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wildlyglittering · 3 years

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Good at Starting Fires

I really hated the overly sexualised way that Cassian looked at Nesta in ACOSAF and ACOSF when he commented on her drastic weight loss. Instead of being concerned that she was losing weight at a drastic pace he was more 'boobs man, great they're still there' and it wound me up no end.

I was sent a prompt by an anon that said 'angsty Nessian set in the Illyrian camp where Cassian sees Nesta in her underwear for the first time' and I found that I wanted to try and right that 'wrong' in relation to the above. Probably not quite what the requestor had in mind but hey ho.

Some mention of weight loss and concerns surrounding it.

***

The rain lashed onto Cassian’s exposed skin.

The deluge hadn’t turned into a full storm quite yet but still, this was the worst weather he had seen in a long while, the wind barrelling into him warranting his full concentration in order to continue to fly upright.

Cassian would have chanced some different manoeuvres to make flight easier but he wasn’t flying alone.

The female in his arms had said nothing to him since they left the ground, perhaps planning to ignore him for the remainder of their eternal lives. Cassian would usually provoke her into retaliating against some jibe but tonight, with thick darkness surrounding them and the harsh pelt of the cold rain against their skin, goading wasn’t suitable.

Instead, Cassian flew through the onslaught, clutching onto a shivering Nesta.

They’d exited the river house in silence. Cassian thought she would fight the decision, fight Feyre, fight him, but she hadn’t. Her lips pursed together with her spine rigid and shoulders defiant; a stubborn refusal to give any indication of defeat.

Nesta hadn’t looked at any of them, or spoken either, instead turning with clenched fists to walk out the door she’d walked in from.

“Bye then,” taunted Rhys from his place by the fireplace.

A sharp rebuke came from Feyre while Cassian rubbed his hands over his face before glaring at his High Lord. His next action was to move fast to follow Nesta.

Feyre had been on his heels but if Nesta wanted nothing to do with him she wanted less to do with her sister. Cassian reached her first and Nesta stared at him with cold eyes. “We go now,” she demanded through gritted teeth.

“Nesta!” Feyre called out from behind, half running towards them.

“Now,” she demanded again her voice thick and trembling.

For a moment it seemed like Feyre was going to shift into her wings and fly after them but maybe there was something in his expression, or Nesta’s, which stopped her.

Nesta had clung to his neck the way a child clung to their mother but he got the impression she really wanted to use her hands on his throat in a different way. The rain followed them from Velaris to the mountains; Nesta spending the entire flight with her face buried into his shoulder.

Cassian would pretend along with her that it was only raindrops falling onto her cheeks.

If the betrayal had cut her, she’d resolutely decided to not let the wound show. She’d been cornered like a wild creature by one sister and the other, the one Nesta adored with the fullness of her heart, hadn’t shown to say anything at all.

When they arrived at the cabin it was Cassian’s pity for her which made him absorb the spite spilling from her lips. The force of his landing caused mud to splash up their legs and Nesta pulled away from him the second her feet hit the dirt.

Despite the rain and with dripping hair and sodden clothes she was beautiful. The words from her mouth, decidedly not so.

“Pathetic,” she hissed at him over the roar of the thundering rain and he somehow understood her meaning underneath – how Cassian was a grovelling sycophant to his High Lord who would never place a wing out of line and never fight back.

Nesta spoke with fists clenched at her sides. Cassian wondered if there was a part of her that wanted to strike him and he wondered if there was a part of him that would let her. She turned away, her back as rigid as before, every bump of bone showing through the fabric.

Cassian frowned. The dress was drenched, clinging to her flesh in a way it hadn’t when dry, illuminating what the material would otherwise hide.

He shouldn’t have been able to see the sharpness of her spine.

“Do we have a place to go or are you reducing me to sleeping in the mud?”

Those words were small, sharp cuts which stung though Nesta had no knowledge of how Cassian’s nights as a youth were spent doing just that, with the smell of putrefying leaves on his skin and clumps of dirt under his nails.

“Well?” she snapped, turning her head to glare at him from the corner of her eye. This was a glance which said he was beneath her, that she didn’t need to turn to address him, that the sight of him offended her glorious eyes.

What Cassian saw painted a different picture; tinged pink eyes, and a red nose. The skin around her eyelids swollen.

He let the stings dissipate. Nesta had been thrown from one world into another and from that one into something new. He would hold his tongue.

“This way, sweetheart.” Well, to an extent.

They trudged across the mud, Cassian’s feet sinking into the earth as he overtook Nesta to show her the way and he didn’t bother glancing behind him to see if she followed. She had no choice, there was nowhere else for her to go.

Rain had seeped into Cassian’s clothes, his skin damp and his wet hair dripped water down the back of the neck. He was feeling wet and miserable and wondered how worse this was for Nesta in her heavy woollen dress.

His siphons emitted a soft red glow and that was all there was; them, the rain and the glow in the darkness. Not even the moon greeted them.

