“Seventy-five hundred!”

When you look at the stage in a bit of a panic, Tony grins expectantly at you and Bucky— Well, you don’t think Bucky’s ever looked so shocked in all the time you’ve known him. But when his eyes go from Maris to meet yours, you find yourself yelling, “Ten thousand!” 

The room goes silent, or maybe you’ve just tuned it all out, and Tony is shaking his head in amusement. “Ten thousand going once.” 

You turn toward Maris as she sits and tosses her paddle onto the table. “Ten thousand going twice.”

You face the stage again. Bucky’s expression is unreadable. “Sold to our beautiful teammate in blue.” 

A bright spotlight shines on you and you fight the urge to run from the room, from the Tower, from New York, and give your best smile. 

— 

It’s four in the morning, all the lights on the residential floors of the Tower have been turned off, and the world is peaceful. But your mind continues to race. 

You sit at the kitchen counter, container of Sam’s leftover cheesecake from your lunch out with him open before you. You twirl a fork between your fingers and stare at nothing in particular, your soft breaths the only sound in the room. 

You’d changed out of your dress hours ago, washed off your makeup and taken the pins out of your hair. You could barely meet the eyes of your reflection out of fear of judgement and you didn’t ask FRIDAY to dim the lights or lock your door just in case she laughed at you. 

Tony had yet to talk to you about paying the ten grand you bid on Bucky and you left the ballroom before anyone could so much as snicker. You knew you couldn’t hide forever, you just needed the night to come to terms with your own stupidity. 

Yet as you prop your chin upon your palm and sigh, you think you might need a day or two, too. 

Quiet steps down the hall are made purposefully louder as they grow closer so as to not startle you, the lights dim as bulbs flicker on to about ten-percent of their full brightness. You fear your heartbeat might be audible to everyone in a ten mile radius at the sight of his blue eyes, messy brown hair, and wrinkled black t-shirt, and take a deep breath through parted lips in a futile attempt to calm it down.

He offers you a small smile and walks to the fridge. “You want some water?” 

You shake your head— even though he can’t see you. “No, I’m fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence and you take a breath to steady yourself. “Buck, I think we should talk.” 

He takes out a glass bottle of water for himself and shuts the fridge, leaning against the sink. He’s still smiling. “I know.” 

“I—” 

“I’m not gonna hold you to this thing,” he interjects, rolling the bottle between his hands. He watches as you sit up straight and set your fork down. “I know you made the bid just to donate the money and save me from that married heiress—” 

“Married?” you repeat to yourself. 

“And you’ve made it clear you just want to be friends,” he continues, undeterred. “So it’s okay. Hell, I’ll pay for half of it so I’ll feel like I’ve actually done somethin’ to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

“Right, the Amazon,” he amends with a quiet laugh. He takes a sip of the water and sets the botte aside. “So whaddya say, huh? We’ll go half and half, help this cause out a little, and you don’t have to go on a date with me.” 

“Bucky, you don’t understand—” 

“No, no, I get it,” he says, walking around the narrow strip of granite separating you to sit on the stool beside yours. Features soft but a little sad, he shrugs as warmth rolls off him in waves. “I told you to bid on me in case no one else did and you saw how much more Steve went for. You tried to raise the bids on me and got stuck since those billionaires didn’t want to shell out more than ten grand on the Winter Soldier. I get it!” 

“That’s not why I did it, Bucky. Not at all.” 

He lowers his eyes to his hands, staring at mismatched palms, and says nothing. 

“Honestly, I—” You stop yourself when it feels as if your heart’s lodged itself in your throat and struggle to swallow over it. “When I saw that Chopard heiress talking to you and laughing with you, and when she bid on you and almost won that date, I— Something happened.” 

He looks at you now, eyebrows pulled together. “What happened?” 

“I— I don’t know. I guess I was a little jealous,” you say with a laugh only to shake your head. There’s a subtle sting behind your eyes, at the tip of your nose, and you pray to every deity you can think of to stop any tears. “No, I was very, very jealous. You two looked so happy and perfect and I wanted to scream, and cry, and— Fuck, all I could think about is how much time, and energy, and emotion I’ve wasted pushing you away so neither one of us ends up heartbroken when I already am.” 

You sigh, unable to meet his gaze as he gapes at you, his mouth hanging open as you laugh mirthlessly. “It probably seems so stupid to you and I know you’ve moved on, but, holy hell, I wish you still had some kind of crush on me because I’m dying here, Buck. I mean I just spent ten thousand dollars to make you go on a date with me.” 

“You did,” he agrees. He’s smiling when you manage to look at him, “You spent ten thousand dollars on me when you could’ve just had me for free this entire time.” 

He grasps your chin between his flesh index finger and thumb and jostles you a little, gaze so adoring. “And what punk ass told you I moved on from you? Huh? That same goof who said it’s just a crush?” 

He leans forward and pauses just before his lips meet yours, as if waiting for you to pull away only for you to close the distance first. 

What starts off as just a light brush of your lips against his quickly turns into a deep, hungry kiss that quiets your mind and forces your heart into overdrive. The warmth of it reaches your toes and every hair follicle, especially as both his hands cup your face while your fingers tangle through his hair, the rasp of his stubbly beard against your soft, sensitive skin stealing your breath even more.

You pull away first and your voice is small, a bit hoarse as you ask, “So you still like me?” 

He sets his forehead against yours and his lips pull into a smile. “I’d say it’s a li’l more than that, sweetheart.” 

It’s hours later when the sun is up, the cheesecake slice is long forgotten, and Bucky’s pulled you onto his stool to straddle his lap, your lips swollen and a little painful, that you groan in embarrassment. 

He immediately leans away from your neck and looks up at you in concern, lips full and cherry red. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I have to pay Tony ten thousand dollars.” 

Chuckling, he rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your chin. “I’ll pay it.” 

“Then I’ll owe you ten thousand dollars.” You withhold a moan when he nips at a part of your neck that has your hips rolling into his, the hitching of his breath felt more than heard. “That— that just transfers the problem.”

You feel him smile, arm tightening around you. “I think I know of a way you can pay me back.”

“Sounds like you just discovered the world’s oldest profession.” 

A punishing nip under your jaw and you gasp as he laughs. “I’m still all for going half and half to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

He sighs and leans back. “Fuckin’ Christ. Someone needs to save the fuckin’ turtles already, then.”

[phroyd]

One of our Great Comedians leaves us this day! Rest In Peace, Jackie! - Phroyd

Jackie Mason, whose staccato, arm-waving delivery and thick Yiddish accent kept the borscht belt style of comedy alive long after the Catskills resorts had shut their doors, and whose career reached new heights in the 1980s with a series of one-man shows on Broadway, died on Saturday in Manhattan. He was 93.His death, at Mount Sinai Hospital, was confirmed by the lawyer Raoul Felder, a longtime friend.Mr. Mason regarded the world around him as a nonstop assault on common sense and an affront to his sense of dignity. Gesturing frantically, his forefinger jabbing the air, he would invite the audience to share his sense of disbelief and inhabit his very thin skin, if only for an hour.“I used to be so self-conscious,” he once said, “that when I attended a football game, every time the players went into a huddle, I thought they were talking about me.” Recalling his early struggles as a comic, he said, “I had to sell furniture to make a living — my own.”The idea of music in elevators sent him into a tirade: “I live on the first floor; how much music can I hear by the time I get there? The guy on the 28th floor, let him pay for it.”

The humor was punchy, down-to-earth and emphatically Jewish: His last one-man show in New York, in 2008, was titled “The Ultimate Jew.” A former rabbi from a long line of rabbis, Mr. Mason made comic capital as a Jew feeling his way — sometimes nervously, sometimes pugnaciously — through a perplexing gentile world.“Every time I see a contradiction or hypocrisy in somebody’s behavior,” he once told The Wall Street Journal, “I think of the Talmud and build the joke from there.” Describing his comic style to The New York Times in 1988, he said, “My humor — it’s a man in a conversation, pointing things out to you.”“He’s not better than you, he’s just another guy,” he added. “I see life with love — I’m your brother up there — but if I see you make a fool out of yourself, I owe it to you to point that out to you.”He was born Yacov Moshe Maza in Sheboygan, Wis., on June 9, 1928, to immigrants from Belarus. (Some sources give the year as 1931.) When he was 5, his father, Eli, an Orthodox rabbi, and his mother, Bella (Gitlin) Maza, moved the family to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where Yacov discovered that his path in life had already been determined. Not only his father, but his grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandfathers had all been rabbis. His three older brothers became rabbis, and his two younger sisters married rabbis. “It was unheard-of to think of anything else,” Mr. Mason said. “But I knew, from the time I’m 12, I had to plot to get out of this, because this is not my calling.”

After earning a degree from City College, he completed his rabbinical studies at Yeshiva University and was ordained. In a state of mounting misery, he tended to congregations in Weldon, N.C., and Latrobe, Pa., unhappy in his profession but unwilling to disappoint his father.Hedging his bets, he had begun working summers in the Catskills, where he wrote comic monologues and appeared onstage at every opportunity. This, he decided, was his true calling, and after his father’s death in 1959 he felt free to pursue it in earnest, with a new name.He struggled at first, playing the Catskills and, with little success, obscure clubs in New York and Miami. Plagued by guilt, he underwent psychoanalysis, which did not solve his problems but did provide him with good comic material.Nevertheless, he found it hard to break into the nightclub circuit in New York — in part, he claimed, because his act made Jewish audiences uncomfortable. “My accent reminds them of a background they’re trying to forget,” he said.

While performing at a Los Angeles nightclub in 1960, he caught the attention of his fellow comedian Jan Murray, who recommended him to the television personality Steve Allen. Two appearances in two weeks on “The Steve Allen Show” led to bookings at the Copacabana and the Blue Angel in New York.Mr. Mason’s career was off and running. He became a regular on the top television variety shows, recorded two albums for the Verve label — “I Am the Greatest Comedian in the World Only Nobody Knows It Yet” and “I Want to Leave You With the Words of a Great Comedian” — and wrote a book, “My Son the Candidate.”

After dozens of appearances on “The Ed Sullivan Show,” Mr. Mason encountered disaster on Oct. 18, 1964. A speech by President Lyndon B. Johnson pre-empted the program, which resumed as Mr. Mason was halfway through his act. Onstage but out of camera range, Sullivan indicated with two fingers, then one, how many minutes Mr. Mason had left, distracting the audience. Mr. Mason, annoyed, responded by holding up his own fingers to the audience, saying, “Here’s a finger for you, and a finger for you, and a finger for you.”Sullivan, convinced that one of those fingers was an obscene gesture, canceled Mr. Mason’s six-show contract and refused to pay him for the performance. Mr. Mason sued, and won.The two later reconciled, but the damage was done. Club owners and booking agents now regarded him, he said, as “crude and unpredictable.”

“People started to think I was some kind of sick maniac,” Mr. Mason told Look. “It took 20 years to overcome what happened in that one minute.”His career went into a slump, punctuated by bizarre instances of bad luck. In Las Vegas in 1966, after he made a few ill-considered remarks about Frank Sinatra’s recent marriage to the much younger Mia Farrow (“Frank soaks his dentures and Mia brushes her braces,” one joke went), an unidentified gunman fired a .22 pistol into his hotel room.A play he starred in and wrote (with Mike Mortman), “A Teaspoon Every Four Hours,” went through a record-breaking 97 preview performances on Broadway before opening on June 14, 1969, to terrible reviews. It closed after one night, taking with it his $100,000 investment.He also invested in “The Stoolie” (1972), a film in which he played a con man and improbable Romeo. It also failed, taking even more of his money. Roles in sitcoms and films eluded him, although he did make the most of small parts in Mel Brooks’s “History of the World: Part I” (1981) — he was “Jew No. 1” in the Spanish Inquisition sequence — and “The Jerk” (1979), in which he played the gas-station owner who employs Steve Martin.Rebuffed, Mr. Mason set about rebuilding his career with guest appearances on television. His new manager, Jyll Rosenfeld, convinced that the old borscht belt comics were ripe for a comeback, encouraged him to bring his act to the theater as a one-man show.

After attracting celebrity audiences in Los Angeles, that show, “The World According to Me!,” opened on Broadway in December 1986 and ran for two years. It earned Mr. Mason a special Tony Award in 1987, as well as an Emmy for writing after HBO aired an abridged version in 1988.

“I didn’t think it would work,” Mr. Mason said. “But people, when they come into a theater, see you in a whole new light. It’s like taking a picture from a kitchen and hanging it in a museum.”In 1991 Mr. Mason married Ms. Rosenfeld, who survives him. He is also survived by a daughter, the comedian Sheba Mason, from a relationship with Ginger Reiter in the 1970s and ’80s.“The World According to Me!” generated a series of sequels — “Politically Incorrect,” “Love Thy Neighbor,” “Prune Danish” and others — which carried Mr. Mason through the 1990s and into the new millennium.He published an autobiography, “Jackie, Oy!” (written with Ken Gross), in 1988. He also found a new sideline as an opinionated political commentator on talk radio. In the 2016 presidential campaign, he was one of the few well-known entertainers to support Donald J. Trump.Mr. Mason’s forays into political commentary caused him trouble. He was reported to have used a Yiddish word considered to be a racial slur in talking about David N. Dinkins, the Black mayoral candidate, at a Plaza Hotel luncheon in 1989. Mr. Mason was a campaigner for Mr. Dinkins’s opponent, Rudolph W. Giuliani. Mr. Giuliani said the incident had been blown out of proportion but nevertheless dismissed Mr. Mason from the campaign. Mr. Mason at first refused to apologize but did so later.

He drew attention for using the same word regarding President Barack Obama during a performance in 2009.Appearances on the cartoon series “The Simpsons,” as the voice of Rabbi Hyman Krustofski, the father of Krusty the Clown, confirmed his newfound status, and earned him a second Emmy. Not even the 1988 bomb “Caddyshack II,” in which he was a last-minute replacement for Rodney Dangerfield, or the ill-fated “Chicken Soup,” a 1989 sitcom co-starring Lynn Redgrave that died quickly, could slow his improbable transformation from borscht belt relic into hot property.“I’ve been doing this for a hundred thousand years, but it’s like I was born last Thursday,” Mr. Mason once said of his career turnaround. “They see me as today’s comedian. Thank God I stunk for such a long time and was invisible, so I could be discovered.”

Michael Levenson contributed reporting.

Phroyd

[chrisevansgoodgirl]

it isn’t that hard to like you or love you. i’d follow you down, down, down

summary: ransom’s an insecure bitch TM and there’s no character development happening here. (mostly before that other ransom thing I wrote, but a small peak after bc i couldn’t resist)

warnings: sex toys. a lot. and a lot of sex. and you know, ransom always entails some weird, rough shit, so.

word count: a little over 10,300

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

It had been years since you’d felt something inside you other than Ransom*.  (x)

*Seriously. Years.

Your relationship with Ransom didn’t have the purest start. The ski-lodge was something both of your families looked at as a restart for the year, almost a form of damage control. He needed to stop partying so much and you needed to settle down. His group included his parents, Joni, Meg, Walt, Donna, and Jacob. He told you later that they never invited Harlan because this was usually their time to get wasted and say terrible things about him.

Your group was your mother, father, his two sisters, their husbands, a few of their children, and your boyfriend, Jeremy Vanderbilt. You hadn’t invited him, however, that was your father’s doing. Why? Because he was smart. He was a businessman. And Jeremy was nowhere near as attractive as you—at least, that was what you heard Dad tell Mom one night—so, there was no chance of him leaving you for someone else.

You’d confided to your father that the relationship wasn’t going well. You’d met Jeremy in high school and yes, you’d recognized that he wasn’t the most attractive man, but he was sweet, and you just got along with him. As time went on and you discovered he had absolutely no ambition, you worried that you were just going to be stuck with a sad replica of your parents’ life.

Eventually, your father would give him a job at the family company—a position that should be yours but never would be, never mind that, though. You would be a model up until he got you pregnant, the absolute last thing you wanted right now, and then you’d spend the rest of your life bitter and unsatisfied, tolerance would soon turn to resentment and you’d probably kill him one Christmas Eve with an axe. You wanted more, you wanted exciting.

Ransom was…in a way, exciting. Though the first week you’d been made aware of his unfortunate existence, you tried to avoid him like the plague. It started when your families were checking in, which happened to occur at the same time--something you often thought about because if it had just happened at a completely different time, you might have never met the Thrombeys. You might have never met Ransom. Now, you weren't sure you believed in soul mates or anything like that, but it always just kind of seemed like fate to you.

You were trying to get out of the lobby as fast as possible, just retire to your room because the trip up there was nothing short of sickening. Mindlessly, you’d walked into Ransom and because you were an actual person, began apologizing. Since he was just a beast, not a person, he was a total dick about it.

Whatever, you had encountered that a lot. People with money were often the worst. It didn’t bother you all that much. By the time you were in your room, soaking in a bath, you had completely erased it from your mind.

You didn’t see him again until three nights later when you pretended you needed to take a call outside to duck out of a dreadful dinner. Meg was there and she was in desperate need of something to smoke, which you happened to have on you. She was nice, telling you about how she intended to start college in January after spending two years on a break to try to figure out what she wanted to do.

When Ransom appeared, he was radiating arrogance. And heavy intoxication. He instantly started in on Meg, making every comment he could think of to get under her skin. Maybe it was that you guys had been out there smoking for nearly half an hour that diffused her anger, but she refused to engage and returned inside.

At that point, he had nothing to focus on but you. He’d asked for your name and you told him to fuck off. From that moment, Ransom showed an interest in you that you simply did not understand.

You refused to play his games for a while. You liked Meg, she was nice, unlike the rest of the family. And Ransom constantly tried to antagonize her. But see, your family and his family were the only obscenely rich families there at the moment. Most people were likely in Colorado, unfortunately, your moronic father insisted on Utah. Linda was an elitist, and well, you guys were all officially best friends.

It started with joint dinners, then breakfasts, then it was every god damn meal of the day. Your mother, Linda, and Joni needed to get away from their husbands constantly. Richard, your father, one of your mother's sisters, and Walt liked cigars and card games and would disappear anywhere they could to play out some pathetic knock-off casino scene. Meg loved the children and didn't mind babysitting, something you helped with when you could. Oh, and Ransom had taken quite an interest in Jeremy.

He hadn't really been around much at the start. You'd heard he was making his way through the female staff anyway, just trying to cause as much drama as he possibly could. No one in the Thrombey family seemed surprised and they didn't comment on it at all. Your family had the decency to wait until you were all in your rooms and could gossip about it behind their backs.

But then he did start showing up. Whenever Jeremy would hug you, kiss you, or just try to touch you in any unnecessary way, Ransom would give you this knowing look. That was around the time you started trying to pull away but that was only annoying Jeremy and sometimes Ransom would find you alone and you had no excuse to leave. You would have to admit that you were scared to be alone with him. You would have to admit why.

He was gorgeous, that was why. And dangerous and had clearly never heard the word 'no' before. You wanted to be the one to introduce him to the concept but you doubted your ability to tell him no.

One night, when Jeremy came to bed drunk and very handsy, you ended up screaming at each other. He was a drunk idiot with impaired judgment so you were the one that left the scene. It was stupid, but you decided to look for Ransom. Maybe you had wanted to tell him to stop getting your boyfriend drunk or maybe you just knew you had an alibi for not returning to your room that night. Not like Jeremy would be awake any time soon anyway.

Nothing happened, not really, you made it very clear that you were still with your boyfriend. But Ransom knew how to get all the information about your life that he wanted. Surprisingly, at some point, he started telling you some things back. He hated his family and you hated yours.

Perfect match.

Now, you guys would sit next to each other at those family breakfasts and dinners and whisper condescending things about everyone, Jeremy included. One thing you noticed, Ransom was a lot nicer to Meg and you figured it was because he knew it made you uncomfortable. In fact, Joni and Meg were the only people at the whole table who you could tolerate for more than two hours. Jeremy was starting to notice your new friendship, but what was he going to do about it?

One night, which would turn out being your last night at the lodge, Ransom showed up at nearly three in the morning. You'd figured he was with your boyfriend as you were alone, but he showed up solo.

You were hardly in anything, it was late, late enough that you wanted to hit him for being there—however, manners, you assumed, were foreign to him.

Amid a snarky comment you could no longer remember, he just moved forward and kissed you. You shoved at him, walking backward until you were forced to stop at the entertainment center in the main living room. He grabbed your face, holding you there, making it impossible to pull away from him. It was then that you sort of just crumbled, you wrapped your arms around his neck, a cue for him to pick you up.

He did, grabbing one thigh at a time and hauling your body up so your exposed cunt brushed against the stupid sweater he was wearing. He set you atop the entertainment center and you dropped your hands to his pants, yanking them out of your way. His hand found your center and he groaned when he felt how wet you were.

"Damn, is that all for me?"

You snorted. "I was fucking my fingers when you rudely interrupted."

He grabbed your jaw, locking his eyes with yours. "You’re going to show me that before I leave."

Without patience, he used one of his hands to shove yours away and pulled himself out of his pants. 

You were going to turn down but he used his hold on your jaw. "Just keep looking at me, baby."

You felt his tip against your skin, he began to run it through your slit, just barely brushing your clit every now and then. "Ransom, please—"

He slipped in just barely and you gasped. The head of his cock alone was a stretch you’d never quite felt.

You eagerly spread your legs further. "Keep going."

He slid in just a little more, groaning. "Fuck, you are tight."

And he was huge, but you could not tell a guy like Ransom that. He made you keep looking at him as he continued giving you more of his cock. His eyes showed pleasure, amusement, and definitely mischief. He wanted you surprised, it was why he didn’t let you look. You thought several times that you truly couldn't take any more of him but you knew that letting him know that would just get you that smug smirk, so you kept your mouth shut.

He gave you all the time you needed to adjust to him. He kissed you until you were the one bucking your hips and squirming. Then he fucked you hard and rough, and it was disgusting. He used you like you were a doll, whispering filthy things in your ear and sometimes making you say some back. He pulled your hair and choked you.

When you could hardly keep holding on to him, he decided it was time to go. He scooped you up and carried you to your bed, and didn’t cover your body or clean his cum off of you because he wanted Jeremy to find you.

Which he did, and by the time you woke up the next morning, everyone was packing. Jeremy had told your family about it and everyone knew immediately that it was Ransom. Your parents were furious, your aunts were entertained, and Jeremy was heartbroken. You’d never been a cheater so you had no idea what the hell to say to him. It didn’t seem like he’d wanted you to try anyway so you just shut up while everyone around you moved to get out of here quickly.

When your mother and her sisters went to lunch, you decided to head down to one of the many coffee shops. You took your youngest niece with you because she couldn’t help pack and you hardly wanted to be alone. With some coloring books and a wide collection of colored pencils, you guys settled in.

She was telling you all about her favorite tv show as you sipped on a latte. You’d order her a hot chocolate that she’d already downed like the demon she was. 

As you looked up to ask a server for another hot chocolate, you spotted Meg. She waved at you and you were just hit with this terrible idea. You told your niece to stay at the table and you would return with more hot chocolate. After a little small talk with Meg, and a dismissive hello from Linda, you’d asked if you could borrow Meg's phone. Per your lie, your boyfriend was supposed to meet you and your niece but had yet to show and you’re phone had died.

You slipped outside and searched for Ransom’s number. Thankfully, even though she clearly hated him, she had it. You pretended to make the call and then headed back inside. You returned to your table with some hot chocolate and sat back down to color again. Everything was normal, you had not made any irreversible mistakes as of yet.

Emphasis on yet, however. When you guys returned up to the room, Jeremy was on the phone trying to get a separate flight from the rest of you. As soon as he’d seen you, he headed out onto the balcony and slammed the door shut behind him. Good.

You disappeared into your bedroom, he wouldn’t dare step in there. You slipped into a cream-colored lacy bodysuit that actually covered nothing and hopped onto your mattress. You took several videos and faked even more orgasms, your only concern was that the videos looked good. Ransom had said he was going to watch you touch yourself before he’d left. Maybe he’d forgotten, but you didn’t exactly want him to.

You weren’t sure you had a winner but you had to stop when your father banged on your door and gruffly told you it was time to leave. Later, when you located your favorite video, you sent it. No name or explanation. You just included: you’re welcome. Blocking your number, by the way. Xoxo

Three days later, once you were home and back in your apartment, just trying to work and avoid the embarrassment of all your friends knowing you’d cheated on your boyfriend, there was a knock on your door. No one knew where you lived, it was a small, cozy place not meant for anyone but you.

Opening the door, you were not expecting to see Ransom there. "You didn't say goodbye."

You snorted. "I would have assumed you would be used to getting fucked and then forgotten about."

He smirked before glancing around. His expression soon showed his distaste. "Are you poor or something?"

"It’s meant to keep away the rich."

"You know, I woulda called..."

But you’d blocked him. "Some would take that to mean that I just didn’t want you to come at all."

"Well, I don’t much care about what other people want."

You’d been living together a month when he had located one of your toys. You thought he’d be excited to bring something in for just a little extra when you two were fucking. Nope, you were very wrong.

He was irritated beyond comprehension. He took your favorite shower toy—the one with a suction cup—stuck it on a kitchen chair and made you sit on it. For hours. Not allowed to move or touch yourself. All while he told you what he would do to you. You know, if you were a good girl. Which, according to him, you were very much not.

He’d then proceeded not to fuck you for a week. Seven motherfucking days. Despite your best attempts. Joining him in the shower. Blowing him in the Beamer. Sending pictures. Leaving voicemails begging him to let you feel him inside of you. Not a thing could crack his resolve.

Well, except you pouting about it on that 7th day. It was Christmas. You were watching Cartoon Network, waiting for the bests. Thinking back, you were sure it was in addition to the stress he felt over having to deal with his family. But whatever, he’d still fucked you and you’d still been three hours late to the annual Christmas party. 

He’d proudly told everyone it was because your cunt was the only present he’d wanted and didn’t care when you nearly choked on your wine because of it. Donna tried to throw a chair at him afterward, imploring him to consider the children present. Not that Jacob had even heard, as he was too busy on Twitter. He did live stream the fight, though, claimed it got turned into a meme.

Even though Ransom didn’t tell you why you weren’t a “good girl”, you’d figured it was his insane pride. Ransom would be the kind of guy to freak out over their girlfriend fucking anything else, even inanimate objects. You didn’t get rid of the rest of your toys, you just tried to hide them better. 

So, the ones you thought you couldn’t part with were placed in your suitcases because you knew he wouldn’t find them. He had quickly come to terms with your extensive collection. You loved airports and loved being photographed at them, that meant suitcases were of the utmost importance to you. They lined the walls of your closet, the one he had added to his house for you when you moved in—because the idea of you two being able to share a closet was hilarious. He had twice as many sweaters as you and you had more dresses than he had scarves. In short, you guys weren’t interested in sharing closets. A house, a bed, sure. But trying to fit into a single closet probably would have ended your relationship.

Speaking of ending the relationship. You’d walked in, dozens of shopping bags in hand, finding him sitting at the table with your favorite vibrator just inches away from his coffee mug. You’d wanted to know why exactly he was in your closet in the first place! It was your closet, your suitcase! He had no right!

It took a total of three seconds before you were screaming at him. And about ten seconds for him to start screaming back. You were both fans of angry fucking, which was the only reason he’d fucked you then. Bags and new clothing was strewn all around, a chair on its side because he stood up to intimidate you, and you decided to try to kick the chair at him. He pushed it over and then shoved you against the wall.

A blink of an eye later, he had your skirt pushed up and your underwear pulled out of his way. He indelicately thrust into you until you were so, so, so fucking close. But he’d just kept saying wait for me, baby. Just wait a little longer. I want to feel it together. And you being stupid, believed him. You were just about to slip, despite your sheer desperation to experience the pretty picture he was painting, when he pulled out. He stroked himself several times, leaned over to bite down on your shoulder, and then he spilled out onto your skirt, your thighs, and the fucking floor.

He kissed your shoulder, then turned, tucked his cock back in his pants, and left. Oh, but not before he grabbed the vibrator. You didn’t speak to him for eleven days and he didn’t seem to care too much.

This was at the same time your parents were doubling down on their efforts to make you leave him. They constantly introduced you to their friends’ children, men your age who were kind, smart, and a lot less spoiled and entitled than Ransom. 

Honestly, that tenth night that you’d fallen asleep alone, you actually considered listening to them. He must have known something was up that morning, because he did actually know you and care about your feelings even if he didn’t act like it. You hadn’t said or done anything differently, you just took your coffee and left for another brunch with your parents.

When you returned to the house, he wasn’t in the living room. That was where he’d been most days, just reading the newspaper and pointedly being okay with your silent treatment. You briefly thought that if he wasn’t there, then it wouldn’t be so hard to pack a few bags. Maybe if he was going to be gone for a few hours, you could get a few great professionals to pack up your closet before he even knew what you were planning.

But then he called your name from the kitchen. You went if only because you were curious. He handed you a diamond necklace, said he was sorry for ruining your skirt. You were utterly speechless. Your skirt? He was apologizing about your skirt?!

You took the necklace but didn’t say a word to him. That night, he’d come home later than you would have wanted, but at least it wasn’t 3 am. He didn’t try to speak first, didn’t look for your permission. He just climbed into bed and pulled you into his chest.

The following time was more than just wounded pride. Okay, it was all wounded pride, but it was on a severe, personal level. Your parents were still trying and you had to tell Ransom. Why? Because one of his female friends that he used to fuck told him that you were out with Maximus Brandt, a “mutual friend” of just about everyone, even though, in reality, no one could stand him. You included. And well, he and Ransom... you didn’t have the time to explain their level of hate for one another.

Ransom was furious at first, then you explained the situation. He didn’t stop being furious, oh no. He instead just changed his reason for being furious. But he claimed he didn’t care. He claimed that he knew he had nothing to worry about and you told him that he was right, you wanted to be with him. You thought that was the end of the issue.

Nope, the following day, while you were at work, Ransom texted you four times.

How many god damn vibrators can a person have? 

You hadn’t read it when he first sent it, you didn’t have your phone on you. You were just there for a photoshoot, hopefully, a smooth one. Work hadn’t been great as of late, not so much because of Ransom... it was just that you knew he was insecure. He was never going to admit it, but he was terrified of losing you to someone else. Lately, he’d seen you with other people, people who—per his insane, deranged mind—stared at you affectionately and touched you too comfortably. You weren’t complaining, not exactly. See, because, in his attempt to hide his emotions, he fucked you. A lot. Hard. Always with a hand around your throat, edging you until you finally said that you were his.

You liked those moments. Hell, you even liked afterward when he would either silently hold you on top of him, head on his chest to listen to his heartbeat or when he would set you on his side and play with your hair as he answered the questions you asked about his day. Commonly, it was family drama and he would get so angry and worked up a second time that he would fuck you again. Maybe even again after that. But you didn’t actually like the idea of making him feel like you weren’t completely committed to him.

So, you wanted to get in and get out. Maybe make dinner with Ransom, you planned to wear a tiny dress and tease him the whole time. You occupied your mind wondering where he would break. Inside the fancy restaurant? It wouldn’t be the first time. He loved fingering you at dinner with his family because of course, he was just that kind of asshole. Though...you were the one who hardly ever wore underwear... or maybe outside? He’d fucked you against many buildings, in several alleyways throughout your relationship.

His second text read: now I’ve found your plugs, that’s great. 

And the third: tell me where all of these things are. I’m getting rid of them. 

You didn’t even glance at your phone until your Uber was taking you home. It was like watching a murder, and by the time the fourth text came in, you were livid.

Fine, don’t tell me. I guess I’ll just have to find them.

You called him 27 times. He didn’t pick up once. You stormed into the house, straight up to your room. There was clothing everywhere, bras, panties, and corsets because he went through the dressers first. And okay, there were a few in there. The travel toys you’d gathered over the years, the vibrating bar necklace your best friend got you last year. They laid on the bed with the easier to find toys, the bigger toys, but also with that discrete lipstick vibrator that you’d hidden away in your makeup box.

He really had gone through most of your shit. "Ransom!"

"Closet," he growled.

You stormed in, shrieking incoherently when you saw your suitcases thrown everywhere. They were all opened, laying on either the floor or one another. Expensive bags were being treated like they were nothing, expensive bags that you had worked to afford.

"I’ve found 19," he informed, not bothering to turn back to you. He was moving to your jewelry box now and would be finding more. "Why don’t you just be helpful and tell me where they all are?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

He didn’t respond.

"This is my closet, Ransom! This is my stuff, you have no right to be in my stuff!"

He finally faced you, eyes narrowed. "This is my house!"

You slapped him. So hard your hand was stinging sharply long after. And ran away like a child throwing a temper tantrum. It took him a moment, but he was soon chasing after you. You practically dove into the guest room before he could reach you. He wouldn’t hit you, never, but he would force you to apologize to him and you weren’t ready to do that yet.

It was definitely not your finest moment, but you just needed to cool down, think about things, plot how you wanted to proceed. You realized, alone in that room with too much time on your hands that this called for true revenge.

He couldn’t just go through your things. This wasn’t his house anymore. It had been, but then he asked you to move in. This was your shared house, just as much yours as it was his. He was not allowed to just go through your possessions. He had no respect for you or your belongings, and this wasn’t going to go unpunished.

You used two days to lure him into a calm, trusting place. He probably thought this was the worst of it: the silent treatment. You would only leave the room if he was gone and made sure to leave obvious signs about it. You wanted him to know that he wasn't preventing you from living in your house. You did, however, refuse to step foot in your shared bedroom.

On the third morning, you found an outfit in the laundry room and went shopping. The terrified look on his face when he saw how many bags you were holding was exactly what you wanted to see. He knew now that you were serious about this. But no apologies were made. Actually, he said you were acting like a brat, then left to hang out with his friends.

Brat? Not yet.

You moved freely for a couple of hours. He’d cleaned the bedroom, made sure your closet was spotless like it had been before he destroyed it—but it was simply too late. You happily stayed in the living room until you heard his car pulling into the driveway, then you dashed to the room to begin. He may have taken all your toys, but he couldn’t stop you from buying more.

You stripped naked and hopped on the bed. Little prep was needed, you’d been wet since you made the almost $500 purchase at the sex shop earlier, thinking about how angry you were going to make Ransom.

You started with a small vibrating plug and let yourself get used to that first. You could hear him moving about the house, slowly, cautiously, trying to see if your revenge was going to be easily spotted. Next, a simple, but larger vibrator that took you a moment to adjust around. You made the mental note to let him know the size—he would be livid. And finally, a vibrator for your clit.

When he knocked on the door, you were well on your way to your first orgasm. You remained as silent as you possibly could for a moment, eager for him to hear the vibrating. Then you tossed your head back and let out a moan. "Oh, fuck!"

"What...what do you think you are doing?" he demanded.

"Well," you sighed, "right now, I have a vibrator on my clit. 10 speed settings...I’m only on the third and I’m already so close."

"Y/N," he warned, "I swear—"

"And one in my pussy," you informed. “It’s so big... I wasn’t sure it was going to fit at first."

"Well, considering my cock fits, I think most things would. You know a fucking toy doesn’t compare to me."

"And a plug." You weren’t going to argue with him. "This one vibrates too. It feels so fucking good."

"Enough, open the damn door."

You turned off the vibrator inside you and pulled it out. "Can you hear how wet I am?" Slowly, you pressed it back in. You watched the toy sink into your pussy and immediately realized something. Maybe Ransom would like to watch as well... You set aside the vibrator that was pressed to your clit and grabbed your phone.

You began fucking yourself with the toy, biting your lip to keep your noises down. You knew Ransom wanted to leave but the loud, wet sounds from your pussy kept him at the door. Even when you couldn’t hear him, you just knew. He wouldn’t leave until he heard you finish.

You turned on the vibration once more and left it, picking up the other once more. You gasped when you settled it back to your clit. You were close, you knew it would just take a moment. You kept the camera aimed where you were working, no longer trying to stifle your moans and whimpers. You knew he was going to hate the sounds you were making because you weren’t saying his name with them.

"Baby?" you called out.

"You are in so much trouble," he asserted. "If you stop now, I might let you finish."

"If I don’t?"

"I swear I won’t make you come for a month."

"Clearly, I don’t need you." Okay, you were bluffing. An entire month not finishing on his cock? That did concern you, but you knew he was also bluffing.

"Open this door. Now."

"Just a second," you breathed. Your finish followed your words almost immediately. "Fuck! Oh, god, Ransom... I think these toys might be as good as you."

The door whipped open, a deafening crack filling the room. Turning your head, you found Ransom standing there, eyes wide and jaw set. He had never looked this angry.

Your mouth dropped when you saw the damage to the doorframe, you would have to call someone out there to fix it. Soon. Because you weren’t sleeping with him. Not unless he apologized and made it up to you. In diamonds and maybe a new car. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! You just kicked in the door, like, you're fucking ridiculous."

He stormed over to you, yanking the toy from your hand and tossing it on the bed. He pulled the second one from your clenching center, free hand gripping your thigh hard when he noticed how difficult it was to pull free from your tight pussy—god, he was going to miss that because no way in hell was he going to fuck you after this behavior. Finally, he pulled your plug out and you whimpered.

He glared at you.

Smirking, you held your phone out. "Watch the video I made for you, baby."

He tore it from your hand and did just that. He was already hard, you could see the bulge in his pants.

Sitting up, you reached out for him.

He slapped at your hand. "Don’t touch me."

"Fine." You laid back down, dipping your fingers into your folds.

He quickly noticed what you were doing, taking your wrist in his hand and holding it. "Stop."

You snorted, rolling your eyes.

He watched the entire thing and you knew his control was slipping, his fingers were digging into your skin—you couldn’t wait to see the bruises.

He threw your phone on the bed and turned back to you. "What the hell am I going to do with you?"

"You’ve never fucked my ass, you know that?"

His eyebrows pulled together. "You never asked."

"Wanna do it now?" You pulled your wrist away from him and rolled over, pushing your hips back to offer your ass up to him. "You can..."

"If?"

"If you apologize."

You were startled by his hand whipping across your ass. You rolled back over to face him, eyes wide. "What the fuck?!"

He grabbed your left calf and caught your right foot when you tried to kick him.

"Did you just spank me?!"

"You were acting like a brat." He yanked you down close to the edge of the bed and before you could say a word, his lips were against yours.

You had started to push him away by the shoulders but when he shoved his tongue into your mouth, you started pulling him back in. Your fingers tugged at his shirt, tangled in his hair and pulled, touched his jaw and cheekbones.

You guys didn’t make out often, the kisses were brief because Ransom was impatient and sometimes just needed to fuck you. 

He began to lay his body onto yours. You instantly wrapped your legs around him, grinding your bare pussy against his pants. He grabbed a handful of hair and tore your head back. His lips and teeth were all over your neck, moving down to your breasts.

"Ransom." Your hands found the button of his pants and you tore them open. "Fuck me."

He pulled away completely, leaving you on the bed as he re-buttoned his pants. "No."

You scoffed. "No?"

"No," he repeated. He hurriedly grabbed the toys on the bed before you could and left.

"So, you’ll take care of yourself?" you called out. "I could just use my mouth."

You heard his steps stutter, then he continued stomping away. Well, you hadn’t anticipated this turn of events, but you weren’t overly concerned. If you needed, you had fingers. If you were really desperate, you had a shower with a detachable showerhead.

For almost three weeks, Ransom would not let anyone enter the house to fix the door.

 Meaning for those three weeks, he would also sneak into bed with you. His mouth and fingers touched your pussy until you woke up. Then he would stop and just lay down next to you, refusing to let you sleep any place other than locked in his arms and against his chest.

You were furious but all of that was going to have to be placed on hold. Oddly, as much as you two fought, it never really coincided with your period. Though, you had a theory about why that was.

Ransom, control freak, had to know what was going on with your body at all times. Initially, you didn’t know what to make of it. It was always a toss-up with these rich, white men—were they going to be insanely immature about something as small as a period? Much to your surprise, not Ransom.

When you weren’t living together, he would always text you to make sure you were doing okay. If you weren’t, he would bring you food and something very expensive. When you were living together, it was impossible for him not to notice the more worrisome symptoms—the cramps, the headaches. The first two days were really the worst, you generally avoided leaving the house at the start.

That morning, Ransom found you in bed, curled up in a ball with your hand pressed to your forehead. As if that was going to ease the insane amount of pressure you felt behind your eyes. Thing was, you were supposed to be at work. That was one of the better things about only working for friends and trusted associates—they never thought you were calling in simply because you were hungover or something else even more unprofessional that was often associated with models.

"Thought you had a shoot today," he said.

"I had to cancel."

"Why?"

You didn’t answer. Shouldn’t he know by now? You really wouldn’t be surprised if he had a calendar marked with the expected dates.

"Oh."

But then, you guys had been fighting for how long? He probably missed it.

Those first few times he witnessed the cramps, he was actually immensely nurturing. It wasn’t like he had any responsibilities, so he sat with you in bed and let you lay on him, your back to his chest. He would place his hands on you and they were always so warm, you would just melt into him.

That soon changed. You had been in bed together one morning, it seemed just like any other time. But noon came and he told you to get out of bed and into the shower. You thought you were dying, you sure as hell couldn’t shower. But he would not accept that answer.

You weren’t sure why until he had the front of your body pressed to the tile wall, his hands on your hips as he fucked you so. So. So. Fucking. Slow. And after, he grabbed a few towels, set them over the bed, and laid you down to continue. You were confused and let him know, and all he said was that he’d read it would help with the cramps and the headache.

It had helped, but you figured it was a distraction more than anything. After that, it was just routine. Not that you didn’t have sex with him most nights, but he insisted on, every night of your period, fucking you until you were nearly unconscious. Those were the only nights he was gentle.

He sat down next to you, fingers brushing over your shoulder.

You recoiled from his touch. "Go away."

"Come on, baby, you know I can’t just leave you in pain like this." You heard him start to undress but made no moves to do the same. When he laid down next to you, he tried to urge you onto your back with a hand pulling on your shoulder.

"Ransom, stop. I’m not kidding."

He sighed, leaning over to kiss your face. "Let me help."

"You can help by leaving."

His warmth and the blanket you were curled up in lessened your resolve by a lot. He found it much easier to pull your shoulder away from your face, which he took full advantage of and began kissing over all of the skin he could reach.

"Ransom," you whined, trying to roll further away from him. He held you back by a hand on your hip.

"Shut up." Over the blanket, his hand slid up your stomach to your breast.

You hated that you moaned. Your brain knew you would regret this, but your body wanted nothing more than to give in to him. It was Ransom, after all, he was a complete tool sometimes but he always knew how to touch you.

He pulled the blanket down your body until he got to the hem of your sleep bottoms.

"Ransom, stop," you scolded. "I don’t want to ruin the sheets."

"Doesn’t matter, you won’t be sleeping in here anymore."

You turned your head back, catching his hand in yours. "Excuse me?"

"I said you’re done sleeping in here," he repeated. "You’ll be sleeping in our bed again."

"No, actually, I won’t."

He pulled his hand away from you and yanked the blanket away.

"Ransom!" You attempted to start sitting up but he pulled you back down by the shoulder.

Next, he worked on getting your underwear out of his way. There was nothing hot about this—you were wearing a pad because you didn’t want to have to get out of bed for a while and you were probably bleeding heavily. How could he be turned on at all?

He crawled down the mattress until he had your lower half completely free of clothing. He was only wearing his boxers now, the proof of his arousal the only thing you could focus on. You hated this, really, you did...but you knew how good he was about to make you feel...this wasn’t the worst way to deal with your period.

He didn’t want to give you the chance to argue so he quickly returned back to his spot at your back. His large hand pulled at the inside of your thigh, guiding your leg over his hips.

You tried not to want this, not to want him, but you were weak. He wasn’t all bad, you supposed. There was that time he took you to Paris for your birthday, the first one you shared with him. There was that time your parents were sick and had guilted you into taking care of them and the house while they couldn’t, and Ransom had shown up to help—forget all the snark and attitude he received from both you and your parents. And even though you were a completely functioning adult who could do anything for yourself and your career, Ransom was practically your bodyguard. Modeling was hard sometimes. People touched you, they looked at you. And you could always tell when it wasn’t appropriate. Ransom never blamed you, never told you that you’d done something to encourage it. He was unlike past partners in that way.

As he shoved his boxers down, you turned your head back to him.

"What? You okay, you need something?"

You leaned toward him further, paying no mind to the discomfort in your side at the odd angle you were turning yourself. "Just you."

He arched an eyebrow.

You set your hand to his face, fingers gliding along his cheek, under his eye, over his forehead. Why was he so beautiful? Who decided that this man should be given a face like this?

"You sure you’re okay?" he wondered, arm sliding over your waist to pull you in closer.

"My parents think that being with you is a bad decision. That's why they're doing all this shit."

"Yeah, they’re probably right about that."

You shook your head. "You take care of me."

He shrugged a shoulder. "We take care of each other. Now, are you done being sappy? I’d like to fuck you."

You huffed. "Well, that was a rare sweet moment. Thanks for ruining it."

He smiled. "Any time, baby."

Your breath caught when you felt him at your entrance. There was something different about fucking on your period. Maybe it was that you didn’t need the hour of foreplay to be able to take Ransom’s cock semi-comfortably. Or maybe it was just the misplaced intimacy of the whole ordeal. You didn’t hate it, hell, part of you was completely addicted to it.

But why would you ever tell him that? His eyes sparkled like they knew it anyway. Still, he would never have the satisfaction of hearing it.

He took your jaw in his hand, eyes locked on yours as he buried himself inside you.

"Ransom," you gasped. You grabbed his forearm, turning forward to lay your face on the pillow.

He thrust into you at a slow and steady pace. Certainly, he’d fucked you better before, but while you were so sensitive, it was just enough. His hand wound in your hair and he shoved your face down.

You moaned into the pillow as your orgasm built. You ran out of breath quickly and since he had you pinned down, you couldn’t breathe. You began thrashing against him, arms grabbing whatever part of him you could, you locked your leg around him tight so you wouldn’t be able to pull away, and you started to roll your hips back.

“Shit, baby,” he grunted. “Like it when I hold you down?”

You blurted out a response even though you knew he wouldn’t understand. You blamed the thoughtless action on the lack of air you were getting. It was almost thrilling to see where you’d get first, would you finish or would you faint? Would he even care? Would he just keep fucking you? The idea of being used like that did not turn you off as much as you wanted it to.

He did not let you up until you had come and he had gently fucked you through it. You lifted your face from the pillow, greedily taking in oxygen. He moved harder and faster for himself, but just slightly. His hand found your neck and he pulled you closer to him.

You had yet to completely catch your breath but you happily sunk unto his hold, placing one of your hands over his and digging your nails into his skin. He was wrapped around you, warm, maybe somewhat suffocating. This kind of sex was always like this, just toeing that fine line of overwhelming.

His hips stuttered as he turned his face into the bend of your neck. Several more times and he was spilling inside you, body still and cock as deep as you could take it.

He remained inside you as he slowly released your neck and began kissing over the skin there, anything to keep you as full of him as possible. He brushed his hands through your hair and whispered in your ear until he came down from his high.

You both just laid there for a moment, tired and thinking. It was clear he wanted to speak and you were now willing to listen, which were rare states for both of you, even rarer when it occurred simultaneously.

"You’ve been spending a lot of time with your parents lately."

He wanted to talk about your parents? Right now? After that? "They just got back from Scotland."

"Mhm." He leaned over to kiss you for a moment, just a soft press of his lips that was so unlike how he usually kissed you. "But usually, you invite me."

"You never want to go."

"But you always ask."

"I mean, we’ve been fighting, Ransom."

"Or maybe you’re considering other options."

You scoffed. "I’m not doing that, Ransom."

"Well, it’d be stupid if you were. You know no one can fuck you like I can."

You rolled your eyes. "Can you fuck me again? Can you shut up and just fuck me?"

"I understand where they’re coming from, why they don’t like me."

"Ransom," you groaned, shoving his hand away and turning back to the wall.

His fingers began tracing random patterns over your skin. "They think I can’t take care of their little girl, they’re just concerned."

"You know what? Your parents don’t like me either."

"My parents aren’t throwing other women at me—"

"That I know of—"

"No, don’t even try to turn this around. You were on a date with Max—"

"I was not! It was not a date." Only you two. Honestly, only you two would decide to start an argument while he was inside you.

"Megan told me what she saw—"

"And was that after or before you fucked her?"

"Don’t," he warned. "I have been committed to you since the day I met you."

You snorted. "The day you met me? Please. I’m done with this." You began sliding your leg back over but he grabbed your thigh and pulled it back.

He reached forward then, locking his arm around you and sliding his hand under your hip. Finally, he dragged himself back, so slowly.

You shut your eyes and bit your lip to keep quiet.

His hips snapped forward and your surprised yelp followed. "I’ve never dated anyone else—"

"How do I know that?" you demanded. "You’re a liar."

"I’ve never fucked anyone else, I’ve never even looked at anyone else. Since the day I met you, I knew that you were mine."