***

The cabin was a welcome sight.

Their belongings were there, mostly Cassian’s with some provisions Feyre had arranged for Nesta. The door creaked on the hinges as Cassian stepped into familiar, if slightly musty, surroundings.

A perfume of earth and open skies lay underneath the dust and he inhaled the scent through his nose and into his lungs. He hadn’t been here in so long with wars and commitments keeping him far away; but if Velaris was his home, this place was his sanctuary.

There was a shuffling behind him and for a moment, lost in euphoria, Cassian forgot he wasn’t alone.

Nesta stood in the entrance, surveying her new domain. Her wet hair had unravelled from her coronet braid and tendrils clung onto the side of her face. A fat raindrop travelled from her temple past her cheek and hung from her jaw before finally dripping onto her collar.

Cassian frowned again.

Nesta’s dress buttons had popped open in the flight and he saw her neck and collar bone, a strange sharpness protruding from the stark white of her skin. Shadows, he told himself, from the candle that had flamed into life. They cast shapes and make everything harsh.

Nesta’s fists were now balled into her gown as a puddle grew around her. If she noticed Cassian’s gaze she never let on and continued to sweep her eyes around the room with a bored detachment.

“This is it,” she said, “my prison for the indefinite future.” Her lips curled into a sneer. “If Feyre was going to keep me caged she should have at least made a gilded one.”

Yes, he wanted to say, because your residence was so lavish.

“Move,” but Nesta didn’t wait for Cassian to step aside before pushing past him, head high and eyes forward. She stopped in the living room, her head turning left to right as she took in more of her surroundings. Her face gave nothing away as she scrutinised the spacious open living space which branched into the enclosed kitchen.

Cassian shook his head and ground his teeth as he closed the door behind her, the wind bringing sheets of rain into the cabin. A trail of water led across the floor to where Nesta stood.

The middle of the cabin was lighter, framed by the multiple fae lights and candles, and Cassian saw so much more. Nesta’s skin was white all over but her pale hands had red, cracked knuckles and dark circles like old bruises hung underneath her eyes. A shudder rippled through her.

Rain smashed against the window panes and Cassian looked to the vast inglenook fireplace which took over one full side of the cabin.

The hearth was filled with grey ash and lumps of half burnt wood and the basket aside the fireplace held strips for kindling. There were no pieces sizable enough to get a full fire going and getting a fire burning was exactly what they needed.

“Upstairs and to the left,” he said and Nesta turned to him. “That’s where your room will be. Mine’s next to it, same side. Both will warm up quick when the fire’s lit as the floorboards heat too.” Cassian jerked his head to the stairs, “Go and get changed, I’ll grab wood for the fire.”

Her face, one of permanent indifference and as smooth as porcelain, changed. The expression lasted only seconds before Nesta schooled it into something passing for neutral.

“Fine, I shouldn’t have expected you to be prepared.”

She stormed past him, leaving enough space so not a single part of them touched, not her dress brushing against his leathers – nothing.

Cassian waited until she’d gone before releasing a sigh. He hadn’t imagined what he saw; her eyes wide in alarm, flickering to the fireplace and back, a jerk of her body like someone had slapped her with the palm of their hand.

He’d best watch for that again.

***

A sandstone path ran down the left side of the cabin which wound around a small vegetable patch, a smaller pool and down into the sloped garden. At the very bottom was an alcove of trees and the shed containing Cassian’s axe, a chopping block and, if he was lucky, some pre-cut pieces.

Through the haze of rain, the distant lights of a camp flickered beyond. Cassian was fortunate to have this place for himself, not that he didn’t reside in the centre of camp on occasion to make his presence known, but this was his slice of comfort in the otherwise endless trudge.

Now, this place was also hers, for however long deemed necessary.

The rain bounced off the paving slabs as he approached his destination. The shed was old but well-kept and thankfully, stocked with thick slabs of timber.

“Thank you, old friend,” he said with a hand to one of the trees. They were fast growing and long burning, a house warming gift from Rhys half a century prior.

Cassian gathered what he needed and turned back, the cabin an angular silhouette outlined upon the backdrop of the night sky, the mountains looming some distance away. The candles and fae lights had lit the building up from within and shone through the dark at every window.

He was halfway up the path when he noticed how bright they lit Nesta’s new room.

Cassian had never been concerned with decoration, shoving a blanket onto a bed and gossamer curtains onto the window had been enough, but now he realised how thin those curtains were, how visible the room was from the outside.

Nesta wouldn’t be able to see him, not with his leathers black against the night, but he saw everything as though she stood before him in the flesh.

She’d untied the laces that bound the stays of her dress and Cassian imagined the wet thud as it fell to the floor.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wanted Nesta in front of him, unrobing for him, those long, graceful fingers sliding up her collarbone and dipping down towards the ribbons of her bodice. In his dreams he would help her, his thick fingers weaving into hers, pulling at the material until it gave way to pools of silk and satin on the ground.