You weren’t sure if you believed that. Ransom was always complicated, you knew that from day one. You also knew that he knew a lot of women, that he liked to party, that he’d fucked most of his “friends” and that the usual routine was to do so during or after one of those parties.

He had started dragging you along with his friends about four months into your relationship. So, those first four months were always unclear to you. But prior, he would come to your apartment sometimes, smelling of alcohol and perfume and fuck you. You never asked questions and he never offered up the details. He was always gone in the mornings, so you figured that meant no strings.

The relationship change happened somewhat by force. Your parent’s lived about an hour away from your apartment, so it wasn’t often that you visited, but it wasn’t unheard of. One of your oldest friends had had a baby and she decided to return home to stay with her parents, your parent’s neighbors. You thought it would be fun to do the same, so you headed home and easily fell back into that whole scene.

Ransom texted you every day, almost every hour. You weren’t there for more than three weeks when he showed up at three in the morning on a Tuesday, wasted, pounding on the back door. To this day, it is unknown to you how his drunk ass even managed to get into the backyard.

Regardless, he only came because your friend had been posting non-stop pictures on Facebook and tagged you in one that she got of you talking to one of her brothers. Something he'd confessed after he also told you he couldn't stop thinking about you and that he missed you. Your first mistake was believing those lines.

He didn't leave until you agreed to return with him. The drive home was around the time he told you he found your apartment to be a "waste of time". It took him a total of three months to finally convince you to move in with him.

It didn't really matter at the end of the day. You didn't have evidence, but he did. This round was going to go to Ransom if you really kept pushing it. But it wasn't like he was anything near innocent.

"If you ever tell me that this is your house again, I'm leaving. Understood?"

"Yes. And you're not allowed to go on dates with other people. Understood?"

"Understood," you sighed. “Even though it was not a date. I would never date Max.”

He finally smiled. "Great, done fighting?"

You scoffed. "You went through my stuff."

"You hit me."

"I should have hit you more than once," you countered. But you didn't mean that, and you definitely shouldn't have hit him. "That won't happen again."

"I deserved it."

"No, let's just...talk about things, okay? Instead of reacting first and talking later."

He hummed. "Doesn't sound at all like us. But why not give it a shot?"

You’d wanted the house. The shit inside? Gaudy, outdated, mostly picked by Linda. You weren’t in the business of being cruel, however, you told her she could take legal possession of several things. If she wanted to buy it at the yard sale you decided to have.

It was the easiest way to get rid of Harlan’s stuff and to do so respectfully. Fans of his books who were nowhere near as rich as the 1% could still feel a connection to the late author without losing an arm and a leg. Throwing it all away like Ransom had suggested just made you feel like trash. He didn’t understand but he went along with it.

Probably because of how mad it made his mother. You’d decided to let Walt and Joni do a run through and take what they wanted, but since Linda had tried to physically assault Ransom when he told her he’d somehow gotten Marta to sign the house over to him, you were still waiting on her to extend a heartfelt and extensive apology to him. He said it was never going to come, but you figured she just needed a little convincing.

She’d shown up to the yard sale, screaming as Richard tried to reign her in. How could you seriously be selling a nightstand for $5? It was criminal. You were an idiot who had no idea how much this stuff cost. You were a scheming whore who had been planning this from day one. It was a pretty entertaining show, even Jacob agreed. He’d told you that night that her meltdown already had a million views.

Ransom was absent most of the yard sale. He did not want to talk to people and he did not want them talking to him. He showed up when he heard his mother shrieking and called the cops because he was a little bored. When they showed up, she started throwing things. It was nothing short of what you had expected, but when she started throwing things at Ransom, that was different.

She needed more convincing, you decided.

After the yard sale that only lasted three days—impressive considering Harlan was basically a hoarder—you were finally moving in. You pleaded with Ransom to hire no one. You wanted to do this with him. You wanted to pack and unpack just the two of you.

He acted like you were trying to murder him when you’d first asked, but he came around. You guys started with the closets, knowing that would be the most complex process. It took an entire day to move it all in and organize since the house was empty, you guys ended up sleeping on about twenty blankets on the bedroom floor.

Nothing was staying the same, mostly Ransom wanted to upset his family, but you just wanted to create a new home. You didn’t want to feel like you were living in Harlan’s house, you wanted to make it your own.

You weren’t taking Harlan’s room, that would be weird, and it was also an abnormally small room. The biggest room in the house was Joni’s former room, it had been empty since Neal died. Harlan refused to let anyone move anything that belonged to his son, but that was no longer an issue. It was also the only room with two closets, it was perfect.

Meg took Harlan’s room and Joni would keep hers. Walt, Donna, and Jacob were moved into one room, a decision made by Ransom. You didn’t necessarily agree but you weren’t going to start a fight with him for that subsection of the family. Especially since they were hardly ever going to be over, maybe just for the major holidays. Linda and Richard’s room under the stairs would remain but Linda was banned from the house until you felt satisfied with her attempts to gain Ransom’s forgiveness.

Not that he was actually upset with her, but he should have been! Something you did not hesitate to tell him any time you guys spoke about the issue. Regardless, any time Linda stepped foot on the property, the cops would be called.

Anything that belonged personally to Harlan, like his study, his office, the library, Ransom took special joy in taking everything out of it. He got rid of the books, the furniture, those stupid knives. He realized the books and the knives were very valuable and placed those online for bid. He didn’t want the money but he didn’t think it smart to sell them the same way you were selling everything else.

He didn’t tell you what he did with the money, but you saw a few emails a few days after the last knife was gone. He’d donated it. Ransom fucking Drysdale donated money! A few no-kill animal shelters, a couple of cancer foundations, a few domestic violence organizations, and then Planned Parenthood. Was it weird that you went to find him directly after just because you wanted to have sex with him? Like, you still knew he was a fucking asshole, but this was very nice.

The house was empty finally, save for the closets, of course. It was time to move all the boxes in and after, you guys could go shopping. That was the part you were both truly looking forward to. Ransom was going crazy without a bed, but he’d taken to fucking you against the wall, so not a major loss.

It only took about three hours, but Ransom acted like this was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. Well, it probably was. You were getting ready to go out furniture shopping. You were thinking of ways to talk Ransom into painting with you, not just getting someone to take care of it. Harlan seemed to be a fan of ugly wallpaper and flat colors. Also, ugly lamps, shades, and curtains. That was the first round of replacements, the furniture would be arriving within the next few days. You had to sign for so much and it was getting difficult keeping the times and scheduling, the last thing you wanted was to double-schedule anything and waste someone’s time.

You were rummaging through the unopened boxes when Ransom came downstairs. “Looking for something?”

“Yeah, have you seen my planner?”

“I think I packed it.”

“Do you happen to remember which box?”

“Keep getting ready, I’ll look for it.”

You smiled, turning up to find him texting. “Your mother?”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Just some more threatening. Maybe we should lift the ban—”

“No way.”

“Y/N—”

“Ransom, she tried to hit you. And then she was throwing things at you. Look, as shitty as my parents are, something can be said for the fact that they never hit me. That’s not actually normal.”

“She didn’t hit me when I was younger, don’t try to make this some battered child thing.”

“Ransom, this is our house and I don’t feel comfortable having your mother here until she understands that any sort of abuse directed at you is not okay…okay?”

He sighed. “Why is this the hill you want to die on?”

“I’m sorry that I dislike bad parents.”

“We all have bad parents,” he pointed out. “Everyone rich has bad parents because bad parents raise bad parents. It’s been the cycle since the creation of people who feel comfortable stepping on the poor to further their wealth.”

“Okay, don’t try to distract me by saying things that only an aware person would say.”

“I am aware. I just choose to ignore it. Wish you would do the same.”

“Really? Then why did you donate all that money, Ransom?”

“To get you to fuck me.”

You snorted. “Please, you know I’ve fucked you for a lot less money than that. And you’re wrong, okay? Not everyone rich has bad parents. My friend who had the baby a few years ago? Great parents.”

“I mean, I saw their house, they’re not that rich.”

“They don’t show off!” you corrected. “And don’t imply that you and I will ever be like our parents. My mother was controlling, and my father was dismissive, and Linda is insane and god, I can’t even explain how fucked up your father is. We are nothing like that and we never would be if…”

He lifted his eyebrows. “If we had kids?”

“That wasn’t what I was trying to say.”

He scoffed. “Yes, it was.”

“No, but…sure, that’s true. If we ever had kids…we would not be like that. I wouldn’t force our daughters to model or sing—did you know she tried to make me sing? Like, be an actual fucking singer. And I’m never going to try to make them be in a relationship with someone that they don’t like. You will not hit them, and you won’t…fuck our babysitter or our housekeeper or…whatever else, if we ever hire any of them.”

“Yeah?”

“But since you’re giving me that fucking smug look, you should know, there isn’t enough money in the world that could ever get me to carry your fucking children. Fucking sociopaths is what they’ll be, I’m sure. Terrible, little monsters just like you.”

“Okay.”

“Fuck you, Ransom, I’m going to do my makeup.”

He smiled. “I’ll look for your planner.”

You turned for the staircase with a heavy sigh. This was annoying because he still hadn’t said he loved you. It had been years and you had said it, and he did not, but he felt totally okay making fun of you for hinting that maybe one day, you guys would be a normal couple. Whatever, you would not let it bring you down, you would just retaliate by making him spend a lot of money.

You were just about finished when you heard him storming up the stairs. His mother? Maybe Joni. “Ransom?”

He walked into the room, holding a vibrator that he’d torn out of the box. “Are you serious?”

“Okay, that was unopened! You would know that if you weren’t some entitled child that just goes around ripping open boxes, Ransom!”

“I can’t actually believe you have this!”

“I haven’t used it!”

“Then why do you have it?!”

“Because…” you began.

He lifted his eyebrows.

“You might make me mad and I might need to repeat what I did the last time.”

“I cannot believe you would actually bring this into our house.”

“My god, Ransom, it’s not cocaine. Can we dial down the dramatics today?”

“You know what? You should keep this because I’m not fucking you any time soon.” He tossed it onto the counter and stomped out of the bedroom.

“Oh, my god!” you yelled. “You’re so fucking unbelievable!”

[collaborationandresearchproposal]

Wednesday 5th, Research proposal: First Draft

Title

Evil Kweens: A Queer Look At The History Of Villains And Monsters In Animation And Film

 Report type

Extended essay

 Proposed table of contents

 The Hays Code

 -       Guidelines are technically voluntary, in practice the major Hollywood audios used the Hays Code guidelines as convince the means of staving off pressure groups

 -       Directly influenced the content of almost every American film made between 1930 and 1966

 Queer-coding and Queer-baiting with focus on Disney and modern media

 -       both are issues for the LGBTQIA+ community as they seek to capitalize on these marginalized groups

 -       Queer-baiting: portraying an obviously queer relationships with the use of cues and subtext without acknowledging it or perhaps even gas lighting it.

 -       Queer-coding: writing a character with queer stereotypes as a form of representation without explicitly acknowledging that the character is queer.

Queer-coding isn’t always bad. It’s all about the creators’ intentions.

Queer-baiting however is pretty much always harmful.

-       Disney villains

 Lycanthropy and other monstrous subtext/ parallels. Allegory or myth?

-       talk about werewolf’s (Teen Wolf, Harry Potter, Buffy)

-       Frankenstein (Mary Shelly, Rocky Horror Picture Show,

 Question

 Is representation of LGBT individuals in animation and other forms of entertaining media good for the community or just a way for corporate big wigs to swindle money from hopeful queer people who would pay to see at least one shred of a character who is like them?

 Limitations

-       it may be hard for me to stay objective given that I’m in the LGBT community myself

 -       risk of outdated sources and temporal context problems. A project of its time will certainly play a part but more importantly the LGBT community is quite fickle it changes a lot as new identities and constructs get introduced so it may be hard to find a viable source.

 Background

The Hays code was published in 1930 and was based on three general principles:

 -       no picture shall be produced that will lower the moral standards of those who see it. Hence the sympathy of the audience should never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil or sin.

 -       correct standards of life, subject only to the requirements of drama entertainment, shall be presented.

 -       Law, natural or human, shall not be included, nor shall sympathy be created for its violation.

 These were developed in a series of rules grouped under the self-explanatory headings Crimes Against The Law, Sex, Vulgarity, Obscenity, Profanity, Costume Dances (I.e. suggestive movements), Religion, Locations (I.e. the bedroom) National Feelings, Titles and Repellent Subjects''  (extremely graphic violence)

 Typical features of queer- coded characters

 -       high cheekbones

 -       thin bodies

 -       feminine beauty

 -       dramatic of voice and actions

 -       male characters may talk or sing in falsetto or have camp ness to their voice and a female character will most likely have a deeper voice (Maleficent, Evil Queen, Ursula- who is actually based on a drag queen)

 -       these characters may also drag out their words and walk about at though slinking (Scar, the Lion King)

 Examples or queer-baiting

-       Myka Bearing and H.G. Wells (Warehouse13, SYFY)

Warehouse13 took a hit in ratings after its fourth season, meaning its fifth only had 6 episodes. It seemed to queer fans in particular that Myka and HG had a blossoming romance. It was even confirmed in the last episode that HG is indeed Bisexual but also in the last episode, Myka ends up with series long partner who at many points has been akin to the brother she never had. Their relationship was definitely flirtatious and I'm not saying that closing out the electric romantic arc between them would have saved the show, it was cancelled anyway, but It would have been nice since the interactions that HG and Myka had were actually what pushed fans to secure the final season. However you can’t be too mad as the show does have probably one of the best portrayals of a gay character on tv.

 -       Sherlock and John Watson ( Sherlock, BBC)

 -       Captain America and Bucky Barnes (MCU)

 -       Spock and Kirk ( Star Trek, NBC)

 -       Emma and Regina (Ounce Upon A Time, ABC)

 -       Stiles and Derek ‘Sterek’ (Teen Wolf, MTV)

 -       Merlin and Arthur ‘Merthur’ (Merlin, BBC)

 -       Dean and Castiel (Supernatural, ABC)

 Lycanthropy

-       seems to be synonymous with the homosexuality- parallels between teen Wolf and Buffy the vampire slayer’s respective coming out scenes

 -       the Queer-ness of Professor Lupin from the Harry Potter Franchise- J.K Rowling has admitted that Lupin’s Lycanthropy is a metaphor for AIDS/ HIV but has further dismissed fans’ theories that Lupin is Queer.

 -       Homophobia and HIV- homophobia acts as a major barrier to ending the AIDS crisis and at the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, gay men were so my led out to receive abuse as many believed they were responsible for transmitting the disease.

 Overall aims

 -       explore the impact of queer-baiting on queer communities

 -       investigate true intentions behind the Hays Code

 -       Make people aware of what’s good representation and what’s bad representation.

 Research methods

 I plan to use relevant books and articles. I will also be looking to Disney films from the Disney renaissance era and looking into monster stories such as the Wolfman and Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein's Monster, paying close attention to subtext and possible parallels as well as comparing them with more modern sources such as Harry Potter and The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

 These are appropriate methods of research because they will allow me to get others’ perspectives on the topic and allow me to analyze the villains and monsters in detail and give me visual material to talk about deeply.

 Potential outcomes

 -       The research will be helpful for me because it will allow me to increase my awareness on a subject that I am already passionate about and interested in.

 -       in a wider context this may help more people to understand the meaning and history behind the characteristics of their favorite villain and any possible subtext that may be lurking beneath them.

 -       educate those that are unaware or the issues queer-baiting and queer-coding pose.

 Timeline

Bibliography

Brooke, M. The Hays Code the moral code that governed mid-20th  century American filmmaking. Available at http://www.screenonline.org.uk/film/id/592022/ (Accessed: 16 March 2021)

 Cheng, Z. (2020) Queer-Baiting: What Is It and Why Is It Harmful to The LGBT Community?

Available at:https://hypebae.com/2020/6/queer-baiting-what-is-it-why-harmful-lgbtq-community-tv-shows (Accessed: 16 March 2021)

 Elliott, J. (2016) Becoming the Monster: Queer Monstrosity and the Reclemation of the Warewolf in Slash Fandom. Dissertation. University of Florida. Available at: file:///C:/Users/me202/Downloads/Becoming_The_Monster_Queer_Monstrosity_a.pdf (Accessed 16 March 2021)

 Ennis, T. (2020) The Strange, Difficult History of Queer Coding.Available at: https://www.syfy.com/syfywire/the-strange-difficult-history-of-queer-coding (Accessed: 16 March 2021)

  Hays, H, W. (1931) Online. United States: Production Code Administration, Appendix 1

  Hutton, Z. (2018) Queering The Clown Prince of Crime: A Look at Queer Stereyotypes as Signifiers In DC Comics’ “The Joker” FIU Electonic Theses and Dissertations. 3702. Availale at https://digitalcommons.fiu.edu/etd/3702/ (Accessed: 16 March 2021)

 McLeod, Dion, S. (2016) Unmaksing the Quillan: Queerness and Villiany in Animated Disney Films. Doctor of Philosophy thesis, School of the Arts, English and Media, University of Wollongong. Available at: https://ro.uow.edu.au/theses/4802/ (Accessed 16 March 2021)

 Smith, M. (2015) Making Things Perfectly Queer: Art’s Use Of Craft To Signify LGBT Identities.The University of Brighton. Available at: https://cris.brighton.ac.uk/ws/portalfiles/portal/4754843/Complete+E+Dissertation+Jan+2016.pdf  (Accessed: 16 March 2021)

[ducktracy]

98. i haven’t got a hat (1935)

release date: march 2nd, 1935

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: joe dougherty (porky), billy bletcher (beans, ex), bernice hansen (kitty, ham), martha wentworth (miss cud)

the fated day at last, the day the world was shook to its core... kind of. i haven’t got a hat marks the introduction of our favorite porky pig, along with a few others: beans, ham and ex, little kitty, and oliver owl. buddy’s lack of success was obvious. he couldn’t adequately fill the gap that bosko had left. thus, this cartoon serves as a “free for all”, introducing a number of new characters to see who would work out the best. beans was looking to be the star of the new franchise, but his stuttering sidekick was much more endearing to audiences. to put it this way, beans starred in 11 cartoons. porky starred in 153. buddy would continue to have a few cartoons afterwards, bidding his last “that’s all, folks” with buddy the gee-man. 1936 would see a rise in porky cartoons, thanks to jack king, tex avery, and frank tashlin. 1937 is when stuff gets REALLY good. but for now, we’ll focus on this cartoon. various school children put on a musical and recital, but trouble arises when beans’ jealousy causes the show to run amuck.

right off the bat, we’re introduced to our selection of characters. miss cud, “school teacher”—a clarabelle cow facsimile who rings her school bell cheekily. beans, a mischievous cat introduced by eating jam by the fistfuls. an offscreen voice yells “HEY!”, to which beans responds by sticking out his tongue after wiping the offending jam off his face. very amusing to note how different in personality he is here, a rambunctious, mischievous kid. i haven’t seen too many beans cartoons, only gold diggers of ‘49, alpine antics, and westward whoa, and in those he seems to be following the good natured, likable yet flat personality that buddy (and bosko) had exuded. this whole introduction scene is great—forcing some personality out of these characters. porky and oliver owl are next, porky giving a happy salute and oliver owl pretentiously tipping his hat. ham and ex, two troublemaking twins, spot the camera and eagerly whisper to each other. they’d be featured in a few beans cartoons, usually causing trouble that beans has to remedy.

an underscore of “i haven’t got a hat” plays jauntily as we’re introduced to the scenario: a flyer posted on the side of the schoolhouse reading “MUSICAL and RECITAL — sponsored by the children of this school for the benefit of teachers and parents — ALL CHILDREN ARE ELIGIBLE!” sure enough, happy parents stream inside with their kids. a mother cat and her child, a mother dog and her two pups, a mother pig and her three little pigs, and a mother hen with her long line of chicks that zigzag inside, a straggler catching up.

once all the parents and children are settled, miss cud rings her cowbell to introduce the show, stating “we will now open our exercises with a recitation by our little friend, porky pig.” porky misses the cue, too engrossed with the book “custer’s last stand”. beans glares at porky, tapping on his book and signaling for him to go up.

porky meanders his way to the front of the schoolhouse and recites “the midnight ride of paul revere”. as always, his stuttering gets in the way of his presentation.

here’s the thing about joe dougherty—i’ve really come to appreciate him. there certainly is that “poor guy” feeling when you listen to him characterize porky because of his actual uncontrollable stutter, but i don’t think it’s THAT painful to listen to. maybe because i’ve seen all of the dougherty porkys. honestly, i think his most “painful” performance is here and in gold diggers of ‘49, which were his first two cartoons. it’s not even the stuttering, but then figuring out how to perfect his character. his voice is especially high, aluminum sounding in this one, and in gold diggers it isn’t sped up at all, and sounds rather jarring to hear joe dougherty’s natural voice, which is VERY deep. joe dougherty would use his regular speaking voice for porky’s father, in cartoons such as porky the rain maker and milk and money. i think the stuttering is the most “out of control” here—i really don’t find his performances that bad at all. i think it really fits him, especially when he was so chubby. it’s really odd to hear mel do porky in his chubby design in porky’s double trouble.

(my) blabbering aside, porky recites the poem, exerting so much effort that he begins to sweat—wonderful animation done by bob mckimson. once he finishes the first stanza, he imitates a horse, complete with slapping his butt like a whip. he gives another stanza, whipping out an american flag and marching to “the girl i left behind me”. he recites some more, (even confusing poems and reciting a snippet of “the charge of the light brigade”), declaring “cannon to the right of them!” i love the little inkling of personality as he deliberately points to the left (which actually WOULD be his right), recognizing his mistake and pointing the other direction. a turtle drums on its stomach with some mallets.

“cannon to the left of them!” another wrong direction: this scene is especially amusing because of his determined expression, so confident in his delivery. what a ham. a dog tilts a basket of lightbulbs, breaking them one by one to imitate the sound of gunshots.

porky struggles to finish his poem, and the entire classmates whistle at him to get it over with—a reoccurring gag in the dougherty era. the whistle plays out like a dog whistle, an army of dogs playfully licking and hopping on porky, who walks backwards out of the scene as the children applaud. quite an introduction!

miss cud introduces “little kitty”, who’d serve as beans’ love interest in the beans cartoons. she’s obviously reluctant to go on, panicking and struggling against her parent’s arms. the parent gives her a final push as she stumbles on stage. she pauses before reciting “mary had a little... a little... uh...” she seeks miss cud for help, who mouths “lamb!” and provides a picture. kitty beams and continues “lamb! it’s fleece was white as... white as...”

once more, miss cud displays thinly veiled frustration as she tosses cornflakes above her head to imitate snow. bernice hansen’s delivery is great as kitty says “cornflakes!” with such utter confidence. she corrects herself bashfully, and what continues is a very nervous, possibly the most annoying yet entertaining recitation of mary had a little lamb. it’s amusing to watch her pace around and grimace, wringing her dress. her voice gets pitched up higher and higher, speeding up so her open is borderline incomprehensible. it’s certainly annoying and technology rather primitive, but amusing because of that. the best part is when she runs out of the school building and heads for home, her voice fading away as she’s still frantically reciting it.

next is ham and ex, who sing the criminally catchy “i haven’t got a hat”. bernice hansen’s squeaky voice singing the lyrics matched with billy bletcher’s deep bass voice of “bom bom bom bom” makes the perfect contrast, especially as ex sings the bass line and squats with each “bom”.

elsewhere, bob clampett animated a scene of beans and oliver, who are both bored by the performance—beans especially. oliver snacks on some candy canes, to which beans eagerly extends his arms towards. oliver tricks him into giving him a piece, stuffing it in his mouth and sticking his tongue out at the last minute. man, what a jerk! i’d be pissed too! especially amusing to watch beans silently mutter obscenities are oliver as the song continues on.

once the song ends, miss cud introduces oliver. if the introduction where he haughtily tips his hat or when he denies beans food isn’t enough of an indicator for his snobby personality, miss cud introduces him as “master oliver owl” as a very confident musician. a great scene as oliver grins at beans, but remembers his rivalry. he stalks off with his nose (beak?) in the air, his peppermint ripe for the picking. beans reaches over for it eagerly... until oliver runs back into the scene and snatches it away, scowling.

oliver plays a standard “school kid playing piano for the class” tune. beans isn’t impressed... until an idea hatches. he sneaks out of the classroom, where he spots a sleeping cat on a ladder right outside the window. perfect! he opens the lid of the piano and drops the cat in, his sabotage unfolding as he spots a dog and drops it inside, too. what a little bastard! i wish they kept him that way.

at once, the keys start playing for themselves, a thunderous rendition of “poet and peasant overture”. oliver ogles in astonishment as the keys (great animation) wiggle on their own, the piano jumping up and down as the dog and cat duke it out inside. friz’s musical timing is excellent, and oliver’s reactions are priceless as he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. everyone claps thunderously as he stares at the audience in astonishment.

not one to question his unseen methods, oliver recognizes he is receiving glory and eats it up. unfortunately, he stops in his tracks once the piano continues to play. the dog and the cat leap out of the piano and chase each other around, oliver’s head spinning as he attempts to keep track of the chase. he grins nervously and sweats, his performance exposed.

all the kids boo and hiss, except for beans, who’s laughing outside the window. oliver spots him and squirts green ink on him in retaliation. beans falls off the ladder and lands on a bench, which throws both beans AND a can of red paint into the window. the paint can lands right on oliver’s head, beans toppling next to him. they exchange bewildered looks, and their rivalry is transformed into camaraderie as they shake hands. iris out.

obviously, i’m pretty biased since porky is one of my favorite characters, just barely shy of daffy. however, i truly think this is a really good cartoon, and probably one of the best we’ve seen. the attempt to really get some personality out of these characters is absolutely there. facial acting, body language, acting in GENERAL, it’s all there. the characters are all endearing, even oliver. some beautiful animation, especially the porky scenes by bob mckimson and the piano scene with the dog and cat. nothing feels too drawn out—of course, porky’s recitation is VERY long, but that’s also the point. it’ll be interesting to see how joe dougherty improves—maybe i just feel bad for the guy, but i think he needs some more credit. anyway, VERY good cartoon. the song is dreadfully catchy! if anything, it’s certainly worth watching for its historical significance. even then, it’s just an entertaining, light-hearted, fun cartoon.

link!

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Out of Control

The world passed by in a blur. Trees sped along outside the windows of the car. The engine roared like a dragon and the vehicle’s driver felt an unnatural fuel and fire in her veins.

A blood-red rising sun reflected off of her shades, glossy and shiny and marred only by a tiny crack on the left lens of her sunglasses. Clad in little leather racing gloves, Emily’s hands gripped the steering wheel like iron vices.

Something about the hum and the vibrations and the constant growl of the machine kept her calm. She loved the feeling of sheer speed, slicing through the world like a knife; and appreciated that sense of escape from reality that it always gave her.

Now, more than ever, she needed that calm, that sensation of riding the eye of the storm—that escape. Because she was going to see Julian’s killer in person and it was going to take everything out of her to not lose her mind.

Was it the gravity of fast motion, pushing her back into her seat that helped center her? Was it the threat of deadly accidents that freed her mind from every burdening thought and worry? Or was it because she felt both in control and dangerous whenever she drove too fast?

Emily wondered, but refused to answer her own questions.

She maintained a speed just a few miles per hour above the legal limit. Just enough to make good time on her ride to Starkford Penitentiary, and just enough to try to talk her way out of trouble if a cop pulled her over.

Thoughts surfaced. Thoughts about Kathryn Shaw. Emily tried to push them back down because they only made every one of her digits tense up more—the leather of her gloves cracked as her grip around the steering wheel tightened.

Any efforts to dispel the thoughts all failed. The image search on Shaw haunted Emily. Kathryn Shaw was just some forgettable D-list celebrity and the spectrum of her headshots ranged from pretty young lady all the way to monstrosity who had gone under the knife of plastic surgery too often for her own good. Murdering Julian Stone would probably be her biggest legacy, overshadowing her pathetic acting career and her quest for the perfect face.

This only fed the tension building in every fiber of Emily’s being, because Shaw’s obsession with her own beauty was what had killed Julian.

But was it just tension? Or pure anger welling up inside? The engine’s growls grounded Emily for a brief glimpse, allowing her to notice just how obscenely fast she was going now, and she eased up on her leadfoot for a bit. Every thought of Kathryn Shaw just poured more gasoline onto the flames of Emily’s fury.

As you know, every time you pour fuel into the flames, you run risk of the fire igniting the stream, traveling back up its length and blowing the canister up in your hands. That exact image entered Emily’s mind and made her crave another cigarette. It hadn’t even been five minutes since the last one.

No matter.

She rolled down the window on her old Charger and lit up her smoke. Swore up a storm as a chunk of tobacco got stuck on the car’s internal lighter and fumed out of the slot when she returned it. Instead of pulling over to fix this like a sane person, Emily took her eyes off the road and tapped the lighter outside her car door.

When she looked up, the honking of a horn ripped her right back into the reality of her current whereabouts and she reacted just in time, swerving back onto her lane of the road. The honking persisted, blaring and trailing off as the other car traveled down the opposite lane, expressing what she considered to be a petty anger when compared to her own.

Emily flipped the other driver the bird and took a long, greedy drag from her cigarette to cool off.

She always found it strange how little such near-death experiences like this never really fazed her. Some part of her was always prepared to die. Hell, the other part of her was already dead.

All the nights she had spent alone ever since Julian’s death, looking out over the nightly skyline of L.A., she had gone through every single stage—from wanting to die, over not seeing a purpose in life anymore, to wanting someone to pay, and ending up with a fire flaring up deep down inside of her, fueled by her darkest thoughts and fantasies. A fire that made her swear more than she ever used to; a fire that motivated her and would drive her to ever greater heights in her career.

Telling the truth, no matter how much it hurt. Exposing lies and toppling the liars. Bringing down all those awful pyramids of deception, tearing down the walls of filth built by the life-thieves and the soul-violators. Destroying the machinery of oppression fabricated by the real monsters of this world.

Her thoughts spiraled. The moment she realized she was thinking about her quest for truth and revealing the darkness to the world, no sooner did she remember that Shaw was to blame for her current anger. Emily had always been angry with the world: corrupt politicians feeding their fat faces, greedy psychopaths running the business world, and selfish assholes walking all over the downtrodden were everywhere. They didn’t even lurk in the shadows—no, the ghouls just lived in our very midst, normalizing their wicked ways and turning people jaded to the point of not caring anymore.

Every time she blinked, another six such shit-sticks just sprung into existence somewhere else.

While smoking cooled her down, it couldn’t put a lid on the boiling pot of rage bubbling in her belly region.

The whole ordeal of this prison visit alone would have been enough to make her mad, just thinking about it.

Short visiting hours. She had had to make an appointment over a month in advance. Fill out huge forms and provide copies of all sorts of personal documents. Wait for approval. Get all sorts of instructions on what she was allowed to wear or not: no orange, no underwire bra, no yoga pants, no sleeveless shirts, no open toes.

Luckily, her childhood friend Carlos had warned her about all this from his short stint in working at a different prison in the past. They might have just turned her away the moment she showed up if she didn’t meet all of their ridiculous requirements, and put her through the whole rigmarole of applying all over again.

All of this just to schedule a conversation—with her fiancé’s murderer.

Emily snorted, blowing smoke out of her nostrils. She flicked on the radio. An effective distraction would be great, any time now.

An overconfident voice actor spoke, “Enjoy a flat white at a price that’s easier to swallow from the—”

Raspy voice, trained in feigning gravitas, said, “Most of the things I do are misunderstood. Hey, after all, being misunderstood is the fate of all true—”

A dulcet male voice sang, “I’m gonna kick my feet up and stare at the fan, turn the TV on, throw my hand in my pants—”

Annoying advertising. Annoying talking. Annoying pop music. She kept poking the device to switch the channels. At the very least, she could direct her anger at the shallow superficiality of the world of radio entertainment, letting the heat die down somewhat and reducing the boiling of her blood to a low simmer. She avoided any news. News would just add to her anger.

The sunglasses shielded her eyes from the blinding light of the morning sun, still low on the horizon over the woods lining the road.

More smoking, idly ignoring all the chatter and music from the radio, and sitting on the lid to the pot of rage inside of her. Another two hours of driving flew by. The landscape around her transformed along the way, with her Charger exiting the lines of trees and darting over the long roads in the hills, in the middle of nowhere.

Like blacking out, she sighed when she seemingly came to her senses in the lobby where visitors could wait.

The anger was back.

The stupid card machine kept spitting out her dollar bills while she attempted to charge it with money. After the sixth attempt and growing increasingly anxious about the guy breathing down her neck behind her, Emily slapped the top of the device three times.

One of the guards nearby cleared her throat and shot Emily a dirty look. Emily just glared back at her but swallowed a glib remark. Either she wanted to bottle all the anger up and direct it at someone truly deserving, like Shaw, or she didn’t want to get into trouble until she had done such.

In truth, Emily wanted answers. She just wanted to know why Kathryn Shaw had killed. The most mysterious thing about Julian’s death was why Kathryn murdered him. The police said that he had turned her down for repeat requests to conduct further rhinoplasty where other surgeons had already turned her down before, and she had snapped. Bludgeoned him with a tire iron and stuffed him into the trunk of her car.

Finally, the card reader swallowed her cash. Emily groaned and muttered more profanities under her breath and left, engulfed in a cloud of mounting frustration and volatile impatience. The man waiting in line behind her dodged away a full step when she glared at him while she took a walk to the vending machines.

Thinking about the circumstances of Julian’s death did the opposite of helping her temper or curbing any anger.

Supposedly, Kathryn had thought that beating Julian over the back of his head had only knocked him unconscious. In truth, he must have died slowly in her trunk. Painfully. The police detective Emily talked to didn’t say it in those exact words, but she knew enough to piece it together.

Not only anger accompanied Emily that day, but something else: fear.

Fear that she might lose control and do something like strangling Kathryn. Also, a fear of seeing the face of a murderer who had had so much surgery done that Emily only saw her visage as an accurate and frightening representation of what Kathryn truly was deep down—a monster.

The crazy bitch had killed her Julian because he refused to help her continue destroying her own damned face? The choleric reporter wasn’t satisfied with that explanation. It was so simple. Too mundane.

Maybe Kathryn Shaw could offer the straight dope. Maybe Emily could tickle it out of her, provoke her into spilling something she wouldn’t admit to the authorities. Maybe something darker.

Another wave of fury washed over her when she stood at the vending machines to get some snacks and something to drink. Everything cleaned out—empty. Nothing for her to buy after wasting cash on the stupid card machine?

Fuck this place, she thought. Fuck the entire prison system.

Under normal circumstances, she would have blurted that out; released her rage at one of the people working here. However, she wanted to avoid sabotaging her chances at speaking to Kathryn. Not only had the private penitentiary made this visit an absurd chore, she had had to get through lengthy talks with Shaw’s lawyers to get this going without outside interference.

Emily had signed waivers and papers just to promise she wouldn’t be using or publishing anything that transpired in this meeting.

In a huff, she sat down in the waiting area. Checked her emails on her phone to find another way of distracting herself. Canceled interview meeting. Bill. Bill. Bank complaining about her account being in the red. Bill. Advertisements. Annoying newsletter. Complaints about details on an invoice. Just a swamp of unanswered, unread messages she could not have cared any less about right now. Still, she found something oddly meditative about sifting through them and getting some of this busywork done.

Until she reached one mail: from an anonymous source in the crime syndicate exposé she was working on. The informant was backing off, chickening out, refusing to meet for a statement.

Emily blacked out. Next thing she knew, the display of her phone was covered in a spiderweb of cracks. Several people in the waiting room stared at her and her surroundings had gone dead silent.

A guard stood next to her and fidgeted, one brow arched as she stared Emily down and said, “Ma'am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you can’t get it together.”

Emily nodded in defeat. Whatever she had just done that resulted in cracking her own phone—shouting? Screaming? Beating inanimate objects? The startled looks from the strangers all around her told her that her outburst had been profound. She also felt a lot calmer, like the valves had opened for a spell and released some of the steam. Judging by everybody’s reactions, she must have given off that exact air.

Though the anger was still there, albeit more subdued.

Emily Graves was an angry person by nature. Always had been. Her best friend Chris never liked how worked up she got when she ranted about anything and turned it into cascading and unstoppable tirades.

Today was different. She had never felt as angry as she did this day.

She did something uncharacteristically different and apologized. Standing beside herself and watching it happen as if she was in a dream, she wondered who in all hell’s name this Emily was—sounding meek and remorseful. But there she was, the other Emily, making sure she’d get through this day far enough to speak with Kathryn Shaw.

The guard left her alone to waiting, and Emily slumped into the hard plastic chair. The light glared too brightly in here for her to decipher anything on the now-cracked display of her phone, so she put it away.

Focus. Breathe.

Focus.

Forcing herself to clear her mind of all thoughts, Emily cycled through the things she had learned in Berkeley. She reverted into the green journalist, melting into the background and observing. Watching.

The waiting area had it all. The facial expressions on the people here, the invisible clouds of air surrounding them, carrying the entire gamut of emotions: joy, sadness, regret, anger, and everything in between. One of the other visitors waiting there emanated with an aura of rage to rival Emily’s own. It somehow helped her cool down herself, seeing this other lady completely self-absorbed in a blinding haze of wrath.

This kind of place could probably do that to anybody.

She took a deep breath and went to the bathroom. Carlos told her that going to the bathroom during the visit itself is a pain of its own, so it was best to get it out of the way immediately.

No mirrors in the restrooms.

Emily splashed her face with cold water. She wanted to smoke really badly. Even though she couldn’t inhale that sweet, sweet poison any time soon, she nervously produced the pack from her pocket book and checked it. Two smokes left; not even halfway through the day.

“One hell of a drive here,” she muttered. Another woman in the restrooms just gave her a funny look, and Emily returned to the waiting area.

Eventually, she was buzzed in.

They stamped her wrist with invisible ink. Allowed her to put all her possessions in a locker. Asked redundant questions. Sent her through the metal detectors, searched her, jammed a plastic pass into her hand. Half of the hurdles made sense to Emily, leaving her to wonder about the other half.

She sat in a small windowless room and waited. The thick doors and walls muffled the repeated buzzing for other visits elsewhere. Emily had expected them to be meeting with a wall of bulletproof glass separating her and Kathryn Shaw, but it looked like the visiting room was just an open space with two entrances—two ominous metal doors.

Table in the center surrounded by rigid plastic chairs, all bolted down.

A guard waited behind her, hands folded in front of her and probably staving off boredom whenever she wasn’t ready to pounce and intervene.

Little to stop Emily from exploding into a fireball and clawing Kathryn’s eyes out.

She wondered how often the guards here had to deal with drama like that. Emily found herself wondering what it would be like to be tased.

The other door opened, interrupting such thoughts, and two people entered. Kathryn, dressed in the orange jumpsuit of the inmates here, hands shackled with cuffs, was directed to the chair on the opposite side of the table. The guard accompanying her took her place behind her next to the other door.

Kathryn’s long blonde hair was frazzled, messy. Her bleary eyes darted around, barely registering Emily. She looked crazy, but not scared or threatening in any way. To the reporter, she looked far more pathetic than she had expected—not that that helped defuse the rage.

So Emily decided to start off simple. Ease Kathryn into things, and hell, herself as well. Maybe she’d keep her anger under control by conducting herself in a professional fashion.

“Hello Kathryn,” she said. Emily pressed her lips together so hard that they turned into thin white strips. “I’m Emily Graves.”

Kathryn nodded and emitted a feeble, “Hi.”

She looked her visitor up and down but evidently did not recognize her.

“I’m a freelance reporter who has worked for a few major outlets in California.”

Kathryn’s eyes went wide. Emily expected her to shrink from that, but triggered something else entirely. Kathryn nodded emphatically—excitedly. She was thrilled.

D-list celebrity alright. Probably thought she was going to get “justice” or exposure to use in her memoirs, or God only knew what.

“Now, just to be clear, I’m not here in a professional capacity,” Emily said, trying to suss out if Kathryn still had enough marbles left in her noggin for her to speak with her regular vocabulary, or if she had to dial down her language to the level she’d use for someone certifiable.

Kathryn’s face, disfigured from years and an excess of plastic surgery, scrunched up in confusion. She nodded some more, signaling Emily to continue.

“I came here because—”

Emily choked on the words. She choked on the thoughts. Instead of rage welling up, her mind flashed back to the moment when the coroner pulled out the metal slab. The slab on which a dead body lay.

She swallowed, hard.

She remembered the day she identified Julian’s body in the morgue, in the company of Detective Tanner.

Pale, lifeless, hopeless. Dead. Shattered skull. Shattered dreams.

Shattered heart.

Was her heart racing with terror, or slowing to a halt?

Kathryn just looked at her through wide eyes, expecting something. Something more. Something that immediately disgusted Emily.

Attention.

It brought the anger back. The simmering turned back up, like stepping on the gas pedal and revving the engine. The roar of the motor. The pressure of gravity, of speed, of powerful motion. Pouring gasoline into the fire.

“I came because you murdered my fiancé, Julian. I—I just need to know. I need to know why.”

Kathryn nodded some more, like a deranged toddler trapped in a horrific grown woman’s body. Then her nodding transformed into her shaking her head quickly. She squinted as she continued to shake her head in disbelief.

“No, Doctor Stone is fine. I didn’t murder anybody!”

Emily blinked, letting that sink in. She disbelieved the disbelief. The world slowed down to a halt. The imaginary car she was driving in crashed into a solid brick wall in slow motion. Scrap parts exploded into a dazzling rain of metallic fireworks.

The flames flared up. The stream of gasoline being poured into it caught fire. It traveled upwards, in slow motion, just like the car crashing into the wall.

The rage boiled. The lid shuddered, clattered. Emily’s heart was racing indeed, pounding like thunder. Like those Japanese drums.

“Listen, honey, I’ll be out soon and with my lawyers, we’ll clear this all up, just you wait and see. I’m so sorry about what I did. I lost it and—well, things worked out in the end, yeah? I’m sure Doctor Stone will do what I asked him for then, and we’ll find a way to—”

The rushing of blood in Emily’s ears drowned out this crazy bitch’s words. The world narrowed, with darkness encroaching from the edges of her field of vision until everything had turned into a tunnel, with the only light at the end of it consisting of this monster’s artificial-looking face.

The tunnel collapsed. Complete darkness. Just the pounding of those drums, the beating of her heart.

The sound that the human hand makes when hitting flesh is strange. Like a wet bag filled with raw meat slapping onto a hard kitchen counter. That association only registered with Emily with delay.

She must have slapped or punched Kathryn multiple times before the guards pried her away. Signing papers and getting reprimanded were things that came back to her later. Emily walked out of that hellhole, putting on her sunglasses again as broad daylight from the merciless sun instantly gave her a headache. Or maybe it was the dehydration coupled with the rage. Her mouth felt as dry as Death Valley looked.

She had lost time. Her wrists hurt, she had been detained temporarily. Someone told her this was not uncommon. Warned her, told her not to show her face there again. Said she was lucky Shaw’s lawyers wouldn’t end up pressing charges, because she’d probably forget what happened by dinner time.

Emily sat on the hood of the Charger, smoking. Only one cigarette left and four hours of driving back to Los Angeles ahead of her. A veritable tower of ash formed at the end of the glimmering little death-stick between her fingers. Her ears still rang with the aftereffects of adrenaline and rage.

In her mind, she went to and fro, like liquid sloshing back and forth in a bucket. Like the gasoline, always threatening to spill over the edge and fall into the flames; threatening to feed that all-devouring fire. She struggled to piece together what had happened but a burning darkness blotted out parts of those memories.

It couldn’t have been too bad or she might have gotten arrested on the spot. Or maybe the guards took pity on her, having a hunch about what was going on there. Or maybe this entire world was so callous and cruel that nobody truly gave a damn.

Whatever had truly happened in that cold claustrophobic room with the uncomfortably cool air conditioning, it had not helped Emily. Not at all.

She had walked out of Starkford with answers less satisfying than the meager ones she had entered with. She hated the concept of America’s prison system, but a more sadistic part of her hoped that Kathryn would suffer and rot in there for the rest of her miserable life.

Emily stamped out the cigarette, grinding it with her heel with extreme prejudice, and got behind the wheel again.

Speeding might help. Her addiction made her mentally check at which gas station she’d stop next to buy more smokes. Getting back to work, perhaps following up on the Mancini “murder house” next—maybe these things would get her mind off of the hell that was living on this God-forsaken planet, hurtling through space until the sun died and the heat death of the universe ended everything.

Or maybe just drowning everything in a bottle of whiskey.

But everything Emily enjoyed at this point was self-destructive.

Nothing would truly help. None of it would quench the fires of her rage.

Just pour more gasoline into the flames.

She revved the engine. The tires screeched and the Charger sped away.

—Submitted by Wratts

[vitanes]

say it’s okay when it’s not

chapter 10: two slow dancers

Lucas tries to pull himself up after the accident, has conversations that make him breathe easier and receives an unexpected confession.

(a/n: internalised homophobia, suicidal ideation)

They were expelled. Lucas was sitting down on a chair next to the principal’s office, his body trembling when his father came out of the office and told him that. He also said Lucas could press charges against them, but at this point, Lucas’ brain had shut off. In all honesty, it stopped properly working the moment he had been attacked and Lucas wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to think normally again.

He lost consciousness due to all of the stress and pain so he only knows what happened from bits and pieces he was able to grasp when people recalled the event. As it turned out, Alexia and Daphne were walking down the hall when they saw what was happening. They quickly contacted the rest. Imane went to get the principal while the others came to Lucas’ rescue. His friends dragged the bullies away from him, landed a few punches themselves and soon enough the whole thing was resolved.

While Lucas was regaining his senses in the nurse’s office, his father was called in and by the time he was let out, his father was ready to share the news and drive him to the flat.

Lucas has been unresponsive ever since he woke up. He hasn’t said a word to any of his friends nor to his father. Under normal circumstances, he’d probably be baffled. He hasn’t seen his old man in months, their last conversations were messy. And yet, Lucas couldn’t find it in himself to care hard enough to even look at him.

He mechanically left the car once they pulled up by the building and didn’t look back at all before walking in.

He’s been broken to pieces and in the grand scheme of things, the issues with his father simply don’t matter.

 ***

 Lucas hasn’t been able to feel anything but pain and indifference for the past few days. He isn’t sure what caused the latter, but he’s certain it’s the only thing keeping him sane, away from exploding so he’ll take it over anything else. He hasn’t been able to eat, he’s been barely getting out of bed and all he’s been doing is sleep a lot. When he sleeps it doesn’t hurt as much. And people say that sleep is good for healing, so perhaps it’s not that bad.

His ribs, abdomen, various parts of his body are ugly purple and he can’t roll over without hissing in pain.

As much as he tends to overthink, this time his mind is blank and hollow. Full of white noise. And maybe that’s good, too. Maybe that’s what he needs right now. The only kind of peace his brain is able to offer him. If he doesn’t think, he can’t keep reliving that nightmare and it’s the best alternative even if it leaves a mere ghost of him present. Either sleeping or staring up at the ceiling with insistent buzzing at the back of his head.

Maybe it’s his phone. Or someone talking to him without him noticing them.

He closes his eyes and doesn’t dream at all.

 ***

 A few things happen. Lucas eats something, takes a shower, snaps out of his daze and has a breakdown over seeing all of the bruises over his skin.

He gets back to his bedroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping and limbs shaking.

He isn’t sure he can face the world ever again. He’s too terrified, too weak, too vulnerable.

He’s gay and that makes him a target.

There are more people who will want to hurt him, he knows that. Each and every person from his school who didn’t do anything while he was being attacked. A whole bunch of students who wouldn’t care if he had been kicked until he wouldn’t be able to wake up.

He doesn’t want it to happen. He doesn’t want to die because of it, God, he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be ambushed and treated this way again. That’s why he can’t leave the flat. It’s too dangerous.

The world is too cruel out there and Lucas has never been much of a fighter to handle it. But he’s been a survivor and he’ll do what survivors do best – stay in safety, alive. Be hidden, unharmed.

 ***

 At some point, Lucas does what he shouldn’t. He checks his social media.

The moment he stumbles across all of the posts he’s been tagged in since Friday, he can’t breathe properly. There are very few sympathising with him, but the majority of what he sees makes his gut churn. So many people just make fun of it, as if it was nothing. He sees a blurry picture of the boys landing kicks on him and the caption says me vs my responsibilities. There are more of these and Lucas just can’t get his head around the fact his tragedy has been made into a meme.

Videos have been posted as well. With much hesitation, Lucas plays one. He hears people cheering, the way boots contact with his body and wailing. His own. The other videos aren’t any better. Only snippets, a few seconds but it’s enough to make Lucas’s heart beat faster. He’s cold with sweat, body shaking.

There is one clip showing the moment his friends entered. It’s messy, the quality is shit, but Lucas recognises them anyway. Basile is sent flying when he tries to pull one of the bullies away. Arthur jumps on the back of the tallest one, strangling him and yelling obscenities. Yann socks another one in the eye and gets a hit in return that makes him stagger backward, but he doesn’t seem defeated. Eliott runs into the last one and they both end up on the floor, fighting. The video cuts at the moment the principal arrives. Lucas’ wasn’t imagining things when he saw Imane before blacking out because she’s there, too. Trying to get to Lucas.