Imagination gave him options.

Maybe she would have been naked, with expanses of creamy skin readily available for his viewing or maybe there would have been a delicate piece of chiffon covering her like there was now, something flimsy for him to move aside.

He would have started by kneeling. His fingertips would trace the skin of her ankles before moving upwards to her calves, her knees and to her thighs which he would have kissed until she was breathless. Finally, he would have travelled upwards with his mouth, towards the apex.

This was his fantasy. Smoothing his palms over her curves, travelling up the cord of her spine, his tongue sliding over her skin, teasing with his teeth and all the while her breath would turn into pants, his name a prayer in her mouth.

This was a dream. Nothing more.

He stood alone in the dark, pounding heartbeat thundering in his ears and pouring rain saturating his hair as he spied on a female he now never hoped to hold.

By the Mother though, her body was far from what his mind had conjured and his heartbeat turned into a pain sinking between his ribs.

He’d thought he’d seen glimpses but here was the truth.

Her collarbone jutted out severely while her breasts and curves of her buttocks shrunk as her starved body ate away at whatever flesh it found. Nesta’s ribs - Cauldron her ribs – Cassian was able to count every one, the indents of her bone visible as though her skin was the thinnest paper. When she turned, he saw the same with the column of her spine.

He swallowed the lump in his throat down, a sting in his eyes that was nothing to do with the chilled wind.

***

Inside the cabin, Cassian dried out the wood and lit the fire, the red and orange flames dancing in the hearth.

Nesta might not eat but he would try and convince her, starting with something simple and small which would fill her but not make her sick. Shoving a plate of meat in front of her face was a bad idea so he decided on a light broth consisting of flavoured water and leafy vegetables and herbs grown from his garden.

Cassian was surprised she came when he called her down but was pleased when she did. Nesta stepped along the floor with bare feet, a new gown just as thick as the last covering the bones of her body.

She stayed close to the wall when she passed through the living space, the fire cracking and snapping opposite and she eyed the flames as though they would reach across the room and snatch her.

Cassian wasn’t sure where this fear had come from, tried to dredge any memory of where they’d faced fire and came up wanting. He’d ask her – not now – but when they’d reached a point of peace.

Still, she walked toward him, her throat moving as she swallowed fast.

“I’ve made us dinner,” and he gestured to the two watery bowls in front of him. Opposite each other. Face to face. Her eyes narrowed but she sat, suspicion on her face.

“What is this slop?”

He took a deep breath. Imagined her words as darts and his skin as impenetrable armour.

“An Illyrian broth; vegetables, herbs, some spices and the thinnest slices of poultry you’ll ever find.”

“It looks revolting.”

A muscle twitched in Cassian’s jaw. The dish was plain, colourless and watery but was filled with flavour and had what Nesta needed nutritionally.

He would refrain from telling her this was the staple of Illyrian’s recovering from sickness or injury, that he’d spooned this liquid into the dribbling mouths of multitudes of his brethren over the years and how he wasn’t above doing the same to her.

“Try it,” was all he said. “You might like it.”

“Doubtful.”

But she picked up the spoon, a tremor in her hand. Fear, withdrawal, or exhaustion he didn’t know. Maybe all three. Maybe rage.

Nesta bent her head forward, bringing the spoon to her lips and as she did, her dress, far too large for her frame gaped at the collar once again showing Cassian the sharpness of the bone under her skin.

Something sat heavy in his stomach, something like guilt and shame. He’d once thought of her as sharp tongued and soft curves, his mouth watering at the promise of the swell of her breasts and the shape of her backside.

His thoughts had been occupied with images of grabbing her with his hands, fingers digging into the folds of her flesh while they pounded the force of their desires onto each other. Nesta was no less beautiful now but when he thought of her body, thought of what he knew, he considered differently as to what his body would do with hers.

His fingers would likely bruise her, leaving crescent moons into her skin and the bones of her spine would be obvious to his gaze. Now, he wanted to use his build to hover over her, to envelop her with his wings and cradle the back of her skull with the palm of one hand and cup her cheek with the other.

Cassian needed to make this situation right but he didn’t know where to start other than this meagre offering of broth.

Nesta ate two spoons, possibly three, but at least she ate, her eyes fluttering closed as she savoured her meal, the shadows of her eyelashes playing on her cheekbones. He smiled at her enjoyment, however brief, feeling his heart soar.

Nesta opened her eyes and looked straight at him. Cassian dropped his smile and her eyes narrowed.

I’m happy you like the broth, he wanted to say, however little you take. I’m happy you tried. I think you’re dying. I don’t want you to die. I want you to want to live.

A log fell in the hearth and banged against the grate, popping into the air and Nesta flinched, her eyes snapping towards the sound.

The flames seemed to hypnotise her as they whirled among the wood, consuming what they needed in order to grow. Wherever she was in that moment she wasn’t in the room with him.

The moment passed and Nesta snapped her head back to Cassian, slamming the spoon into the bowl.

“I’m not here for your entertainment.”

“I know that.”

“Then stop staring at me like I’m a festival showpiece.”

Cassian frowned, “I wasn’t staring.”

“Tell your gawping eyes that.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched again. He was exhausted, not only from the long day but from arguing with Rhys about the plan, and from convincing Feyre that he and Nesta would be fine. His blood, already on the rise, had gained extra heat when Amren made her parting comment to him and all this was before he began flying.

“I wasn’t staring,” he repeated, “believe me when I say there’s nothing worth looking at.”

His temper was still hot, irritation singing a song in his veins and this was default for him, the well-travelled road to flinging insults.

It was a road Nesta travelled herself.

“Well, believe me when I say that even if I’m nothing I’m still worth twice of you, bastard.”

“You’ve been exiled to the camps so that’s not what your sister thinks. Either of them.” He gestured around with his hand, “Do you see Elain begging to be let in the door?”

Nesta’s nostrils flared, her hands now clenched into two fists, those red cracked knuckles on display.

“Well, this shows what your ‘friends’ think of you, if I’m worth little to nothing in their eyes and they have you taking care of me?”

“You should be thankful, sweetheart. No one else volunteered to listen to your temper tantrums.”

“Let me ease your burden then.” She stood, jolting the table and the bowl moved, spilling liquid over the side. “I would hate to bore you with one of my childish tantrums.”

“By all means, take yourself off to bed. You’re obviously in need of a nap.”

Nesta bared her teeth at him and Cassian schooled his face into one of boredom. She turned, her gown brushing against the furniture and as she passed through the living room, she grabbed a thick blanket draped across one of the chairs.

There was a change to her face as she went, fleeting but not fleeting enough for his sharp eyes. Regret? Yes. What she regretted he didn’t know but the snarl had also turned into a smirk, a twist of her mouth which screamed, I am victorious.

What had she won? The prize was a night alone in an unlit room with a blanket and empty belly.

As she left, the bored expression slid from Cassian’s face to be replaced by a furrowed brow.

Nesta was playing a game, one which required her to start fights so she could flaunt from the room as though leaving were her choice. He’d seen her grip, the furrow of her own forehead and the stark whites of her eyes.

She didn’t like the fire and she didn’t want to eat - or she couldn’t eat.

All Nesta’s choices had been stripped away from her in one afternoon and her decision to exit swiftly and in outrage was all she had.

He let her. He goaded her, stoking the small flame she held burning until she felt something, even if that emotion was irritation and anger - anything as long as it wasn’t cloying fear. If Cassian told her to leave then she would have stayed in her misery to spite him.

Cassian lifted a clay pot lid, surreptitiously positioned beside him on a chair, to cover her bowl. He would leave the dish outside her door with a slab of buttered bread. Maybe she would eat if it wasn’t in front of his watchful eyes.

He would eat his own in his room, the space of the kitchen and the living area seeming too big now, too empty without Nesta’s presence.

As he passed by the hearth, he lowered the flames with his siphons, letting them burn down. As he did, he thought of another fireplace, in another home, in a time which seemed forever ago.

He would help her even if she hated him for it. Cassian would prefer her vitriol to the nothingness living inside her where even her scent had turned glacial; ice cold to the bone.

So yes, Cassian would let the embers burn low for now but he was a creature of air and flame. He was good at starting fires.

TAGGING:

@nehemikkele

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

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Nemesis - Part 5

I wasn’t going to write this the same day as Villainsicle, but I just got so excited with the cliffhanger from last time!

At long last, it’s time for Hero to make their move.

In accordance with the votes from last time, Hero is going to keep up the ruse, and keep pretending to be Director.

CW//Mentions of recreational drugs/marijuana, forced sedation, medical setting, stretchers, IVs, talk of death/execution

When Hero met the team they had been newly assigned to, it had only been Teammate who had smiled.

It had been a few days, now, since that somewhat awkward meeting. The same sentiment had continued, however. While the rest of the team seemed merely to tolerate their new member, Teammate had been warm, welcoming.

So, it only seemed to reason that when Hero finally moved into their new dorm, it was Teammate who was giving them the mini tour.

“It’s not much.” The door creaked as it swung open on its hinges. Hero struggled to see the room within, peering their head over the precarious stack of boxes held in their hands. “But, it’s yours. Um, feel free to put your stuff down.”

Hero nodded gratefully, placing their luggage on the bed as Teammate began to gesture about.

“That’s, uh, well that’s obviously the bed. You sleep on a bed, right? Or do you use some kind of like, dog bed? Sorry, that was stupid.”

Hero snickered.

“No, no, you’re fine. I do sleep on a human bed.”

“That’s good, cause it’s the only kind we’ve got. So, yeah. That’s the bed. That’s the bathroom, through the door. That’s the dresser, feel free to use that for, clothes and stuff.”