Something in Lucas’ chest squeezes and he watches the video two more times before moving on. He feels guilty. They were hurt because of him, maybe had to face some consequences for getting into a fight. They’ve got bruises on their skin.

Lucas is nothing but a burden to them. First with rent money, now this. He couldn’t even defend himself. All he did was lie down and be kicked, begging someone to help him. How can he be so weak?

The more he scrolls down the page, the more he realises it’s just a joke for others. He and his friends suffered injuries and people laugh at it.

Lucas clutches the phone in his palm, sniffing. He doesn’t think he can watch more of it. Seeing the way he was attacked like that has caused him so much anxiety he’s almost overflowing. He can feel every hit again when he moves his hand over his chest and lower, his fingers pressing against the bruises. The skin is tender and the harder he presses, the more he can’t take a proper breath. But he can’t stop his fingertips from dancing over the area, making him gasps with each touch. He is in pain, but he can’t stop himself. Can’t stop after what he’s seen. He must prove to himself the videos are real, that it happened and it’s not just a figment of his imagination. Not something that can be easily turned into a joke. That he was genuinely screaming for help, not acting for someone’s entertainment. But no matter how deep he digs his fingers into the raw flesh, he can’t shake off the feeling that he was only a puppet. A part of the show that has now become a meme.

Someone knocks and he jumps between the sheets, his hand stopping in the middle of his ribs. He looks towards the door, letting out a shuddering exhale.

“Lucas, can I come in?” It’s Mika’s raspy and quiet voice. He sounds off and Lucas briefly wonders why. Right after that, he thinks whether he should say yes. He hasn’t shown himself to any of them in a couple of days. And he isn’t sure he’s ready for it. So he stays quiet.

Much to no one’s surprise, Mika takes it as confirmation and opens the door. In the last second, before Mika steps in, Lucas removes his hand from under his shirt. He wouldn’t know how to explain himself.

Mika sits at the edge of Lucas’ bed and the way his gaze is boring into Lucas’ face is so intense Lucas can’t bring himself to meet Mika’s eyes.

“I can’t watch you doing this to yourself,” Mika says, his voice quiet. “You’ve been crying again,” he adds, reaching out his hand. He uses his thumb to wipe under Lucas’ eyes and it’s then that he realises his cheeks are wet. “Let me be there for you. Tell me what’s going on.” He retreats his hand.

“Haven’t you heard?” Lucas asks and his voice sounds so foreign to his own ears, he needs a moment to grasp the fact he said it.

“I want to hear it from you. I– you deserve to have a voice. I haven’t seen anything, I haven’t asked other people who seemed to know. I knew something was going on. But I’m not going to let someone take it away from you. So I stayed away from everything that could give me answers. It’s your thing to tell,” Mika says, his expression serious and Lucas believes him. He’s completely sincere and considering his lack of reaction Lucas was expecting when the pictures were leaked or when Lucas was hit with that ball, he knows Mika is telling the truth.

Lucas bites down on his bottom lip. “But you know,” he says as a statement and there’s so much sadness painted over Mika’s face in that moment, Lucas doesn’t need any other response.

Mika looks down at his lap. “It’s hard not to connect the dots when I see so much of myself in you,” he whispers, his voice sounding distant. He glances back at Lucas. “But maybe I’m wrong. I want to be wrong, have you tell me you’ve become a streetfighter,” he adds sheepishly.

Lucas tries to smile, but considering how Mika’s face falls he thinks he didn’t do a good job. He blinks a few times to will the tears away. He isn’t sure he can say everything without breaking down, but at this point, will he have enough power ever to do that?

Probably not, so the best way to tell his story is from the beginning.

“The reason I didn’t have money for rent was… was because I had to pay someone who caught me kissing a person I shouldn’t have and took pictures of us. But I ran out of money and they leaked the pictures. People have been giving me hell, but the guys from my PE class took it to the extreme. And here I am,” Lucas says and realises that even when he was telling the truth, he was using words so vague, that normally someone would find the whole thing confusing. One look at Mika, though, and Lucas knows he’s been understood.

He doesn’t have to say it out loud in order to be heard. Not when it comes to Mika.

Mika sighs loudly and moves closer. “I wish I had known earlier. I’d have helped you more. What happened to the blackmailer?” Lucas shrugs. He hasn’t heard from them in a long time. “The bullies?”

“They were expelled.”

“What about you?” Mika finally asks and the question is so loaded, Lucas feels like he’s been punched in the face once again. What about him? He’s beaten, lost, broken. He’s got no place in the world, he can’t look at himself and the worst of it all? Sometimes he thinks he deserved what happened to him. He knows he shouldn’t have thoughts like that, but every now and then the small voice in the back of his head, the one that always spits out hatred, will say that they should have hit him harder. “I can hear you thinking but I can’t hear you talking,” Mika says after a few minutes of silence.

And Lucas looks at him then, so earnest to help, so worried. Maybe he’d understand if Lucas told him?

“I feel awful. I don’t want to leave this place because I’m scared. And guilty for dragging my friends into this, but at the same time I think that maybe those guys were right to do this,” he says in one breath, his left hand curled up into a fist.

“Oh, Lucas… don’t. Please, don’t,” Mika says, placing his hand on Lucas’ shoulder. “Under no circumstances would they ever be right to hurt you for being you. And you haven’t dragged anyone into this. Friends help each other. Lucas, hey, look at me.” He puts a finger under Lucas’ chin and tilts his head up. Lucas’ eyes sting from unshed tears.

“What if I hate being me? Being this way?” he asks and Mika scowls at him.

“Tell me, what’s making the way you love someone worse than the way, for example, Manon does? Our sexuality isn’t wrong or dirty, how we feel isn’t any different. And honestly? Sometimes we love more deeply because we have a different understanding of things. Because we’ve been deprived of love in our lives. The way you are is beautiful and in no way, someone beating you up for that could be justified. We are already hated by society, you can’t let them convince you they’re right. You can’t let them win,” Mika says and the way his voice trembles by then end tells Lucas he’s fought enough battles to know what he’s saying.

“But if I was normal everything would be so much easier. No one would hurt me, think I’m gross, I wouldn’t be rejected. I’d have a chance in life.”

Something dark flashes across Mika’s face. “Does that mean you think I don’t have a chance in life? Or other gay people for that matter?” It’s the first time one of them used that word in the whole conversation and Lucas flinches.

“No, I–“

“We are normal, you, me. I know you have so much internalised crap in yourself it’s not easy to overcome, but I really wish you could realise that. We go to school or work, we fall sick and in love, we eat, we fuck, we have families. We’re sad, happy, we pay bills. We have to fight a little harder for everything, but we aren’t some weirdos. There are other groups of people that share the same struggles, you know? And sure, we’re the rejected ones, but when that happens we create our own homes, safe places. There are plenty of things people consider gross, but that can’t define you. You have to live your life for yourself. Don’t let the big white cis straight guy dictate how you should be.” Mika pulls away, his face full determination all over. And a part of Lucas feels inspired, wants to agree. It’s overshadowed by everything that’s been ingrained in his mind throughout the years but even if it’s merely a planted seed, an inkling, it’s an accomplishment.

Lucas wipes his face with his sleeve. “What should I do, though?” he asks in a weak voice.

Mika hums thoughtfully. “You can’t hide. You aren’t in a place where it’s easy for you to accept things, but you can’t hide. You can’t be easy prey. You have to fight back. There’s no way for you to go back into the closet anymore. So you need to embrace it. And even if you don’t believe it now, you know what they say, right?” Mika smiles at him encouragingly, a new fire in his eyes. Oh, how Lucas wishes he could feel the same.

“I don’t,” he breathes out.

“Fake it until you make it. Own it. Be unbearable. If they spit into your eye, you spit back. You don’t let that experience weaken you, but make you stronger. Report them. When they talk shit, talk back. Kiss the boy you like.” It all seems easier said than done. Lucas isn’t sure he could stand up for himself, especially that all other times he was paralysed by fear. But Mika is right with one thing, he can’t go back into the closet. The way he was outed was merciless and didn’t give him a way to deny anything. He needs to find an alternative.

“I don’t like any boy,” he says, remembering that part of Mika’s speech.

Mika looks at him, perplexed. “You don’t?” Lucas shakes his head and Mika blinks in confusion before waving his hand dismissively. “That’s beyond the point. What I mean is that you don’t let them crush you. I’m not telling you everything will get great, no. But don’t make it easy for them.”

There’s a lot of truth in what Mika’s told him so far. A lot Lucas still can’t take to his heart, yet. But maybe one day he’ll be able to feel the same way. One thing that surely reached him is that despite never being a fighter, nothing can stop him from pretending.

Mika can be many things; nosy, loud, all over the place, but the way he cares and gives Lucas will to live outweighs anything else. He’s family, a family that won’t leave Lucas alone with everything that’s been going on. And even if Lucas doesn’t love himself, Mika will love him twice as much. He couldn’t have wished for more.

 ***

 Lucas hasn’t gone to school but decided to leave the flat nevertheless. To clear his mind, maybe, or just get away from these taunting four walls. It’s been a few days since he breathed some fresh air and it could help him figure some stuff out. Do things he’s been postponing for weeks.

He asked Yann to meet up with him, by the lake. He thinks that after days of silence and everything that happened, it was the right moment to talk. And Yann is his person. No matter how much love other people offer to him, no matter how magnetic his connection with Eliott is, Lucas can’t deny the fact Yann is his home and the first one he wants to see.

It’s windy outside and Lucas thinks it may start raining any time. That’s good. There aren’t many people in the park. That way Lucas won’t feel crowded.

He came early, much earlier than the time they set up. To come up with what to say, to have a moment to brace himself before seeing Yann.

To make a phonecall he couldn’t bring himself to make in the flat.

It takes three signals for his mom to pick up.

“Hello? Lucas?” she asks. Even hearing these two words makes Lucas realise how different her voice is from the last time he heard her. How much more life there is in her. His throat closes up and he can’t speak for a moment. He expects his mom to hang up, think he dialed her by accident and simply press the ending-call button. But the call is still on once he finds his breathing again, his mother patiently waiting for him on the other side.

“Hi, mom,” he finally croaks out. His leg starts involuntarily bouncing.

“Hey, honey,” she replies, her voice filled with warmth. Lucas threads his fingers through his hair, making it messy. He should have texted her, it would have been easier.

“Is it okay to call?” he asks, looking around himself as if someone was going to jump out from behind the bush and told him off for calling his mom.

“Of course. It’s been so long since I heard from you,” she says, but there’s no accusation in her voice. Lucas would be angry if he was her. Not calm or understanding.

“How are you?” he asks, bringing his hand up to his face and brushing his thumb over his bottom lip.

“I’m quite well. I’ve been into knitting lately. Helps me relax. We finally found the right medication. I’ve been going to church. You know, the usual,” she says, laughing a little. She’s so different from how he remembers her. Last time he saw her, she was barely present, she was shaky and her skin looked almost translucent. “I’ve missed you,” she admits quietly. “Your dad doesn’t talk with me much so I couldn’t find out anything from him.”

Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and grits his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says and he means it. He abandoned her for months, left her alone in the facility, fully aware his father didn’t give a fuck. He ran away from her when she needed him the most.

“Don’t be. You had the right to live. And I’m your parent, not the other way around. The situation was too much for each one of us. But don’t blame yourself, okay? I’m happy you called. That’s what matters to me. How have you been?” She’s composed for both of them and that’s what keeps Lucas grounded. He has no idea what he’d do if he had to be the comforting one again. Especially given his current situation. He really needs her right now.

“So much has happened, mom. Bad things. I’m not sure I can tell you through the phone,” he mumbles. Yann is going to come soon, he doesn’t have enough time to say half the things he wants to.

“We could meet,” she says and the breath in Lucas’ throat hitches. “Of course only if you want to. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. I know it could be too fast or–“

“No, no. We can,” Lucas cuts in. His mom sounded panicked for a second, like she overstepped the boundaries and Lucas doesn’t want her to feel that way. Not when she’s been trying so hard to reach out to him. “But there’s one condition,” he says, his voice cracking.

“Which is?” she asks hopefully. Lucas takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“If you promise you won’t hate me, I’ll meet with you.”

“Why would I hate you?” There’s confusion in her words.

He takes a deep breath and counts to ten before speaking again.

“I’m– I’m gay,” he whispers, checking once again if there’s no one else nearby. It’s the first time he said it out loud like that. His heart is pounding in his chest and his palms are sweaty. He can’t believe that in the end his voice barely broke and he was able to utter it. It feels unreal.

His mother stays quiet for a few seconds and it feels like forever before he hears her voice again.

“Lucas, you are my child. I love you no matter what. Nothing can change it. All I want for you is to be happy. I could never hate you, especially not for something like this,” she says solemnly and Lucas lets out a watery exhale.

“Really?”

“Really,” she assures him.

“But God…”

“God makes no mistakes and even if he made them, it wouldn’t be you. He loves you as much as I do, if not more,” his mom replies and Lucas snorts through his stuffed nose.

“Okay, so we can meet. But not in church,” he says and hears his mom laugh. He missed her laugh.

“Fine, but I’m not meeting you in the facility, either.”

“We will figure something out.” She hums and they stay quiet for a few seconds before Lucas registers Yann approaching the bench he’s been sitting on and sits up straighter. “I have to go, but I’ll text you, okay?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says and hangs up just as Yann sits next to him, nudging Lucas’ knee with his leg in the process.

“Hey, man. Who were you talking to?”

“My mom.”

Yann smiles slightly under his nose. “How’d it go?”

“We’re going to meet up,” Lucas replies, his eyes glued to the cut and bruise on Yann’s cheekbone. “You got hurt,” he changes the topic, frowning. He watched the clip where the boys appeared too many times not to know where this injury is from.

Yann clicks his tongue. “Not a big deal. You’ve got it worse.”

“Still. You got hurt,” Lucas mutters stubbornly, reaching his hand out. He brushes his fingers over Yann’s cheek and sees a muscle in his jaw ticking under his touch. “I’m so sorry.” He lets his eyes fall down.

“Shut up,” Yann replies, grabbing Lucas’ wrist and bringing his hand to his chest. “I’d do it again, thousand times. The same with the guys. When I saw you lying there,” he wraps his fingers around Lucas’ palm and squeezes, “for a second I thought I lost you. They were kicking you and you weren’t moving. I don’t care about the bruise. I care about you, about the fact all those people who gathered around you did nothing, about those bullies getting away with that. Which they won’t.” He turns towards Lucas. “I don’t know if you pressed charges against them, but we all did so. We went to the police, we showed our injuries and the videos people posted online. You promised we weren’t going to let it go if something else happened, so we aren’t.”

Yann drops Lucas’ hand and it falls into his lap. Yann scrubs a hand over his face.

They stay quiet, the only noise being the wind blowing around them, moving the branches and making waves in the lake. Lucas keeps staring at Yann while Yann is looking straight ahead, squinting his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this worried. And this applies to all of us. But. Lucas, you’re my best friend. You’re like a brother to me. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I hadn’t stopped them. And I know you’d do the same for me.” Lucas knows this, too. If there was someone causing Yann harm, he’d be an unstoppable force. That’s just their thing. They are protective of each other. Lucas wouldn’t mind getting a few hits if it meant Yann would be safe. So he understands what he means. But it’s not easy to ignore the guilt building up in him, anyway.

Yann got hurt because of him, that fact stands and Lucas can do nothing about it. He hates feeling so helpless. That must be what Yann was going through when he didn’t know what was going on with Lucas for all those weeks.

“Stop being sorry, stop overthinking it. If anyone should be sorry, it’s the assholes who attacked you.” Yann looks at Lucas and jerks his chin up. “How are you holding up?”

Lucas looks to the side, wets his lips with tongue and says, “Could be better.”

Yann hums. “Have you talked with any of the guys or girls?”

Lucas shakes his head. “You’re the first one,” he mumbles and Yann looks bashful for a second before composing himself.

“They all miss you and worry about you. So when you come back to school be prepared for that. Let them have it, okay? I know it may be annoying but you haven’t seen yourself.”

“I don’t know when I’ll come back. I’m scared. And at this point I’m not sure I’ll pass the year with how much I skipped,” he says, scratching the side of his neck.

“Take your time. And don’t worry, I’m sure you will pass. Don’t give up. And if someone makes things difficult for you again, we will wipe the floor with them.”

Lucas glares at Yann, but there’s no malice in it. Once he’s ready, he will get back to school and he’s going to endure his friends’ protectiveness, he will try to face the troubles that are yet to come and rebuild himself from scratch.

“Thank you. I have no idea what I’d do if not you,” Lucas admits and Yann bumps him in the shoulder with his fist.

“Stop saying that or I’ll cry,” he mutters under his breath. The corners of his lips are twitching up and Lucas can’t help but smile as well.

He throws his arm over Yann’s shoulder and brings him closer.

 ***

 Lucas is taking a nap when he’s woken up by someone loudly calling for him. That someone is Mika and Lucas leaves his bed and room only to tell him off. He’s tired and knowing Mika, it’s probably something very trivial.

While stomping towards the place Mika is screaming from, Lucas doesn’t even open his eyes, fully prepared to go back to sleep in a few minutes. He’s in his rumpled t-shirt that’s slipping off his shoulder, briefs and his feet are bare. The floor is cold and Lucas is going to murder Mika for wanting something from him.

When Lucas eventually reaches Mika, he realises they’re standing by the open door and tilts his head to the side.

“Wouldn’t you look who’s just visited us?” Mika says, wiggling his eyebrows and Lucas looks to the open door, confused. His eyes widen momentarily when he sees Eliott standing on their doorstep, looking bashful and holding up two pizza boxes.

Lucas catches his reflection in the mirror placed by the clothing hanger and is mortified by how his puffy his whole face is and every single strand of his hair is facing in the different direction. He can feel warmth climbing up his neck and reaching his face.

“I hope it’s okay to come. If not I can leave the pizzas and go,” Eliott says, looking nervous. Lucas opens his mouth to say that he’d really appreciate it, no matter how much of a prick he’d be, but Mika beats him to it.

“Nonsense, come in,” he ushers Eliott in and takes one of the boxes from him. “It’s for us, right?” Mika asks, eagerly eyeing the box.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

Mika looks meaningfully at Lucas, his lips stretched in a wide grin. “God, you’re perfect,” he says to Eliott. “Have fun!” Mika exclaims, taking his box to the living room where, going by the excited noises coming from the room, the rest of Lucas’ flatmates are.

So Lucas is left with Eliott alone, looking like death, in only an old t-shirt and boxer briefs. They are both looking everywhere but at each other and after some time it gets unbearable.

“I really can go. I don’t want to bother you,” Eliott says, shoving the pizza into Lucas’ arms. For some reason Lucas shoves the box back and they end up pushing the box between each other for a minute or so before they realise how ridiculous the situation is.

“No, come in. I have to say I wasn’t prepared, but it’s fine. Although, I’m tired of talking about what happened. So can we not?”

Eliott smiles at him and nods, his hair jumping with the movement. “Sure. We can just chill.” He shrugs. Only then does Lucas notice a tiny bruise on Eliott’s jawline and his bottom lip being split. Eliott must see him looking because he raises one of his eyebrows. “We aren’t talking about it, are we?” he teases and pushes the box against Lucas again, this time letting go of it completely. Lucas barely manages to catch it. He tries to ignore the pang of guilt when he moves towards his room.

Eliott is right behind him and that makes Lucas very much aware how underdressed he is. It’s frustrating in a way. He doesn’t want to flesh Eliott accidentally. That would only make things awkward.

Lucas locks the door to his bedroom behind them and puts the pizza on the floor. He opens one of his drawers and takes out a pair of sweatpants. While he’s pulling them on, Eliott makes himself comfortable next to the box. Lucas joins him soon enough.

“Pizza again?” he asks, opening the box. Eliott shrugs one shoulder in response.

They start eating, without exchanging many words between the bites. Before they know it, the pizza is eaten and their stomachs full. It’s silent and Lucas finds it pleasant. He likes moments like that with Eliott. He doesn’t feel pressured to say anything. It makes him appreciate what happens in this exact second. The company and the atmosphere.

Lucas slides down to the floor with an ‘oof’ and scrunches his face up. Too much movement and his body aches. He’s missing out on his healing sleep.

“What have you been up to?” Eliott asks, poking him in the shin with his foot.

“Sleeping, being sad. I called my mom. We’re meeting up next week,” he says, looking towards Eliott.

“Oh, that’s nice. I mean the last part,” he replies, rubbing the tip of his nose with his fingers. His cheeks are dusted pink. It’s probably the light.

“I told her that I’m. You know.” Lucas looks meaningfully at Eliott and gets a nod in return. “She said she loved me no matter what,” Lucas mutters, his voice airy.

“I’m happy. You deserve that.” Eliott sounds genuine, but there’s also something nervous about him. Like his head is somewhere else. Lucas cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Everything alright?” he asks and Eliott chuckles.

“Yeah. It’s nothing. Really.” He waves Lucas off. “Can I put on some music?”

“Go ahead.”

Of course, he plays dubstep. What else.

“Oh, I forgot how exquisite your taste is,” Lucas says in amusement. Eliott places a hand to his chest.

“How could you?” he asks, dramatically wiping a fake tear from under his eye.

“I thought that maybe I dreamed it.”

“I doubt your brain is capable of coming up with such excellence,” Eliott says, standing up. He shakes some invisible dust off his clothes and moves the pizza box to the side with his foot. He extends his hand towards Lucas and looks at him solemnly. “May I have this dance?”

Lucas eyes him and the palm quizzically, but eventually grabs it and lets himself be hauled up until he’s chest to chest with Eliott.

“I’m not going to start jumping to your renovation sounds,” Lucas tells him, looking him straight in the eyes. Not realising their proximity yet.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to,” Eliott says. He’s still holding Lucas’ left hand and his fingers brush the knuckles of Lucas’ right hand gently before he grabs it and puts it on his shoulder. He places his own palm on Lucas’ waist and brings their entangled hands up.

They start swaying and Lucas looks at Eliott like he’s grown a second hand.

“Are we slow dancing? To fucking dubstep?” he asks in disbelief. Eliott ducks his head.

“Yes, we are,” he replies simply and pulls Lucas closer, until they are flush against each other. Lucas yelps, but doesn’t say anything else, too baffled by what’s happening.

Lucas lets Eliott lead them around, following his steps. They move slowly enough for him not to step all over Eliott’s feet or lose breath. His ribs aren’t aching as much and at some point, he’s lulled by the rhythm so much he rests his chin on Eliott’s shoulder. He gets even closer to him, but he doesn’t make anything out of it. Surprisingly enough, he’s content. And relaxed. The dubstep is only a background noise, he’s pretty sure Eliott has his own melody playing in his mind and he makes Lucas follow it.

Lucas closes his eyes and sighs out loud.

Eliott intertwines their fingers and Lucas can feel his breath ghosting over his neck. “I have to tell you something,” Eliott murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably obvious by now, but I want to say it anyway,” he pauses and exhales loudly, making goosebumps break out over Lucas’ skin. “I like you. I’ve liked you ever since I saw you. I know my timing is awful. I know that we haven’t been friends for long, but I wanted to be honest with you,” Eliott admits, his voice strained.

Lucas opens his eyes. He can feel his heart speeding up. He misses a step.

“I know I’m putting a lot on you. I don’t… I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want things to change between us. There’s so much shit going on. So don’t say anything, okay? I just wanted to let you know.” Eliott’s grip on Lucas’ hand tightens for a moment and Lucas can feel how despite sounding calm, he’s trembling.

Lucas is still shocked by the confession, but they are friends first and foremost. Eliott is distressed. So Lucas pushes closer against him and starts rubbing circles with his thumb over his shoulder. He hopes it’s comforting.

“Is it still okay? Us, doing that?” Lucas doesn’t see a reason why it wouldn’t be. He nods. “Can we stay like this a little longer?” Eliott asks in a small voice.

Lucas squeezes his hand.

“Yeah.”

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: What do you make of Prime Minister Theresa May as her rules slowly comes to an end with the election of a new PM, probably Boris Johnson. An improvement? Will he be the one to get the UK out of Europe?

I never rated Theresa May, she was an ambitious but risk averse careerist like most of the modern Conservative Party. When she finally achieved her life time’s ambition by becoming Prime Minister, she made a mess of it.

Many years ago Enoch Powell, the great Conservative politician who was treated pariah for being so prophetic, stated the fate of all who climb the greasy pole of politics.  He said, “All political lives, unless they are cut off in midstream at a happy juncture, end in failure, because that is the nature of politics and of human affairs.”

The same fate awaits Boris Johnson.

Is Johnson an improvement? He will be if compared to May who was as about as compelling as watching paint dry.

My main objection to him is character. he doesn’t have the character to be a good Prime Minister. Like Trump he is a charlatan who is entertaining but preening with man-child issues and narcissistic entitlement.

I don’t care about his messy personal life as he bonked women half his life while cheating on all his wives. Nor do I care for the scandal of his love children outside of marriage. You can argue that this shows his true character. Perhaps. But of course, it does show his personal morality but this doesn’t actually stop him being competent at his job. The trouble is that he has never been competent in his life.

By all counts, Johnson is clever but has always been quite lazy and a low attention span to follow through on tasks. When he was Foreign Secretary he never bothered to read his briefs or dive deep into the red boxes. He’s been fired as a journalist for lying - which is pretty hard to do considering many journalists bend the truth.  To many he is an opportunistic charlatan but with the confident artifice of Eton and Oxford grooming.

But I think he might be the only one who could takes us out of the EU. Make no mistake, we do need to get out of the EU.

But on what terms? At what price?

I fear his hands are tied, just like May, by the structural challenges of leaving the EU without a deal. The Irish backstop is of course biggest spanner to a meaningful deal. The prospect of a hard border between Ireland and Northern Island is one everyone secretly dreads in terms of what it might mean to return to the dark days of sectarian Protestant-Catholic violence. Ask any seasoned military veteran of the 70s and 80s and they will tell you Northern Ireland was their worst mission or posting than any they ever did. Even today the memories are bitter ones for British soldiers.

How the Irish border question gets resolved in the face of EU insistence of no more negotiations and compromises is a severe headache once the politicians stop their posturing.

Of bigger concern is President Trump.

It may come as news to some Americans but Trump is wildly viewed as unpopular by many in Britain, regardless of political loyalties. Both left and right see his dissing of the UK and interfering in British politics as gross and uncouth.

No one trusts anything that comes out of Trump’s mouth because he is a proven serial liar. When he talks of of trade deals with the post-Brexit UK, we all know he will never seek an equitable deal but one that is about ‘America first’ and screwing us over.

In this regard I do think the encroachment of American big pharma into British health system as well as the relaxing of food quality standards (like chlorinated chicken) is setting off alarm bells because they think Johnson will be will cave and be an obedient poodle.

Johnson’s supine role in not backing the current UK ambassador to the US, Kim Darroch, is a case in point. It doesn’t look good if you are seen to being dictated to by a foreign leader if you don’t back your own foreign ministry. Nor will the British people ever forgive him if Johnson acquiesces as if he was running the 51st state for the USA. It would be simply unacceptable because we are a proud nation with a proud history. 

Surprisingly, I’m not blaming Trump because his ‘America First’ beliefs. I think that is fine for the US as that’s his job to look out for his nation first. But conversely it’s bad for us. Trump as it’s now clear only thinks of deals in zero sum terms - there is only one winner so there has to be a loser. That’s his mind set. Again, I’m not holding that against Trump because he is being true to his nature.

America First is fine as far as it goes for American interests but for us we won’t get a fair deal because as a nation just breaking away from the EU umbrella we will not have any cover nor any leverage to punch back.

A pro-Brexit friend who actually worked under a minister told me that perhaps we should stay in the EU until Trump is replaced and then cut a deal. Firstly, I think he’s dreaming as no one can predict what the outcome of 2020 will be in the US. Secondly, who is to say whoever replaces Trump might be any easier to negotiate with? Thirdly, if the longer we delay leaving the more people will get used to us staying in and then it really will be harder to leave.

The big lie is that everything will be smelling daisies the day after we leave the EU with no deal. That’s BS. I know many corporate finance firms already making contingency plans to move to Ireland. Even Jacob Rees-Mogg, the arch Brexiteer, has set up his capital finance holdings firm in Dublin. Everyone I know with any capital or wealth already have insulated themselves as best as they legally can.

At the same time, these very people are salivating at the prospect of making the UK a place where easy money and capital can come and go with little oversight or regulation. Most of these things I agree with in principle. I think the City of London would continue to remain an attractive place to do business despite being outside the EU.

However I sometimes think the City of London has got its head up its own arse and thinks more about quick short term gains and little about the long term impact of its actions. The rot is deep in our country with the continued decline of investment in manufacturing in the country and greater wealth and education gaps between people. McJobs and the gig economy are not going to restore Britian’s greatness only hasten its decline.

Of course small British businesses will be hurt in the short and medium term by a no deal Brexit but don’t forget this is what they voted for. It will be painful. But some might well think it will be a worthy sacrifice to lose jobs and business in order to rebuild properly for the long term free of Brussels and bureaucrats. But that price won’t be paid by capital holding classes.

A very wealthy high flyer working in City of London put it to me over dinner not so long ago that people think that politics is about left vs right but actually it’s about those who have wealth and those who don’t.

The trick is to vent the flames of public passions towards abstract straw men like ‘freedom’ or ‘sovereignty’ or in the US it would take the form of ‘guns’ or ‘abortion’.

People on BOTH sides of an issue expend volatile passion that they each entrench their (legitimate) grievances so deep into permanent persecution complexes. It’s further ossified by the relentless and constant echo chamber they each inhabit to reinforce their own entrenched beliefs and prejudices. So much so they forget about where the real obscene truth lies.

That this has always been a Darwinian world and there will always be winners and losers in life - there will always the rulers (oligarchies) and the ruled, the haves and the have-nots, and the rich and the poor. It’s a very cynical take on human nature and our society.

As much as I wanted to disagree with him, deep down I felt there was more than a tinge of truth to his words. It’s true. The corporate world is not personal nor is it political per se. It’s just about the making money for shareholders and to accumulate capital for the sake of it. It wields power to insulate itself from scrutiny and to have the freedom to do as it pleases. It appeals to people’s base motives at their purest - individual self-preservation. At some stage it’s going to clash with the principles and the institutions of democracy and questions of what takes precedence becomes acute. But that debate is for another day.

I still like to think we live in a world where ideas matter regardless how bare you strip life down to the bones.

In the case of Brexit, to me the sovereignty of Parliament serving at the pleasure of the Queen is paramount. It’s ruling one’s nation from first principles. If it’s your nation then you should have sovereign control over all decisions being made for its citizens. Moreover those making the decisions should be open to public scrutiny and be accountable. The nation state (under a constitutional monarchy in the case of Britain) is only accountable to its subjects and not to outsiders. All fine in theory except it’s an issue when these very elites charged with ruling over the masses have deep structural rot in them and they are just floating to get by like dead wood. Renewal and regeneration looks like a pipe dream.

I love Europe and I consider myself a proud European but I find it unacceptable to be partly ruled from a foreign capital whether it’s Brussels, Berlin, Paris, Moscow or Washington DC.

The hubris of a Franco-German led Europe is real. The EU began on a worthy premise that both France and Germany never go to war again. But it has mutated into some confederated nightmare today. The folly of its confederate policies are apparent and it will only worsen.

I doubt Boris Johnson has the political gravitas - even if he has the low cunning or the wit - to out fox other European leaders and their mad integration policies. They know him too well since he was for years a lazy and incompetent correspondent in Brussels.

It may well be Johnson is the ‘useful idiot’ Britain needs to take us out of the EU but Britain will need another leader with integrity, character and conviction to lead us to build proper alliances and repair relations with other Europeans to collectively face threats to our shared identities and nationhood.

The trouble is I don’t see that person in the current Conservative Party. But don’t take my word on this please, I have a natural allergic reaction to all politicians of all stripes.

I don’t know how things will turn out but i am beginning to be concerned that whatever path we take is going to be fraught with danger - greater incendiary issues down the road will come back to bite us up the arse. 

Thanks for your question

[thessalian]

Thess vs Entitlement

So ... thoughts on piracy ... and in a roundabout way, entitlement.

I mean, piracy is a thing that happens. It’s always going to happen. No matter what companies do, some clever little shit who is following some personal belief that “I want it but shouldn’t have to pay money for it” is valid will crack the DRM (if applicable) and dump it on a torrent site. Thing is ... the entertainment industry is shit. So there’s kind of a checklist that determines how conflicted I am about the immorality of piracy versus the protest value involved.

Is it an indie company? This mostly applies to video games, but come on. An indie company needs the money. If they’re selling on someplace like Steam and GoG, they need the visit and purchase stats to boost their visibility in intensely crowded marketplaces. If you’re pirating a game by, like, any of the subsidiaries of EA or Activision Blizzard or Take Two or whatever? I’m going to feel a little less bad about the whole concept of pirating than I would about pirating something like DARQ, which was done over a span of several months by one really decent guy and minimal help from contractors. (I mean, this game has had a significant signal boost because of the creator’s reaction to being offered an Epic exclusivity deal, but the way he responded to that offer only solidifies my determination to reward him.)

Recurrent user spending - how bad is it? I mean, it’s already pretty bad when I have more or less had to accept that most if not all games now have some form of recurrent user spending. And ‘recurrent’ does not include story expansion DLC. Story DLC isn’t recurrent spending, because you buy the individual bit of story and that’s the end of it. When I say ‘recurrent’, I mean microtransactions: in-game currencies, cosmetics, XP boosters, quality of life improvements that should be unlockable, stuff like that. Now, it’s pretty damn hard to pirate a MMO (or so I imagine, anyway, though I guess nothing’s impossible) but for single-player games? I wouldn’t blame anyone for pirating, say, Middle Earth: Shadows of War back in the days when you had to buy shit in the cash shop to continue progressing your fortress-orcs beyond a certain point.

Did it used to be on a streaming service I have a subscription to? I am likely to feel less bad if some money-grubbing entertainment media company (*coff*DISNEY*coff*) pulls a show that I was watching on, say, Netflix or Amazon to put it on their own streaming service. While I dislike the idea that viewing figures might drop on a show I like because people would prefer pirating the thing to spending obscene amounts of money on every streaming service out there, there’s not that much option. I wish this shit was more like cable / digital TV, but then we’d have to deal with adverts. And probably still have to pay a premium for the streaming services like we do for sports channels. Either way, the TV industry is made of ass.

Can I access it in my country at all? One of the dumbest holdovers from the days before the global digital revolution? Regional lockouts. There is shit I can’t watch on YouTube. There are games I can’t buy for friends because of different prices regionally. Even the streaming services get regional variations that means I won’t see the same thing as my friends in North America. (Side note: Spotify is not exempt from this, and here’s irony for you - Pop Will Eat Itself’s Dos Dedos Mis Amigos album is not available on UK Spotify. Pop Will Eat Itself, in case you aren’t familiar, is a British band.) Honestly, I have no issue with pirating something that someone cannot get any other way, particularly if it is something that they can and will get legitimately when they sort out the issue with technology, ratings systems, pricing models or whatever the hell dumbass justification people are using to deprive people outside certain regions of a thing.

Honestly, that’s most of it. Can I access it, did I used to be able to access it before someone got greedy, are they being greedy in general, and how badly do they need the money they’d lose from it being pirated? Epic Store exclusive bullshit ... well, I don’t see that as necessarily a need for piracy, at least not in the cases where there’s a time limit on the exclusivity. It not coming to your preferred storefront on date of release is not a need for piracy; it’s a need for patience. I know Epic Store is lacking a bunch of features, and pre-loading is one of them, but ... honestly, pirating would mean the exact same wait time to download as the release-date 12gb nightmare anyway.

I guess what I’m saying is that there are reasons for piracy. But the difference between a reason and an excuse is simple: ‘reason’ means “This is why I did it”, while ‘excuse’ means “This is why it’s okay that I did it”. A good reason is an excuse. Having something you loved torn from you by a company’s greed, with no hope of getting it back without effectively paying a ransom, is arguably a good reason. I’m sure companies would be screaming about customer entitlement right about now, but here’s the thing that companies forget:

Customers ARE entitled. LITERALLY. They have paid for those entitlements with MONEY.

That’s the bit that I think the corporate world is losing sight of. They give us less and less, demand more and more in return, and seem to think that we should be grateful for the privilege of being allowed to give them money. We’re apparently not entitled to quality of goods or services, a certain level of privacy and respect, care taken with our personal information, apologies when they fuck up, anything. These are things we are entitled to because we paid for it.

I think the problem is the word ‘entitled’. It’s currently seen as a loaded word, a dangerous word, an insult. The thing is, its original meaning has been twisted. Originally, it translated solely to “the fact of having a right to something” and “the amount to which a person has a right”. Unfortunately, we have now added a new twist to the definition: “the belief that one is inherently deserving of privileges and special treatment”.

Note how that changed. From fact to belief. From right to privilege. We need to think a lot harder about the words we use and what they mean.

When we talk about someone who believes that they are inherently deserving of privileges and special treatment, can we maybe avoid the term ‘entitled’? Entitled means you have a right to something. The term for someone who believes that they deserve special treatment is ‘spoiled’. As in “spoiled brat”. Let’s start using it again.

To take this back around to the original topic: no one is necessarily entitled to a game or show unless they’ve paid for it. But if someone has rendered it difficult or impossible to pay for something that they would pay for if they had the opportunity, or used to pay for but would now have to pay for again, the idea of who’s entitled to what becomes a little skewed. We are entitled to be treated fairly by companies. The fact that those companies screw consumers with impunity stands somewhere between a right (they are technically allowed to by law) and privilege (those laws or lack thereof only exist because they have poured a lot of money into ensuring that companies don’t have to account for their actions against their customer base). So if their entitlement is skewing into privilege, I don’t morally see a problem with ours skewing similarly. Just ... try to minimise the karmic backlash, okay? No one pirate DARQ. Let’s reward good behaviour.

[findmyrupertfriend]

Strange Angel - “The Fool” 

(This is a recap/review of the first episode of Strange Angel Season 2. There are spoilers, so proceed with caution!)

Season 2 begins with a celebration. Jack and the team are having a grand time, popping champagne. Nothing has changed here. Jack still has a big ego, and Richard is still a wet blanket. During the celebration, General Braxton takes Jack and the team aside, pressing them to develop an operational missile for the war. But here’s the catch - the military requires an increased security clearance. Army intelligence will conduct interviews and “dig into every aspect” of their personal lives. 

Oh hell, and here’s that damn priest using his pulpit to rail against Satan and the evil doers who live across the street and work with you on the assembly line. I guess he’s talking about Susan and Jack, as they prepare themselves for their next ascension in Thelema - basically fucking each other in front of the congregation. However, their loud and enthusiastic sex is interrupted by some other loud banging, coming from the front door of the Agape.

I was all excited, thinking it was Ernest knocking on the door, but NOOOOOOO! It’s the police and a bunch of “upstanding Christians” led by a most UNChristian man - Virgil! The Agape is being evicted by the archdiocese, who recently acquired the property. 

Jack is livid, screaming that Virgil is the one who should be arrested. And Virgil just throws it back in Susan’s face with, “See if anyone believes you.” Virgil needs to meet a most untimely and unpleasant demise so Susan can dance on that sadistic pervert’s grave. 

Next, we see Jack’s mother and another woman by the name of Mrs. Van Buren pull up to Jack and Susan’s huge mansion. Mrs.Van Buren is with the Preservation Society, who are very interested in keeping the homes in the area owned and occupied by people of a certain stature. (I see a problem in the Parsons’ future, and her name is Mrs.Van Buren.) In a private conversation, we learn that Jack’s mother is very interested in grandchildren, but Susan makes it clear she is not interested in having children. She speaks confidently and firmly about what she wants. GO SUSAN! 

Later, Jack has a bad dream - his doors are being pounded with a bright light coming through. Suddenly, the doors burst open, enveloped by a large head with red eyes. Jack awakens and writes in his journal:

“The Beast demands entry.”

The next morning, Jack and Alfred engage in a little fencing match on the luxurious grounds of Jack’s estate, while they discuss the displacement of the congregation. It’s all very decadent, this mansion, the grounds, their activities - so very different from where they were in their modest little house, asking the obscene Virgil for money to pay their mortgage. Oh, how times have changed.

As they continue debating where the Agape should move, (wait for it…) Jack offers up his new home. Susan doesn’t think it’s wise what with Patty living with them, so the conversation is tabled for the moment. However, not before Alfred tells Susan something privately. 

Alfred: “Truthfully, I’m not sure if this house is big enough for the both of us.”

AND NEXT, WE GET ERNEST!!! I must say I was very concerned we wouldn’t see Ernest in the first episode of the second season, so this is a nice surprise for me!

 Ernest disembarks from a large ship. He looks a bit gaunt and wary as hails a ride back to the Agape. He picks up the phone to request entry, but no one is there. He appears to walk away, but turns around and kicks the door open. He takes a bewildered look around. 

Now Richard entertains his mother at his home, and we learn that she disapproves of Marisol, so much so that she refuses to give Richard his grandmother’s heirloom ring for a proposal. 

Richard’s (Racist) Mother: “Your grandmother would roll over in her grave if her heirloom ring were to end up on the finger of some Mexican tart.”

OH BOY! 

Jack dreams of The Beast again and wakes up. He and Susan discuss the Agape moving in, and Susan confesses she is not just concerned about Patty. She’s concerned their marriage vows could be broken with the Agape so close by…but Jack soothes her troubles by going down on her. Their sex now is much more playful. Susan is uninhibited! 

And here’s Ernest again, breaking glass and breaking into a store. Our boy is pilfering the goods, eating and drinking what he wants when the store owner confronts him with a shotgun. This doesn’t phase Ernest. He advances slowly on the store owner, then becomes enraged, grabbing the shotgun and beating the man, before using it to destroy his surroundings. He stops suddenly, sliding his body down to the floor. Ernest’s eyes are stretched wide, looking at the flames leaping from his very own hands. He shakes some reddish-orange powder from a pouch onto his hands and inhales it. The fire is gone, and he passes out while the police siren approaches.

Ernest is later in jail, chanting in his deep, lovely voice and engraving a design of some sort onto the cell wall. Ernest: “Hadit…..Ma’bud…”

The police are a bit flummoxed by Ernest and don’t know what to make of “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” They are even more intrigued when they take a look at Ernest’s police file. It contains a note that says, “If found call V. Byrne.” 

While Ernest is tearing shit up and getting arrested, Susan welcomes Alfred and the Agape into her home. Patty looks amused by the new guests. Alfred, Joan, and Susan lay some ground rules for who gets to move into the house. Normally, Alfred alone makes that call, but Susan wants a say as well…actually, she will be Jack’s proxy. Jack’s so busy with work these days anyway. Well, right now Jack and his team are busy being interrogated by the military for their increased security clearances.

It’s clear the military intends to grill Jack and each member of his team about the activities and beliefs of the others. It’s divide and conquer time. The tenor of the interviews escalates with Jack finally telling his interrogators to “Get fucked!” 

Meanwhile, Alfred, Joan, and Susan interview and vote on a slew of eclectic and interesting congregants to move into their home. The house is full of activity as people move in. Susan finally has a discussion with Patty and sets things straight with her.

Susan: “Until you’re ready, you won’t be able to participate.” 

Of course, Patty chafes at this, but Susan continues with the ground rules: respect everyone’s privacy and stay in your bedroom during any kind of gathering. Patty definitely doesn’t like these rules, and I’m sure you know what that means…

Richard practices his proposal to Marisol on a group of women. They admire the engagement ring, which, of course, is not his grandmother’s ring. He is interrupted by a call from General Braxton. Richard warns Jack they questioned him about Thelema, and he was forced to tell them what he knows. They’re both anxious, but it turns out to be good news. Their security clearances are approved! 

Richard is elated and returns home to propose to Marisol. However, Marisol is obviously not happy. She’s speaking in Spanish to someone on the phone.

Marisol: “You are so stupid, Matias. Why would you do that? You are not a fighter, like Dad. I don’t care. I’m not going to see it. How can you keep asking me?” 

When Marisol sees Richard, she immediately hangs up the phone and won’t say who was on the other end. AWKWARD! 

Next, we see the Agape make themselves at home, holding their first gathering at the Parsons’ residence. The congregants walk in a circle holding hands while Joan chants and moves about in the middle of the group. Patty leaves her bedroom and makes a phone call to…her parents (who sleep old school in separate twin beds). Virgil picks up the phone, frantic when he hears Patty’s voice. She decides to torture him when he asks if she has decided to come home.

Patty: “No, things just got a lot more interesting around here.” 

Patty extends the receiver so Virgil can hear all the chanting. He looks positively horrified.

Patty: “I want you to close your eyes and imagine me with all of them. Does that excite you? The very thought of it?” 

Patty’s Mom is crushed, but Virgil is determined. He makes a phone call. Meanwhile, the gathering continues, and Patty glides back to her room, pleased as punch!

Ernest is still in jail, but receives a visitor - VIRGIL! Virgil explains how he hated Ernest for introducing Susan and Jack to Thelema. In the process, we learn that Ernest nearly flew the plane into Jack, but instead stole it and disappeared. So what does Virgil want? He wants to see if Ernest still hates Jack, in order to leverage that hate against Jack. What would Ernest gain in return? Well, his current troubles could be fixed. 

Ernest listens intently from his cell, inching closer and closer until he grabs Virgil through the bars and spits out:

Ernest: “Jack Parsons means nothing to me!” 

A police officer rushes over to shove a baton into Ernest’s side. He groans and loosens his hold on Virgil. Virgil is most satisfied, now that he has his answer. Ernest has that wild look in his eyes again. Next, he looks almost like he is soothing himself by touching his drawing on the wall. 

With their new security clearances, Jack and the team are privy to test footage of a missile launch stolen from the Nazis. This film could help them develop their own missile for the US. One of Jack’s interrogators later confronts him about Aleister Crowley. Crowley may be a Germany sympathizer or a double agent of some kind. Basically, Jack is expected to inform against Crowley to the military, and he agrees.

The show ends with Jack throwing a large party at his home. He eyes Patty standing upstairs, and she retreats. Jack finds Susan in another room, and he begins to recite something from their “scripture” in a dramatic fashion. He steps onto the table and points at others to continue the passage. He’s interrupted by a loud banging on the front door. 

Jack: “Isn’t everybody here already?” 

He wades through the crowd to the front door, and the banging continues…just like in his dreams. He slowly approaches the door and yanks it open.

Ernest: “Long time no see, Jack.” 

[ill-skillsgard]

Phoenix Rising, Part 4 - Valter Skarsgård

Title: Phoenix Rising

Description: The struggle for domination is paved with deceit and destructive lust as two enemies battle it out for control night after night.

Warning: 18+ swearing/mentions of rape/violence/femdom/DDLG leanings

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

My nerves were crackling like live wires when I walked into the work after having blatantly ditched Game Night. I already had my excuse picked out and ready to use for when Riley and Valter would no doubt call me out on leaving without saying anything at all. It was a fool-proof excuse and when I opened the front door with a copy of the store key that I had been entrusted with I saw two heads poke out from the back office where they hung around until it was time to open.

"Wow. So you're not dead, I see," Riley pointed out.

I gave a quick laugh and began to explain myself as they both watched me approach. Valter didn't say anything but I did feel his eyes stuck on me curiously. I couldn't help but watch his expression change when I told them my story.

"Hey, yeah... About that. I'm really sorry that happened. My sister called me and she was in a little bit of a slam. I had to go rescue her."

"I think you just didn't want to hang out in a room full of dudes," Valter interjected.

"No! It's not that. I really wanted to play with you guys. I'm telling you... My sister was on a bad date and sorry but... Family first." I lied about it so effortlessly it was almost concerning.

"She all right?" Riley asked.

"Yeah, definitely."

"You didn't return any texts or calls so I got pretty worried," Riley continued.

"Yeah, you should have seen him pacing around. He even left to go see if you had gotten hit by a car on the street or something. You gave this guy a legitimate scare!"

Riley back-handed Valter in the chest lightly. "I was just worried! I thought maybe she had gotten kidnapped!"

"Nah," Valter ran his hand through his hair and gave to me what I thought had been a wink. "She just doesn't have time for nerds like us, isn't that right Nixy?"

"Nix." I corrected him.

"Nixy is your nickname now," Valter claimed. "Nixy-cat."

I wanted to tell him that 'Nix' was already a nickname in itself but I didn't want to give away any details of myself that could potentially help him put together my identity the way I had with his. The night we had all spent playing Agents fo Carnage had been calm and I hadn't received any mildly-threatening sexual comments from Valter but I attributed that to him being surrounded by a group of other people. If it had just been us playing one on one I knew he would have kicked up the innuendo until it could be considered sexual assault.