“What about that door?”

“Oh.”

Teammate moved over to said door, sliding it open, revealing an empty closet that stood several feet deep.

“We’ve all got these. It’s just a closet.” They smiled. “I don’t know why they’re so big like that, but, hell, you could have someone live in there, I bet. It’s big enough, no one would ever notice.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Friend. I’m so glad you could come visit. I missed seeing you, last week, but I understand how busy you are this time of year. How are you finding everything?”

Hero gritted their teeth, gaze meeting that of Head Doctor. A warm smile replied to with a tense, nerve-wracked countenance.

For the briefest moment, Hero stood in a university building, hostages behind them, and a faceless nemesis before them.

Their tongue flitted over their teeth. They didn’t bother with an accent, there was no way they would have been able to keep it up. Their normal, stupid voice would have to do.

“I missed you, too. I apologize for dropping by so suddenly. Everything is just great, thank you.”

Head Doctor’s brow furrowed, their jaw twisting a moment as they gnawed on the inside of their cheek.

“Friend, your voice sounds different. Are you alright?”

“Yes, do not worry yourself. My allergies are acting up terribly today.”

“Are you certain that it is only allergies? You sound like a kid, again. Here, if you have a moment, perhaps we can go to my office. I’m not too busy, right now.”

“No, no, that won’t be needed.”

“I insist.”

Hero gulped, hoping only that it was not visible. In their ear, a nerve-wracked Hacker’s voice chirped:

“Y- you’re, uh, you’re the director, right? Just, like, order him to shut up!”

Opening their mouth, Hero sputtered, but managed to make out the words:

“If I was worried about my voice, I would tell you.” Their nerves turned rapidly to fury. “I didn’t come here to be berated. I have a- a meeting in an hour. I came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to chat.”

Hacker’s snickering only made Hero’s stomach twist into a tighter knot.

“O-Oh. I apologize, Director. We will just have to be friends off the clock, then.”

“Certainly.”

“What is it that I can help you with, then?”

Every piece of Hero’s body insisted for them to flee, to quickly make their excuses, duck out the door, and get out of this stupid suit. They could go home, go to their dorm, go smoke pot with Teammate. Everything would be okay, and they would never have to think about this place, or Villain, or Hacker, or any of it, ever again!

It would be so easy. They were risking everything, throwing it all away, and for no reason.

Leaving would be so simple, and yet...

If they left Villain here, they knew they would never sleep again. For the briefest moment, they were glad that they had never had much in the way of impulse control.

“My charge.” Hero turned, gesturing to where a twitching Villain sat, prostrate upon their hospital bed. “This is them, yes?”

“Villain? Yes.”

“Good. I will be taking them with me, then.”

Head Doctor’s expression of uncertainty turned to one of an agape jaw.

“I don’t- If you would like them to be moved to another facility, we can certainly arrange that, but-”

“That’s not what I said, is it? I have a car, here. I will be taking them with me.”

“Sir, are you absolutely certain? By your own order, they are on a very strict regime of medications. Removing them from the IV- It could be disastrous.”

Hero felt their stomach drop to their feet. Stupid! They hadn’t even thought about that, oh god, oh god. This stupid plan, it was going to kill Villain, wasn’t it? Maybe? Hell, they weren’t a doctor.

Even if it did kill them, though...

Did it really matter? As if they were really alive, right now.

“I am well aware of that!” The tone of their own voice nearly made Hero jump. “I have another facility set up, again, on my orders. They will be taking over care, from now on.”

“We have a transport vehicle for this very situation, Sir.”

“Not for this very situation, no. This is not a normal transfer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s a highly classified matter. There is no driver in our employ that I can trust to manage this transfer, and thus I will handle it myself.”

“Oh.” Head Doctor frowned, as though a black-hued light bulb had turned on above their crown. “Sir if... If you want them disposed of, I agree that this may not be the best facility to arrange that, but we do have facilities that can perform that procedure.”

Hero bit their tongue with enough force to draw blood.

“I will arrange it myself, Head Doctor. I assure you, everything has already been worked out. Are you going to keep standing in my way, or do I need to bring in security?”

Head Doctor shook their head quickly.

“That won’t be necessary. What do you need?”

“Their IVs removed.” Even before Hero finished their phrase, the doctor was already at their patient’s bedside, withdrawing tubes from veins. Villain took in a sharp, shuddering breath. “And a transport stretcher prepared.”

“I assume you would like them to be restrained, too?”

“How long should the medications keep them down for?”

“Another twelve hours, maybe.”

“That will be more than enough. Don’t hassle yourself.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Hero’s legs moved like those of a newborn deer as they backed away towards a wall, leaving room for the orderlies and nurses to scurry about like an ant colony.

Some part of their mind, twisted by adrenaline and anxiety, could not help but remind them of the moment in their childhood when they had adopted a dog. The hurried, overworked vets, scurrying about the animal, checking vitals and microchips.