In a way I almost missed it. I missed him calling me his pussycat and I wanted to hear him make kissing noises at me. I stood there thinking about all of the terribly inappropriate things he had said to me online and tried to picture the same words falling out of his mouth then but it was difficult. The way his big eyes shone and that innocent pout constantly adorning his face made it next to impossible for me to envision him saying anything even remotely obscene.

I knew he had it in him though and I had my sights set on making him run that mouth off like I had heard him do on AOC. I was almost giddy to start flirting with him as soon as Riley left us alone but that didn't happen as quickly as I had hoped. As soon as he opened the doors there was a line-up of customers.

It wasn't a problem to help people find what they were looking for but as soon as one person left another two showed up and by the time noon rolled around we were already knee-deep in sales. Riley was very pleased and had even joined us on the floor to help move along the constant flow of foot traffic. He was happy to see customers because it had been a dead week and we were due for some good sales.

Just before lunchtime, I was behind the counter and a man walked into the store carrying a canvas bag that was heavy with something. He hauled it up on the counter and eyed me queerly. He wasn't a very well put-together man what with his greasy unkempt hair and sores on his knuckles, arms and face. To me he looked like a textbook drug user and by the looks of his arm tracks it wasn't just light recreational use.

"You guys buy stuff here, right?" He asked.

"Yeah, sure. We buy video games and gaming accessories."

"Okay, cool. I have this game system that I pulled out of my mom's basement. She just died so... I'm going through her stuff and getting rid of some stuff. Are you interested?" He asked me.

"If you take it out I can hook it up and see if it works-"

"Oh, it works. I was just playing it."

"Didn't you say that you just pulled it out of your mom's basement?"

He nodded his head and wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. The cuff of his sleeve was grimy with snot and whatever other muck he used his clothes to wipe up. My stomach became unsettled and when he pulled the system out of the bag I immediately recoiled. It looked like it hadn't been touched in years, not only that but it was absolutely filthy; caked in dirt and filth, stinking like a relic that had been buried inside of a heavy smoker's home for the better part of a decade.

"Um, sir... I can't take this."

"What?" He said loudly. "It works! Plug it in!"

"No... It's too beat up. I can't take something in this condition. You'll have to take to take it home and clean it up before I can even entertain the idea of purchasing it from you."

"Ain't that your job, girl? Don't they pay you to do that kind of shit?" His tone took a rather snarky and my defenses rose high when I took in a deep breath.

"They pay me to buy good quality gaming gear and this is... This is garbage." I tried to explain without letting too much of my displeasure show through.

"This is fucking bullshit, you know. This is false advertising! You know I had to walk from the other side of town to get here? I ain't even got money for a cab. So you're telling me that I have to walk all the way back home to clean this, to walk all the way back up here again? And what would you even give me for it?"

"At this rate," I said through clenched teeth. "Probably nothing."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me? Do you hear the mouth on this bitch!?" The man yelled, turning toward the inside of the store where people were calmly browsing. Suddenly, from over the cabinets, I saw Valter look over. The guy was still scoffing at me and started to act a little bit more erratically. It was then I backed up from the counter and made sure to put enough distance between myself and his arms.

"You're a fucking bitch, you know that!?"

When Valter turned the corner he approached the situation with caution. "Woah... Hang on there buddy. You can't be acting like that in here."

Valter had about a foot of height on the guy and when he screwed his eyebrows together he did look intimidating. Or at least I thought he did. I had never seen a mean expression on his face before.

"This place is a fucking joke. I'm trying to make some money here and this cunt won't take my stuff!"

The mean look on Valter's face deepened entirely and he took two steps towards the man, glowering like the insides of him had suddenly caught fire. "I'll ask you once to leave now and if I have to ask you twice I promise you it's not going to be good."

By that time the scene had attracted other customers and when Riley came out and realized that there was something that had everyone's attention he rushed to the front as well. The man started shoving all of the tangled cords back into his bag while saying terrible things about me under his breath. I saw Valter's hands ball up into fists and when Riley finally arrived the guy was already on his way out.

"What was that all about? Are you guys okay?" He asked.

"Yeah," Valter sighed. "Fine. That loser was just in here calling Nix names but I told him to beat it."

Riley rose his eyebrows, "what do you mean? Why didn't you come to get me first?"

"There was no time... The guy looked like he was about to take a swing at her," Valter motioned to where I was standing clutching my own arm for comfort.

"I know but... Things could have escalated!" Riley exclaimed.

"Nothing escalated... I made sure of that," Valter assured him.

"Yeah, Riley... Seriously. The guy was starting to get aggressive."

Riley eyed Valter incredulously and then turned his gaze to me. "Well, next time one of you wants to do my job just let me know so I can take the day off!"

"Dude... It's fine. Just as long as Nix is all good,"

Riley shook his head, "You could have gotten hurt."

Valter tilted his head at me with a smirk. "Nah, that guy couldn't stand a chance against me. Right Nixy-cat?"

Where's my little pussycat hiding, hm? Come out pussycat. Daddy wants to play and by play... I mean I'm going to completely wreck you.

"I could have handled the situation myself but thanks, V."

"All right, enough standing around then. Get to it," Riley dismissed.

I stayed behind the counter and watched as Riley returned to the back office where he liked to pretend to do work and Valter wandered away but not without shooting me another tilted glance with his lips curled up in a smile. All I could picture was him with a headset on, mocking me, harassing me, saying all kinds of things that he could only get away with because he was on the other side of a screen.

There had been some opportunities for me to get a conversation in with him but truth be told, I was kind of nervous. I sat on the knowledge of him that he did not know I had until the perfect opportunity came about. It was hard not to look at him in a certain light and that light had turned a dreamy, rosy colour. Every smile he flashed, each quirk of his eyebrows, any time he subconsciously ran his hand through his hair I couldn't help but watch him whether he was across the store or right next to me.

I started to marvel at his height more and found myself picturing scenarios that were far from wholesome. Fantasizing about him at work was an activity that I looked forward to because he was right there, unknowingly adding to my repertoire of sexy little things Valter did. Out of work, I got to listen to his voice as we battled it out for fourth place on the leaderboard.

All right kitten, one more game then I have to go to bed this time. I have work in the morning.

The thrill of my strange double life was cause to wake up in the morning with a smile on my face. I opened my phone and didn't see any messages but I did scroll through some social media platforms and saw that Valter had posted a selfie that he had taken of me, himself and Riley all squished together as I held up a factory sealed copy of the first Mario Bros game. All of us had mutually shared nerdgasms when the piece came in. None of us had ever seen a sealed copy of any Mario game before so it was a cause to freak out and post about it all over our media pages.

I stared at the both of us and I recalled taking the picture. I had cozied up to him and noticed the smell of his hoodie right away and how soft the material was when he accidentally grazed my cheek. My head only just reached his chest and he had slung his arm around me with Riley right up behind us flashing a goofy smile, pointing to the video game that had had all three of us in awe.

As much as I wanted to pursue Valter, I started to get nerves about it. In my head, there was still this weird separation between him and the guy I talked to almost every night on AOC. I knew they were the same person but the way he acted to my face versus how he acted online was like two sides of a coin. On one side, Vscars was this smooth, intimidating guy that liked to flirt and say horribly inappropriate things and on the other, Valter was as sweet as could be. He was polite and good with customers and when there was nobody around in the store he made lots of jokes and had this general aura of happiness around him.

I knew what I wanted and as I laid in bed staring at the photo of us together on my phone screen, I heard my inner voice screaming at me to make it happen.

There was another Game Night scheduled. By Riley's words, he had told me that it wasn't going to be just any regular night. It was going to be held at a new board game cafe that had just opened up downtown that Kyle had gotten opening-night reservations for. All of us were invited to come to play Dungeons and Dragons and when Riley brought it up to me in front of Valter I jumped on it.

"There's only a limited amount of seats so if you say you're going to come you really have to mean it this time," Riley poked fun at me since I had skipped out last time.

"I really mean it. You're coming to, right V?" I asked him as he pulled down his hood and revealed that he had gotten a haircut.

I felt my chest constrict and my stomach spasm when I first noticed his hair was noticeably shorter than the last time I'd seen him. It was neat and extra shiny and when he quirked his eyebrows at me I felt blood rush to my groin.

"I'll go. It's a wine cafe right?"

"Yeah, they serve wine there and beer. I was just going to shotgun beers in my car before going," Riley claimed.

"Oh, I love wine. I'm so in the mood for wine and DND," I enthused, hoping Valter would share in my avidity

He cocked a smirk at me, "You're not going to get another phone call and disappear?"

"No! I promise. I'm all yours!" I vowed.

Riley and Valter cast each other quick glances. It was just enough for me to figure out that perhaps I had been a topic of another conversation. I wasn't oblivious even if I hadn't listened to them talk about my on AOC. Riley had a thing for me and it was easy to tell. I knew that something like my manager having a crush on me could turn into a potentially bad situation so I knew I had to exercise stealth when it came to how I was going to play this little game I had developed for myself.

I was running behind on Game Night and as I drove downtown, I kept getting messages in our work group chat. Riley was growing restless. Eighty-percent of the messages that came through were his only punctuated by a few snarky remarks from the others. I hoped that my presence there wasn't misinterpreted by him. I clenched my jaw as I thought of all of the different ways the evening could turn out.

Luckily, things started to go so badly that it actually worked out for me.

As soon as I had arrived they were already two glasses deep each and still setting up for the game. I looked around the cafe and marveled at what I saw. Stacks of board games piled up on tables and shelves, fan-related artwork hung up on the walls and there was a large chalkboard menu drawn above the cash register. Not only did they serve wine, they also had beer on tap and a snack menu full of shareable appetizers and baked goods. Before going to the table I ordered myself two glasses of red wine and carefully hovered over to the table they were sitting at.

"You're actually here this time!" Riley exclaimed, teeth already wearing the light purple stain of wine.

"Yeah! Now I just have to catch up with you guys."

"I saved you a seat."

Riley pulled out the only chair left and it was between him and another guy I hadn't met yet that was unironically wearing a graphic polyester shirt with Japanese letters and a crouching samurai on the back. Valter was to the right of the samurai-guy and I wasn't particularly thrilled to not be sitting beside him but I knew I had to make do with what I had. If only I hadn't taken the time to change my outfit four or five times I could have been on time to choose a seat right next to him. Nevertheless, I sat down in my spot and set my two glasses of wine on the table in front of me.

"Who are those for?" Asked Riley, leaning over and pointing at the wine sloshing around in both glasses.

"They're for me," I lifted a glass up by the stem and sipped it.

"Oh! I thought you had brought one here for me," He teased.

I laughed uneasily and was glad when the conversation was taken over by the person that had been appointed Dungeon Master. He was a skinny kid with knobby elbows and ears that stuck out beneath a haircut that his mom must have given him. Other than that, he was tall and had a strangely deep voice that was ill-suited to his thin structure. His name was Liam and he had been working on his Dungeon Master routine since elementary school, or so he told us and I wholeheartedly believed that.

The guys had a professional board that was printed out, glossy and folded up into four squares for when not in use. Most of them had little 3D figurines of their characters meticulously crafted to actually look like the classes of their choosing. There were small statuettes of dark elves, orcs, warlocks and druids, all colours of twenty-sided dice and glasses upon glasses of wine lining the table. We were no doubt the biggest group in the cafe and within the din of the music (all sci-fi movie soundtracks) our game started. I had drawn a picture of a cloaked female Cleric with two long braids and popped it into a little plastic stand to use as my character. She wasn't as cool looking as the other figures but I got compliments on my illustration job.

Even though it was probably the lamest thing to possibly do on a Friday night, I got into the game and forgot about all of the nervousness that had come with me. All of them got right into character and I followed their lead, creating a personality and voice for my character as we went along.

Once in a while, Valter would lean back in his chair and look over at me to wiggle his eyebrows and raise his glass. He must have done that about a dozen times before he actually spoke to me from behind the chair of samurai guy whose name I had found out was Sam. "You're so good at this. You should go pro," he said with a smile before he licked his lips.

"I used to play in elementary school. I had all the books and we made our own boards. I think I still have some packed away in my closet," I laughed at myself.

The night pressed on through a dark cave where most of us lost our lives to a hoard of bandits protecting treasure they had stolen. It was fun to get immersed in the game but once in a while, we would take a pause to sip our wine, some of us choosing to switch to beer. Between the group, we must have consumed nearly a bottle each and the intoxication made for some hilariously quirky moves. A couple of the guys started getting too drunk, including Riley who had insisted he could drink us all under the table.

I jumped when Riley's hand landed on the center of my back and when he drunkenly noticed how hard I flinched he recoiled as well. "Oh, sorry Nix... I didn't mean to spook ya! Are you havin' fun?"

"Yeah, Rye. So much fun and by the looks of it, you are too," I pointed out.

"What, do I look drunk?" He asked, eyes half-lidded and cheeks aflame from all the red wine.

I nodded and when he frowned I laughed, "don't worry, I probably look drunk too."

"I think the only person that looks drunker than you is Valter!" Liam said, pointing a skinny finger towards the Swede with his eyes closed.

It was true. Valter was starting to nod off and when he heard his name he snapped up and rose his eyebrow, head lolling a little to the side. "Whatchu talkin' about, Willis?"

"Uh oh, he didn't drive here, did he?" I asked.

"Nah... At least... I don't think he did. Most of us took cabs or walked."

The game didn't make it to the last call, what with some of the guys needing to make it home before it became impossible to get a cab. The city we lived in was a college town heavily rooted in the art of partying and if you waited to call for a taxi after last call you were doomed to be waiting on a street corner for at least an hour. That was when the streets and sidewalks became littered with the clubs and bars' finest patrons, decked in their best heels or overpriced basketball sneakers, flashy watches, statement bracelets and brand name nighttime attire. Fights tended to break out and cop cars roamed freely waiting for something to throw down.

We had gathered up our things and waited outside of the bar, no doubt painting the picture of a wasted band of adult nerds that had chosen to play Dungeons and Dragons over popping molly at a dance club. That was okay though. I was happy with that. I had had a lot of fun with them and had made some new friends along the way.

"Come on, Nix, you want to share my cab?" Riley asked me when a bright orange checkered taxi pulled up in front of us.

"Oh," I hesitated. "No thanks. I drove here and unlike you all... I paced myself. But I'll see you at work on Monday!"

"That's right... I gave you the weekend off, didn't I?" He reminded himself.

"Thanks again. And thanks for inviting me out! I had a lot of fun."

"No problem. We should do this again sometime. Soon! Very soon." Riley drawled.

Laughing, I pointed at his cab whose driver had rolled down the window and was peering at us impatiently. "Go on, get home safe!" I called to him.

After people had gone off by ones or twos, Valter was left behind trying to look at his phone for something. I gradually inched toward him, hoping that he would notice me and say something.

"Fuck I can't... Call a cab. Can you call me a cab Nixy? Please? I can't fuckin' do technology right now," He handed his phone over to me and I accepted with only a small amount of indecision.

I stared at his black phone screen and huffed. "I can give you a ride home."

"Oh, cool! Yeah, let's do that," his words were strung together heavily by his accent and it took a lot out of me to pretend like I wasn't blushing as we walked together to my car.

When we got in and shut the doors I could smell his usual fresh-laundry scent and prickled as I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the parking lot. I stayed focused on the road for a minute until I could get off the main street and when I turned to Valter to ask him for directions to his place I saw that he was passed out.

"Oh, no," I said to myself. "Valter? Are you awake?"

He mumbled something in Swedish and made a lame attempt at moving his hand to indicate that he was somewhat conscious.

"What's your address?" I asked him again.

"Twohundredfour."

"Two hundred and four what?"

"Let's just go to your house," He mumbled.

Again, I felt the rush of excitement pour over me like a bucket of hot water, wetting me and jolting me awake. I couldn't say anything so I bit my lip and made my way through the back streets to get home. Occasionally I would glance over at him and notice the way his bottom lip jutted out or how the light from the streetlamps made his blonde hair glisten.

It became increasingly obvious to me that Valter was far too drunk for me to justify trying to hook up with him. As much as I wanted to, my trained inner reason shouted at me that if I were to fuck him that night it would be a big mess. I was much soberer than him and when we arrived at my house I had to get out and open his door for him. He was heavily sedated by alcohol but was able to climb sloppily out of my car and throw his arm around me.

"Oh, this is nice. Where you live. So nice," he sang.

I laughed, "thanks, man. I try to do okay for myself."

I led him into my house and turned on a couple of lights. He stood there wobbling, tall and smirking like an idiot. I tried not to stare back at him but it was difficult when he was standing in the middle of my living room looking at all of my things.

"Nice headphones," he pointed at my expensive gaming headset, the one that I used to talk to him and he didn't even know it.

"Thanks," I said. "You need some water? I think you should probably have some."

"Sure," he agreed.

I filled two glasses of water and brought him one. He tipped his glass with mine and chugged it down. I watched his throat bob as he drained the glass and finished with a satisfied sigh.

"Show me your cool stuff. I want to see this infamous NES collection," he said.

"Oh... That's in my bedroom," I mentioned as if that were an inconvenience to the both of us.

Unbeknownst to him, I floated down the hallway, giddy with excitement that he was in my apartment, following me down my hallway to my bedroom. A mental round of applause was erupting in my head. When we got to my bedroom I hoped and prayed that I didn't have any stray panties laying around on the floor. I liked to keep my apartment relatively clean but living by myself had afforded me some textbook bachelorette laziness.

Once he saw my huge shelving unit stacked with game cartridges older than both of us he smiled and circled the room, reading some of the titles out loud and laughing at my large collection of Nintendo plushies.

"Do you have every amiibo ever made as well?" He asked me, poking at one of the figures collecting dust on a shelf.

"I don't think I have them all but... Pretty close."

"What a neat collection. How much do you think the NES games are worth?"

"In total? I tried calculating it once but with the values always fluctuating I would probably say at least a few thousand dollars. I could push that but... What for? I have no intention of selling it off anytime soon."

"So cool."

"Yeah."

He sat down on my bed and smiled up at me and I couldn't help but long to cup his face and kiss his luscious pink lips. He bit the inside of his cheek and reached his hand out to me. With a twisted smile, I approached him and he pulled me onto the bed beside him. He threaded his finger through the hair behind my ear and guided my face closer. When we kissed, it was slow and definitely laced with wine breath and desperation but Valter pulled back and bit down on his bottom lip.

"Nix... Nixy... I'm sorry," he apologized.

"For what?" I asked dreamily.

"I'm too wasted. I want to... Fuck. I want to do this but... I shouldn't."

"I know. I won't let you anyway because you're right. You are too drunk. I was kind of thinking that the whole time."

"Let's just sleep. Can we sleep? I'm sorry I'm a fucking wreck right now."

"Don't be sorry."

"I am though," he sighed as he laid down at the foot of my bed.

"No worries, V."

"Nixy-caaat. Nixy-cat."

I stood up and gathered an over-sized shirt from one of my drawers and a pair of loose pajama shorts to change into in the bathroom. When I got back Valter had shed his hoodie and laid on the right side of my bed, right up against the wall. He was already out, his mouth slightly open, hair falling over his closed eyes.

After turning off the lights, I climbed into bed beside him and turned to face away just so I didn't feel tempted to reach out and touch him again. He was so close and I was unsure if I would be able to fall asleep knowing that there was a foot of space between our bodies and that we had kissed. My heart hadn't stopped racing since the moment he walked through the door of my apartment and even as I laid there, painfully awake and internally screaming, I could feel the blood pumping.

It wasn't until his soft snores filled the room that I was lulled to sleep on the lip of my mattress and on the cusp of accomplishing a feat of pure sexual conquest.

[slusheeduck]

Intruder

The time has come and I can share the full one-shot I wrote for the @yoimoviezine!! Young Vitya is one of my favorite things ever, and getting to show how his relationship with Yakov might have started is something I’ve wanted to write forever, so THANK YOU ZINE FOR GIVING ME THE OPPORTUNITY TO.

               Yakov hadn’t been a young man when his life had changed. He’d just begun his descent into old age, just beginning to entertain the thought of retiring. He had plenty to show for all of his years of hard work, after all: a fruitful skating career of his own, now thirty years behind him, and reputation as a coach who put out gold medal winners. But, well, he liked his work, and he liked pushing students to be the best possible skaters they could be.

               That said, he didn’t run a charity. Even with parents offering frankly obscene amounts of money for their children to be part of his classes, even with coaches calling him begging to take their students, he had a very strict set of rules to be considered before he would even consider taking them on:

Students had to be passionate about the ice

Parents had to accept that he was the one in charge of their child while on the ice

His time was to be respected.

Rules one and two were the ones most often stumbled upon; he had no patience for lazy students or overbearing parents. The third rule, though, was never an issue. Auditions were always made via appointment, and all of Russia knew that class time was sacred. Students—and only students—were the only ones allowed in the rink at that time, and no one—not even the pushiest parent or the most hopeful coach—would dare to interrupt it.

So, when he heard an unfamiliar voice call out, “Hey! Are you Yakov Feltsman?” in the middle of warm-ups, he nearly had a heart attack.

The entire class came to an abrupt halt, the dozen Juniors staring wide-eyed at the intruder as Yakov took a moment to silently fume. There would have to be a long talk with management about the shoddy security at the rink. He took a deep breath, then turned to look at the very unwelcome arrival. A young boy leaned against the wall, skates slung over his shoulder. One smile, one head tilt, and slightly widened, bright blue eyes told Yakov what he needed to know; it wasn’t shoddy security that got this boy in. No, this was a charmer.

And Yakov hated charmers.

“This rink is—”

“I was told to come find you by my coach, Irina Mikhailova,” the boy continued blithely, as if Yakov hadn’t spoken. “She said you used to coach her, and that you could teach me more than she can. So I came here as quickly as I could.”

Yakov huffed a sharp breath through his nose, crossing his arms. “If you want to join, your pa—”

               “Oh, I have the money for it,” the boy barreled on, starting to dig in his bag. “I can actually pay for the first few classes now! And I swear I won’t complain, no matter how hard…”

               “Quiet!”

               The snap rang out through whole rink, finally quieting the boy. Yakov pinched the bridge of his nose, taking and releasing a long, slow breath as he shut his eyes. Losing his temper was bad for his blood pressure. But, hopefully, once he opened his eyes, the boy would be smart enough to leave immediately.

               He opened his eyes, and two wide blue eyes were staring right back at him. Rather than being cowed (like the rest of the class currently was), he stood strong, face set in determination and silently refusing to move.

               So he was a stubborn charmer.

               Yakov let out another huff, then pointed to the seats just off the rink. “Sit.”

               The icy determination suddenly melted away, and he eagerly dropped into a chair. He opened his mouth to speak, but Yakov held up a hand.

               “For the love of god, don’t say a word and just sit there. I’ll talk to you once class is over.”

               The boy shut his mouth, and he nodded before sitting up straight, attention raptly on the ice. Yakov rubbed his temples, then whirled around to face his students—who all quickly tried to look like they’d been warming up instead of watching to see how their coach would deal with the intruder.

               “You know what’s next! Drills! Now!” he barked.

He crossed his arms as the whole class scrambled to show that they did indeed remember that drills came next, and the class progressed as normal—with everyone, especially Yakov, doing their best to ignore their visitor.

However, despite his best efforts, Yakov’s gaze kept drifting over to the boy. He sat straight up in his seat, eyes following the other skaters through their routines. Yakov had been around long enough to know when someone was itching to skate, and it looked as though it were taking all of this boy’s self-control to keep himself from launching himself over the wall to join them.

               Well. At least the passion was there.

               The class did finally come to an end, and the students meandered off the rink. Several hung around off the ice, obviously waiting to see what would happen to the intruder, but were quickly ushered out with a hard look from their coach. Finally, when it was just him and the boy, Yakov turned to look at him. He fidgeted in his seat, excitement radiating from every inch of him as he boldly met his eyes. Yakov sighed and shook his head.

               “So. You want me to coach you?”

               “Yes! Very much!” The boy leapt up to his feet, but dropped back down as Yakov motioned for him to sit.

               “Why?”

               This question was always the hardest for potential students to answer. “Because you’re the best” was the usual response, which resulted in an automatic dismissal. “Because I want to go to the Olympics” was another common one, and usually that one resulted in continuing with the audition.  “Because my coach says I can do better, and you can help me” was the one he liked the best; almost all of those students wound up joining him.

               The boy pressed his lips together for a moment, but there was no hesitation in his eyes as he looked up at Yakov. “Because I love skating more than anything,” he said, voice steady and determined, “and I’m going to be the best skater in the whole world.”

               Well. It wasn’t often incoming students were so bold. But those that did rarely measured up to their pride.

               Time to see if this boy was any different than the others.

He nodded, then gestured to the skates sitting on the boy’s lap. “Get those on and show me what you’ve been working on. You must have at least one program ready if you’re here.”

               The boy’s face split into a wide, beaming smile, and he automatically pulled off his shoes to get his skates on. They looked well-broken-in, so that was a good sign, as was the obvious eagerness as he practically ran out onto the ice.

               “Warm up first!” Yakov barked once his blades hit the ice. The boy nodded, then easily began a few laps around the rink. While his excitement was still palpable, he was laser-focused as he did his figure-eights, a few camel turns, and his practice jumps. When he was sufficiently warmed up (Yakov had to admit, he was impressed that the boy had given himself enough time; skaters at his age were rarely so well disciplined. He’d have to call up Irinka and give her his compliments), he made his way to the center of the ice. He took a deep breath and sent a bright grin to Yakov.

               Then, with no warning, his entire demeanor changed.

               The overly-excited, impatient boy that had interrupted the lesson disappeared, and a cool, collected skater appeared as he got in position. He lifted his arm, lifted his head, then immediately sank into his routine. He glided across the ice as if he’d been born on it, twisting and banking in perfect rhythm to the music playing in his head.

               It wasn’t a perfect routine, no. His footwork was sloppy, and he touched down on a double Salchow—due to nerves, no doubt, considering he landed a triple flip with hardly a waver. But the mistakes didn’t matter, and neither did the impressive jumps. What was most important, more than anything, is that Yakov could not take his eyes off of this boy.

               His favorite students were always the ones that commanded the attention of the audience, but this wasn’t the same. This boy wasn’t demanding that you look at him; he was inviting the audience to join in his joy. Every outstretched hand, every toss of his head was a heartfelt request that just edged on desperation.

Watch me. Isn’t this fun? Enjoy what I’m doing, because it’s for you.

               Yakov had seen many, many different styles in his years of skating. But he’d never encountered anything like this. And, proud and disruptive as his introduction had been, he’d be an idiot to turn this marvel of a boy away.

               The routine drew to a close, and for a moment, the boy held his pose. He trembled, breathing hard as he stared straight up at the ceiling, then let his arm drop as he looked up at Yakov. Sweat matted his fair hair to his forehead, and his face was soft, as if he’d just woken from a dream. It took a moment before the big, bright smile was on his face again, and he skated over to meet Yakov.

               “So? How was that?” he asked breathlessly. “Was I good?”

               Yakov shook his head, pushing aside his marvel to put his best coaching face on. He crossed his arms as he looked up at the boy, face hard.

               “You do love skating.” It wasn’t a question, but the boy nodded all the same.

               “Yes. More than anything.”

               “How old are you?”

               The boy stood up straight, eyes sparkling as if that was a “yes.” “Eleven, but I’ll be twelve in December.”

               He nodded. “Good, good. That gives me enough time to polish you up before your Junior debut.” He looked up as the boy sucked in a breath, but before he could blurt out whatever gratitude was going to leave his mouth, Yakov met his gaze dead-on. “But this won’t be easy. I’m not your parent, I’m not your cheerleader. I’m going to work you harder than you’d ever thought possible. If you become my student, nothing will be more important than the ice. You need to understand that skating will be your entire life from this point on.”

               The boy blinked, blue eyes wide. After a moment, though, he did the very last thing Yakov expected—he laughed.

               “That’s not a problem,” he said breezily. “Skating’s been my entire life since I first stepped onto the ice.” That cool confidence returned as he met Yakov’s eyes, a small smile on his face. “I’ll make you proud. I promise.”

The moment broke, and he sent Yakov another wide grin as he glided over to the entrance. “So I’ll see you on Monday, Coach Yakov! That’s when your new session starts—don’t worry, I’ll remember, I have it written down on my calendar.”

               “What?” Well, the boy really had been confident that he’d get this, hadn’t he? Yakov huffed as he walked over to where he was pulling off his skates, then set his hands on his hips as he looked down at him.

               “What’s your name, malchik?” he asked as he slipped his shoes back on. “You never introduced yourself through all that.”

               The boy looked up, then gave the biggest grin he had yet. “Victor Valentinovich Nikiforov.” He tied his skates together, then tossed them over his shoulder as he lightly got up to his feet. “And that’s the last time you’ll ever need to ask.” Then, with a wave and a bright “da skorova,” he was out the doors and gone.

               Yakov lingered for a moment, staring at the door. Victor Nikiforov. In that moment, that name had the potential of belonging to the greatest skater Russia had ever seen or, possibly, the biggest pain in the neck Yakov would ever have to deal with.

               But either way, Yakov knew that this charming whirlwind of a boy—this Victor Nikiforov, who already loved the ice more than anything—had staked a claim in his life without so much as an appointment beforehand.

So now, all there was to do was to see just where this whirlwind would lead.

[zutaras-where-its-at]

Zutara Month Day 2: Hidden Identity

Summary: A ransomed noblewoman with a bark equally as bad as her bite, a cruel Captain with a shady background, a crew on the verge of mutiny, and a tired quartermaster reaching his last limits... [or, a zutara pirate au // part 1]

((Note: Yokai are strange and supernatural creatures from Japanese folklore, usually translated to mean “monster, demon, spirit, or ghost.”))

“Captain says to bring the Yokai on deck.”

Zuko barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Then go get her.”

“Says he wants you to do it.”

This time he does roll his eyes. But Captain’s orders are Captain’s orders, and it wouldn’t look good to the rest of the crew if their quartermaster showed signs of in-subordinance. Especially since their Captain was already walking on thin ice.

Zuko adjusts the sword at his side and dutifully pushes himself off of the beer barrel he had been relaxing on. Begrudgingly, he makes his way across the deck towards the captive’s cell. He is still a good fifteen feet from the iron bars when he hears her now familiar obscenities.

“—your Captain’s too much of a coward to unchain me? I guess I shouldn’t have expected more from a third-rate pirate.”

A few crew members lounge around her pit, drinking and polishing their weapons. Some of them even seem to be choking down laughter at her stupidly arrogant insults. When they see Zuko heading over, they hastily clear their throats and attempt to look busy.

“Don’t you idiots have better things to do than entertain the Yokai?” But his reprimand is half-hearted at best, more out of obligation than out of real anger.

The Yokai (as the crew had dubbed her after the first three nights witnessing her incessant verbal abuse) immediately spots his approach, and the flash of her pearly teeth almost intimidates him. He knows he’s heard her real name at some point in the last few weeks, but it slips from his memory like a wisp of smoke.

“Ah, so he’s sent his right-hand man to attend to me this time? Is this some form of dimwitted flattery?”

The urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh is overwhelming, but he simply fishes a key out of his trouser pocket and sets to work on the rusted lock.

“Nothing to say to me? What, you aren’t growing bored of your favorite prisoner, are you?”

“You’re our only prisoner.” He hoists the iron bars up and over, and they swing to the other side of the pit with a loud clang.

She grins at him and merely holds up her shackled wrists. Two crew members grip her by her upper-arms and lift her up onto the deck.

Her pale blue silk dress is covered in salt and grime that stain the expensive fabric a murky grey. Her hair has long since been ruined from its previously intricate updo and has now been messily braided into one long plait. Dirt smears across her cheeks, and her overall appearance more closely resembles a tavern prostitute than the noblewoman they had first seized. And yet, the light behind her eyes gives away no fear or weakness.

“Is that bastard you call your Captain finally going to do away with me? Perhaps make me walk the plank in some gaudy, terribly average fashion? Or maybe he’ll cut me open with his sword, so that I can be a gutless fish just like him.”

He hears a few snorts among the small crowd that has now gathered, and Zuko doesn’t even have the loyalty in him to pretend to punish them. It might be a different story had their relatively new Captain actually proven himself worthy of their support, but in the past few months since he had taken charge over them, his selfish decision-making and cruel ambition had lost him the initial respect of his crew.

Before she can hurl any more insults, the door to the Captain’s cabin is flung open.

Zhao levels a coldly furious stare at the woman before he seems to forcefully reign his temper in. A brittle smile curls his lips and he slowly paces towards her. The hair on Zuko’s neck stands slightly on end, and he doesn’t quite understand why he has the urge to step bodily between them.

“I’m afraid, my dear, that you won’t be dying today.”

“What a pity. And here I was thinking that you had finally grown yourself a set of balls.”

A muscle in Zhao’s jaw ticks, but his control remains intact. He merely keeps walking until he is towering over her. To the woman’s credit, she does not budge an inch and only tilts her head up to meet his eyes.

“Don’t be mistaken, girl. Nothing would please me more than to rid my ship of your filthy existence,” he pauses to cast a disdainful glance over her admittedly dirty form, “However, someone from your home is bound to pay a handsome price to get you back, and I do intend to collect.”

There is a second of tense silence that Zuko half-expects will end with the woman clawing at Zhao’s eyes, but she makes no such move.

Instead, a violent kind of laughter forces its way out of her mouth, and her eyes look at their Captain with mocking amusement. When she speaks, every word rolls off her tongue like she is tasting the finest wine in all the seven seas.

“All my family are dead, I have no money, and I have no friends. It looks like you’ll be waiting an awful long time before you collect anything.”

Zhao is statue-still, and Zuko is sure that this will be the final straw. But Zhao only leans the slightest bit forward so that his nose is just shy of touching the woman’s, and Zuko cannot help the rush of unease that sweeps through him.

“Your value for ransom was the only thing protecting you on my ship. But now, it looks like I’m free to collect the one thing you do have that’s still useful.”

With a final smug look, Zhao spins on his heel and disappears into his quarters, the doors shutting behind him with a click.

The crew is uncomfortably silent, and a shiver of revulsion ripples through the crowd. Zuko, not unaffected by this turn of events, suddenly realizes that he, like his crew, has grown somewhat fond of the woman’s presence over the last two weeks they’ve been imprisoning her, and Zhao’s threat is further fostering the resentment and rage he feels towards his Captain. The strength of his attachment to her catches Zuko off guard, unsettling him.

He expects the woman to be shaken by her impending doom, but when he turns to look at her, there is only calm indifference in her expression. If he didn’t know any better, he would almost say that there is a glint of calculated anticipation in her eyes as she is led back to her pit.

It is not until later that night that he understands why.

Zuko is in the middle of recording inventory of their food rations when Zhao enters the ship’s hold. He spares the Captain a short glance before continuing to shuffle through the heavy crates of meat and beer.

“Quartermaster.”

“Captain?”

“When you’re finished here, bring that bitch up to my cabin.”

Zuko’s hands freeze over a loaf of moldy bread. He can feel his pulse picking up underneath the thin skin of his neck and he turns to eye the Captain’s weathered face. The self-satisfaction that he sees there pulls Zuko’s lips into a grimace.

“That might not be entirely wise, Captain. The crew’s grown to fancy her quite a bit. Maybe even more than they fancy you at the moment.” There’s a hard edge to his voice that wipes the smirk from Zhao’s face.

“Is that a threat?”

Zuko subtly wraps his left hand around the dagger at his side. “Just telling you how it is, Captain.”

An ugly sneer twists the older man’s features. “I always knew you were a bastard, but I never took you to be a traitor as well. I’m not asking again, Quartermaster. If she’s going to be eating up our reserves, she might as well make herself useful and spread her fucking legs.”

It’s almost enough to burst what little self-control Zuko still possesses, but Zhao doesn’t wait for a reply and he’s gone before Zuko can put intent to action.

[thetourguidebarbie]

Written for @itsnotacrimetoloveyou and @arrenemris , inspired by this incorrect klaroline quote. I hope you enjoy!

Klaus watched Caroline out of the corner of his eye as she talked animatedly with the Bennett witch (now vampire) about a television show that they were both watching. They were having brunch at an exclusive New York restaurant that Caroline liked, and Klaus was content to people watch and pretend not to notice Caroline sneaking bites of his omelette as he drank his coffee.

It was their first time in the United States as a couple, though they’d visited various cities during the short time that Caroline had spent with him every decade or so testing the waters. He had been content to wait for her to make up her mind, knowing it was only a matter of time, and when she finally showed up at his door tentatively suggesting they ‘try’ with a sunny smile that would have hid her insecurities if he hadn’t known her so well, he’d done his best to make her want to stay.

They were six months in and it was working out well so far. He didn’t think he’d been happier for as long as he could remember.

He watched her tongue dart over her lips before she took another sip of her mimosa, giving him a bright smile when she saw him looking and grabbing his hand under the table, squeezing it gently. “Sorry, I know we’re kind of going on about this.”

“Caroline, you could read the phone book and it would entrance me,” Bonnie drawled in an admittedly impressive imitation of his accent, and Caroline laughed, taking another sip of her mimosa.

“It’s okay. It goes both ways.”

“You do like the accent,” Klaus drawled, and Caroline nodded solemnly.

“I do.”

“I’m going to run to the restroom before this gets mushy,” Bonnie announced, setting down her napkin. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, Bon! Anyway, we should talk about what we’re going to--”

“Caroline!” a smooth voice interrupted from behind them, and he felt Caroline stiffen beside him, turning around to face the stranger. Klaus followed her line of vision to see a man just a bit taller than him but with a stockier build looking at Caroline with a warmth that Klaus didn’t like being directed at her by anyone but him.

“Hi Brian,” Caroline said, her voice a bit higher than usual, and she glanced at Klaus almost nervously, moving a bit closer to him. Was she scared? Did she feel threatened?

“How are you?”

“I’m good. You?”

There was something awkward in the way she was sitting, the way she was holding herself, and she nodded along with whatever Brian was saying before tangling her fingers with Klaus’s more firmly and nodding to him.

“This is Klaus. My... Klaus.”

Brian’s eyebrows flew up. “Your Klaus?”

Caroline’s eyes widened. “Not like that! I mean...” she glanced at him as he tried to mask the hurt from her words, and she looked a bit flustered. “I mean, yes like that, but not like that. He’s my boyfriend.”

He would have grimaced at the word if Caroline didn’t look so shaken and nervous. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” she said, giving him an affectionate look that he’d come to treasure as his. “I’m good. Brian and I were--”

“We were together at one point,” Brian interrupted, sending Caroline an understanding look. “I didn’t expect to run into you so I thought I’d say hello. I’m happy you’re doing well.”

Caroline gave him a smile that seemed nostalgic more than anything else, and Klaus felt his heart lighten when he realized that she didn’t have feelings for whoever this man was. She’d most likely just been nervous about his reaction.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Caroline turning to look at him and starting to talk. “That wasn’t what it looked like, I promise. I have like, zero feelings for him, okay? I was just surprised.”

He brushed off her reassurances, more concerned about how spooked she seemed to be. “Are you all right?” he asked hesitantly, searching her face for any kind of discomfort. “Did he hurt you?”

“No!” she said quickly, taking a breath as though she were about to say something else but seemed to think better of it. “It’s nothing like that.”

He studied her expression, trying to detect any hint of discomfort, but she didn’t elaborate, just spearing one of his breakfast potatoes on her fork and sticking it in her mouth, laying her head on his shoulder briefly as though trying to reassure him.

“We should pay and leave when Bon gets back. We want to go shopping.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, absently waving the waiter over to ask for the check, still mulling over Caroline’s reaction to this Brian fellow. Bonnie returned just moments later, and they were soon off to wander around downtown.

Caroline had been armed with a credit card linked to his accounts the moment she’d pursed her lips at the price tag of a dress in Milan, clearly doing some sort of mental calculation, and had proceeded to spend what an average person would have considered to be an obscene amount of money on clothes.

He didn’t mind, pleased that she was taking the opportunity to stock the closets at all of his properties with weather-appropriate attire, even the ones she had yet to set foot in. She was pointedly marking her place in his life and home, and he enjoyed her going out of her way to stake her claim. They walked out of a high end department store a few hours later, both women laden with shopping bags.

“I have to head back to my place,” Bonnie said apologetically as they approached where their SUV was parked, officers compelled to leave them alone if they ever approached to give tickets. “Enzo’s flight will comr in an hour, so I need to get this stuff put away before I pick him up. We’re still on for tonight though, right?”

“Of course!” Caroline said, pulling her friend into a hug that was slightly awkward due to the abundance of shopping bags. “I’m sure Klaus can entertain himself for a few hours.”

“What’s that, love?”

“Enzo, Bon and I go out to this bar whenever I’m in town,” Caroline said, squeezing his hand. “You can come if you want, but I don’t think it’s your thing.”

Klaus raised an eyebrow and she grinned. “Karaoke.”

He tried his best not to show his distaste and realized that he probably failed when she couldn’t restrain a snort of laughter. “I’m sure I have work to catch up on,” he said, knowing disdain was creeping into his tone but not trying to push it down.

“I’m sure,” she said, exchanging an amused look with Bonnie.

“I should flag down a cab—“

“Josh will see you home, Bonnie,” Klaus interrupted, the witch’s first name still feeling a bit odd falling off of his tongue. “Caroline, let’s give your bags to him as well. He can put them away at the penthouse while I steal you away for an early dinner.”

He realized that his words might have come off as a bit more commanding than he’d meant when Bonnie’s spine straightened, her lips pursed. “Do you usually order her around like that?”

“Only when I’m naked,” Caroline said without missing a beat. Bonnie’s groan was luckily louder than Klaus��s embarrassingly audible swallow, his head turning to look at Caroline, who seemed a bit sadistically pleased with her friend’s reaction, though a light flush creeped up her cheeks when she turned and caught his eye.

He didn’t quite dare to hope that she was serious, but he couldn’t help but let his tongue dart over his lips at the image her words had pulled up.

He’d been doing his best to give Caroline time to adjust to their new relationship. Though a century wasn’t exactly young, she’d seemed a bit hesitant to be upfront about what she might want to experiment with, and he suspected that she was intimidated by his age and her perception of his experience.

He’d kept an eye out for little tells as he became reacquainted with the pretty sounds she made when he touched her and the flush of her cheeks when he spoke, looking for hints as to what he might be able to coax her into trying first. She’d said once off-handedly that his possessiveness was hot in bed and she liked dirty talk but she’d really prefer that no one died because they looked in her direction. He’d remembered that, stored it away for future use, and it had only fueled his desire to tempt her into fulfilling some of his more salacious desires.

He’d had so many fantasies of things they could try over the years. He longed to tie her up and tease her until she begged, had more than a few elaborate fantasies involving her mercilessly baiting him followed by him bending her over the desk in his study and spanking her until she was dripping wet and gasping.

He kept his eyes on her as they walked downtown to one of her favorite restaurants, and though their conversation bounced around different topics easily, he could tell that she was trying to talk herself into saying something specific.

“All right, sweetheart?” he asked during a lull in their conversation as they waited for a stoplight to cross the street.

She bit her lip, glancing at him through her eyelashes before looking away and taking a deep breath. “Can we maybe go back to the penthouse? Order in?”

“Of course,” he found himself saying without a thought, pressing his palm to the small of her back and steering her down the street, watching her carefully for any sign of discomfort.

She was quiet for the rest of the walk, and he let her gather her thoughts. The second the door to the penthouse shut behind them, Caroline took a deep breath and let it out, looking him squarely in the eye. “Brian was my Dom. We were play-partners for four years.”

Klaus raised his eyebrows, breathing in sharply. He was admittedly a little jealous that she’d explored that sort of thing with another man before him, and for so long, but it had been a century, and he couldn’t deny that he was pleased she wouldn’t have to be eased into it as he’d previously thought. She seemed to only be able to read the first half of that on his face though, and she took a deep breath before more words spilled out in a rush. “It was just physical. It didn’t mean any—Well, it did mean something then, but it doesn’t now. He lives in New York and usually I text to have coffee or whatever when I pass through, so I think he was just curious about why I—non-sexual coffee, obviously—anyway I think he just thought I was mad or something. I just didn’t want...I was worried you’d...” she trailed off.

“Be jealous?”

She snorted. “No, I knew you’d be jealous. I guess it’s kind of stupid, but I was scared you’d judge me?”

“Judge you?” he asked softly, noting the way her spine straightened slightly at the tone. “Quite the contrary, sweetheart.”

She frowned. “Then why wouldn’t you say—“

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” Klaus admitted, a thousand plans and scenarios hatching in his mind about what he could do with the information he’d just gotten.

“Scare me off?” Caroline asked, raising her eyebrows. “Klaus, I’m a hundred and twenty-three. Even if I wasn’t into it I’d just talk to you like an adult. Do you really think I’d bail on you because you had a kink?”

“Do you think I’d ‘bail on’ you?” he shot back, and she pressed her lips together, clearly uncomfortable.

“It’s different,” she said finally. “With me, I mean.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate, and she sighed, looking out the window, unable to meet his eyes. “You’re just like...Everything we do is super hot, obviously. Like, you’re so good at dirty talk and you make me feel sexy, you know? But you’re so old and experienced and I figured that if it was something you wanted you would have told me.”

“Caroline,” he began, trying to gather his thoughts. “There’s truly nothing you could tell me that would make me want you less. No fantasy or wish that’s too sinful or salacious. I never want you to worry that you’re not enough or not who I want, because I’ve truly never wanted anyone the way I do you.”

“But you might get tired of me or change your--”

“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he said firmly, fighting down the small smile at the way her eyes snapped up to meet his at the tone, the way her breath caught. “I’ve waited a century for you, and I think we both know that I’d have waited longer.”

“Waiting for the idea of being with me is different than the real thing,” she insisted.

“Caroline, I want you,” he said simply, searching her face, trying to find the words that would convince her of what seemed so obvious to him. “I always will. I’m quite honestly more nervous that I’ll do something terrible and drive you away than at the slim possibility of falling out of love with you. If anyone should be terrified of being left behind, it’s me.”

She gave him a look that said clearly that she didn’t agree but seemed to decide to save the argument for another day, giving him a small smile and kissing him softly before resting her head on his shoulder, her face buried in his neck as they laced their fingers together. “I love you,” she said quietly. “I love you and I want you.”

“And I, you my love.”

He felt her lips move as she smiled against his skin, her lips brushing over his jugular before she pulled back to look at him, her eyes darkened with want. “So, just to be clear, you’re into it? The BDSM thing?”

“More than,” he murmured, cupping her cheek and smiling when she leaned into his touch. “There’s nothing I’d like more than for you to trust me enough to give yourself to me. To let me control your pleasure and your time. I want your loyalty and your love, and you putting your faith in me to take control is one of the best gifts you could bestow upon me.”

She laughed quietly, her hands sliding up his chest to fiddle with the buttons on the collar of his henley. “I trust you,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his. “What do you want me to call you? In play, I mean?”

He mulled it over for a moment, fiddling with the ends of her hair with the hand that wasn’t occupied with stroking the soft skin of her cheek. He liked ‘Master’, wanted nothing more than to hear it fall from her lips with a soft sigh as he brought her to the edge and let her pleasure linger there, his to bestow. Then again, he would also enjoy hearing the reverence in her voice when she said his name, the syllables hard and desperate and gritted between her teeth, the ‘s’ a soft hiss between her ‘please’s as she squirmed against his body, begging for release.

“Master,” he settled on after a moment. “Though I might change my mind. Safeword?”

“Hummingbird,” she said immediately, grinning at his raised eyebrow. “You have no idea how many dirty dreams I’ve had about this. I have spent a crazy long time planning super elaborate fantasies about all the things I want.”

“You’ll have to tell me about them,” he said quietly, leaning forward to catch her lips with his, savoring the taste of her, the soft sigh she gave him when he pulled away. “All of them. Perhaps if you’re a good girl for me I’ll indulge you.”

He saw her pupils dilate slightly, a shiver running down her spine as her tongue darted over her lips to wet them.

“Yes, Master.”

[elftwink]

i don’t see the appeal of worth it im always too thrown by how much money is being spent and i know in my heart that people are buying expensive ass shit all the time and i’m also not going to pretend i’m always practical with the things i spend my money on but the sheer spectacle of it all is just too much. the very concept is just a way to brag about how much money you have to spend on these wildly overpriced items and even though the hosts seem like fine dudes and it’s not like they’re the most exorbitantly overpaid people on youtube ever it’s just like.... why is this entertainment. like what am i supposed to get from this? whether the item is worth it or not, it’s just a display of wealth. and it’s one thing when prices run high for the items in general (like it’s not obscene to spend a couple hundred dollars on a tattoo), but there are some items that even if it’s actually the best thing in the whole world, it’s still too much money to spend on that thing

like you don’t buy a thousand dollar pizza because it’s good. you buy it because you’re proving that you have $1k to spend on pizza.

idk this isn’t a moral judgement of anyone working on that show and like i said rich people behave like this all the time or else why would there be a market for morbidly expensive versions of every day items that are gold-covered or whatever but i just find it absolutely buckwild that it’s gotten to a point that displays of excess wealth are in and of themselves sold to us in this way. it feels like it should be satire but it really is just Like That