The dog had had no say in the matter. And, in this matter, Villain had no say, either.

The medical staff seemed not to feel any such sympathy, hands moving swiftly to shift about their paralyzed charge. Cursory checks were made of blood pressure and breathing and the like, though far more attention seemed to be directed upon the removal of various tubes and monitors. Following their detachment from the hospital bed, Villain was shifted by a dozen hands onto a thin blue cushion, laid atop a rolling contraption of wheels.

Hero hoped that the straps that tightened the unconscious person down were only strictly necessary.

Despite their anxiety telling them otherwise, the whole process only lasted a minute two, after which the remaining medical staff filed from the chamber, leaving only Head Doctor in their cyan scrubs.

“Thank you, friend.” Hero ducked their head, moving away from their place in the corner. “They are ready, then?”

“Yes, Sir. Do you need help getting them to your vehicle?”

“That would be great, yes.”

The two positioned themselves on either side of the rolling contraption, with Hero doing their very best to keep their eyes forward rather than down as they began to direct the stretcher through narrow hallways.

It was too light. It should have been heavier, they were certain.

The facility was terribly small, and it was only a minute later that the imitator and the medic stood, alone, in the parking lot, white picket fence far behind them.

Head Doctor glanced a moment at Hero’s beat up SUV, but their nerves kept them from commenting on the matter. Leaving the stretcher a moment, Hero moved to the back of the vehicle, prying open its rear hatch and flattening the seats.

“I assume this is an undercover operation, then?” The way Head Doctor said it implied the statement to be a joke.

“Something like that. How do we, um... I haven’t done this before.”

“It’s not that hard. Especially not when your patient may as well be a feather-- keep that in mind for your dosages, too. They’ve lost weight. Anyways, um, just fold the stretcher like so, and... Can you help lift?”

Hero nodded, doing their best to keep the stretcher flat as they raised it. The contraption hardly fit in the back of their vehicle, but it did fit, even as it was practically wedged between the walls. What was most important was that it sat low enough that the unconscious patient could not be seen through the windows-- at least not from a distance.

There was a sense of terrifying finality as they closed the vehicle’s rear hatch.

They were doing this.

Oh, they were going to get so caught.

What then? This had to be just about the worst offense a hero could commit. Using their powers and their position and the aid of a career criminal to break a villain out of prison. It seemed like a child’s hyperbole-- ‘What should we do if there’s a tornado and a fire and an earthquake? What then?’

Except, this time, there was no ‘what if’ to it.

It was these spiraling thoughts that distracted them just enough that they forget, momentarily, where their feet were landing. A split second of distraction, and they found themself on their back, head spinning from the fall.

Stupid.

They didn’t realize until they were back to their feet that their earpiece had fallen onto the pavement.

“Director? Are you alright?” Head Doctor raised a brow. “Oh, you dropped this.”

They knelt down, plucking the earbud off the ground, lifting it to their face to investigate.

And, in accordance with Hero’s fantastic luck, it was that exact moment in which Hacker decided to speak:

“Hero? Hero? Are you there? You cut out there for a moment. Head Doctor didn’t get you, did they?”

The doctor’s icy gaze lifted to meet that of the copycat.

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It was hard, to get out of the city.

The tendrils of concrete and glass reached out in a looping spiderweb of interstates and one way roads. Moving in a straight line was not an option, for every attempt made to do so would lead to the city herding you back in.

In the end, it must have taken Hero an hour and a half to reach what could be vaguely described as a ‘rural area.’ At the very least, it was outside of the inner city, which was what mattered surtout.

At the very least, the long drive had allowed them a moment to catch their breath.

Unlike some other buildings controlled by Organization, the rehab facility did not have much in the way of a security force-- unless you counted Head Doctor, which Hero did not. Unfortunately, the same thought had not seemed to have the doctor’s train of thought.

It was amazing just how little attention Hero had attracted, screeching out of a rehab facility’s parking lot with a screaming doctor chasing after them up to the property line. They could only assume that no one wanted to get involved in hero business.

Organization, however, would certainly be interested, once they heard about the incident.

Thus, Hero had spent the past hour and a half white-knuckling the steering wheel, steering around endless intersections, until they had found the smallest piece of rural land. A gravel parking lot, from which a flock of starlings had fled at the approach of Hero’s car.

Beneath the vehicle’s suspension, tires settled on broken up rocks.

Hero glanced in the rear view mirror for the thousandth time, but saw only the same thing as always-- endless, empty road.

For the first time in an hour and a half, they let themself breathe. Their car’s engine exhaled as they turned it off and twisted around in their seat.

Villain had not moved.

The few straps on the stretcher did little more than keep them from falling off the cushion. If they had any desire, any ability, to move, they would have had no trouble.

But they were still. Alive, eyelids twitching and chest moving, but still.

Taking care to avoid jostling the stretcher, Hero climbed from the driver’s seat to the back of the vehicle, crouching down at Villain’s side.

As gently as they could manage, Hero held their nemesis’ hand.

“Can you hear me?”

It was a stupid question. Of course Villain couldn’t hear them. Yet, as soon as Hero’s mouth opened, they found themself unable to close it. Unable to still their tongue.

“I don’t... I know it’s been a long time.”

A wave of orange light washed over the two as the sun drifted below the window.

“I know it’s been a long time. And maybe this is stupid. Maybe you hate me. Maybe you want to go back there. Go back to sleep. Maybe that’s all you want. But... I want to help you.

I don’t know anything else. I just know I want to help you.

We weren’t friends, before. I know that. We both know that. And, if I’m being completely honest, I don’t know why I’m doing this. We hated each other. Maybe I still hate you, but...

We can figure that all out later, okay? Right now, I just want to help.”

It was in that position that the nemeses sat, breathing in their first tastes of non-city air in so many years. Outside of the vehicle’s walls, the sun drifted below the horizon, replaced by its lunar sister.

When the last shreds of twilight were at last dead, Hero felt at long last safe to return home. One last time, they squeezed Villain’s hand.

Villain squeezed back. The slightest movement-- perhaps a simple involuntary reaction. Perhaps it didn’t mean anything.

But, to Hero, it meant everything.

On the return trip to the city, the streets were far quieter, and thankfully devoid of any sort of Organization search patrols. In fact, their arrival at the HQ was almost too uneventful. But, they weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Had they not been so stupid, so reckless, they would still have help. They would still have Hacker. Their friend could have guided them through the HQ, guided them on how to avoid the security cameras.

But Hero had been stupid. They had been reckless. Now, they were alone.

At the very least, the parking lot was deserted, and they met no resistance as they unstrapped Villain from their transport. They haphazardly covered the device with a tarp, all the while struggling to keep their limp friend from falling over.

Any strength that Villain had once held in their legs had long since been stolen away from them. After a few clumsy attempts to get them to their feet, Hero resolved to a simple bridal carry.

They could only hope that Villain would not remember this. They would never hear the end of it.

Without the benefit of an eye in the sky, all Hero could do against the possibility of cameras was to lean over the load they carried, hoping it at least obscured Villain’s face.

The HQ was deserted.

At this hour, it was never deserted.

The very thought made their blood turn to frozen slush, but they had no choice but to keep moving. Keep moving to the elevator, then out of it. Keep moving to their floor, then their quarters.

At the very least, Teammate’s snoring still echoed. Not everything was out of place.

Well-placed steps led Hero to their dorm, locking the door behind themself.

They looked down.

Villain was in their room. Their dorm. They were really never going to hear the end of this, were they?

Unfortunately, hours spent panicking over their nemesis’ condition had not spontaneously made Hero a doctor. Whatever they were going through right now, helping them through it was beyond them.

They had no medicines. No treatments. But, they had a closet, and a pile of blankets within. When Villain was finally tucked into the makeshift bed, they were almost invisible beneath the layers of fabric.

Though they were not quite sure why, Hero smiled.

That odd expression remained on their face as they got to their knees, staring upon their work.

For once, they had done something right. They had succeeded at something. Take that, Leader!

Villain twitched.

For a moment, Hero thought that their nerves had simply made them hallucinate the movement. But, no, they certainly had not dreamed it, as a moment later, the small movement repeated itself.

Villain opened their eyes. They spoke as though their tongue was made of ice, but that did not make their voice any quieter.

“Please, no! Please! Please, don’t do this! Help me help me help me someone help me. Please! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!”

The sobbing grew to such a point that it shook Hero’s chest, like the thrum of a bass, echoing through the floor.

“Please!”

Through all the chaos, Hero was surprised that they even heard the knock at the door, and the quiet voice that came with it:

“Hero? Hero, it’s Teammate. Is everything okay in there?”

“I didn’t mean to see it! I won’t tell Hero, I promise! I promise!”

All at once, Hero understood the saying of being caught between a rock and a hard place.

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Thanks so much for reading! Just like last time, there are two options along with every part of this story. Alongside each options is a question, so that you guys can give more specific suggestions if you so wish. The option that receives the most votes will be the choice that our Hero makes!

A.) Hero has gone this alone for too long, and Teammate is their friend. Let Teammate in. - How should Hero quiet Villain?

B.) Teammate is a risk, and Hero has already taken enough of those. Don’t let them in - How should Hero explain this?

#whump #whumpee #whumpblr #whump community #hero villain whump #nemesis #choose your own adventure #choose your own whump #villain whumpee #powered whumpee #drugged whumpee #drugged villain

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sekceesimps · 3 years

Text

A Rose Made of Chains Ch 2

a/n holy crap! thank you guys so much for all the nice comments and positive feedback about this story. This is the best Christmas gift ever. Hope you enjoy! Chapter 3 out tomorrow (Tuesday) night.

Sincerely, Coffee

teaser. Ch 1 Ch 3

teaser for part 2, Ch 4, Ch 5

Kurapika (aged up) x reader x Chrollo

warnings: This chapter does get very violent and angsty. If physical branding and torture triggers, you please don’t read

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. You silently chanted to yourself after waking up from a horrible nightmare. For once you wake up before your torturer has a chance to dump water on you. There were no windows or other sorts of indication about the time. You analyzed your surroundings. For whatever reason, you felt motivated to fight this time. Your “room”, if it could even be called that, was made up of a small charred blanket on the ground to act as a bed, a rickety looking bucket, and a sturdy chair being held up by thick gray shackles. Just looking at the iron chair sent shivers up your spine, it was where most of the torturing had been taking place after all. You had tried using your nen ability when you had first gotten here, but it had proved futile, as it seemed that there was something that forced zetsu upon you. It wasn’t like your nen could do anything to escape to begin with. You had no issue with being a manipulator. You were an incredibly talented and special user according to Kurapika himself. Your nen ability was being able to manipulate and influence the movement of light. It made you incredible with stealth and diversions to help your friends, but terrible at actually being able to fight back. Your ability was too weak combatively, it was kind of why you were even here in the first place. Mumbling, you continue looking for a way out as your mind goes back to the day you were taken.

»»————-　　————-««

That day had started so beautifully. You had woken up to sweet humming from Kurapika as he lazily flipped through the pages of a book. After passing out on the ground next to his hotel bed the night before, he had graciously pulled you up next to him. His long arms hold you close to his warm body, making your face flush, an action only reserved for lovers, but he did so nonetheless with you.

“Good morning, Y/N'' he greeted and put his book down. You’ll never forget the joyful glint in his eye, one that was becoming less and less common to see, as his face nuzzled into your neck. It was times like this when you wished that you could just tell him that you were his soulmate. Unfortunately, you couldn’t do that to him now. He was busy planning on what to do with the spiders. You had helped him with this plan, but he often made it clear that he didn’t want your mind to be burdened with the violence of his future actions. “Can you go to the store? We don’t have much food left and I’m tired of eating junk with Gon.” he mumbled against your neck.

“5 more minutes,” you whined and cuddled closer against him. His warmth was intoxicating and the heavy smell of lemongrass that came off of him made you want to stay next to him forever. You don’t want this moment to end. You never get to see Kurapika smile and you’ve never seen him so vulnerable as he is in the mornings. You’d never admit it out loud, but you love to fall asleep on the ground next to his bed, knowing full well that he’s much too polite to leave you down there alone.

“Get up, lazy” he answered and untangled his arms from your body. You know the two of you aren’t dating, but it sure did feel like it on mornings like this. “I can’t come with you today because Leorio wants me to help him with something. Make sure to get breadsticks! Oh, and don’t forget to get something sweet for Killua” he snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Alright alright. I’ve got it, do you need anything else,” you remarked as you dragged yourself out of the comfort of his bed. It creaked softly at the shift in weight. He shook his head and wished you goodbye.

You never made it to the store that morning. After you had left the hideout, you stupidly decided that you wanted to take the scenic route to get groceries. Unfortunately, the scenic route at 8 in the morning is also a dangerous one. With no one out on the streets yet, safety in numbers dwindles down to ominous empty and open areas. Soft footsteps and the feeling of eyes burning into your back were felt as you made your way quickly through a quiet alleyway. You had thought nothing of the dangerous feeling until you were shoved onto the ground. You were a hunter, a natural born fighter too. However, you weren’t wise enough to anticipate an attack and bring a real weapon. It honestly didn’t come as much of a surprise when you had been quickly overtaken by three shadowy figures. You were quick to spring to the defense and had managed to give up a small fight until the tallest figure muffled your screams with a large cloth. Being pinned to the ground and knocked out was not what you had expected on your peaceful trip to the store. I’ve got this, you thought to yourself as your vision blurred and you slipped into the black abyss.

»»————-　　————-««

Finally! You shriek in your head. You had found a small curved nail in the corner surrounded by dust. If you could just use it to break the padlock on the door you’d be out of your dingy room. Your inner clock was warning you that it was almost time for the water wakeup. An even better but more risky idea suddenly popped into your head. It’s going to be risky you think, but I’ll have to fight my way out of here if I have any chance of leaving. You clutch the nail in your sweaty hands and lay back down on your “bed”. The door handle lowers slowly, slowly. Creak, the hinges squeak, you close your eyes, pretending to be asleep. Footsteps come closer. You jolt up before the man can react. Surprise and luck on your side. With one sharp movement you stab the nail into the short man’s upper thigh and run as fast you can. You would have made it out too if a new woman hadn’t grabbed your collar and knocked you to the ground.

“Feitan, did you let this little mouse out? She looks a little lost.” you looked up at her serious face. Her lovely pink hair smoothed up into a ponytail. With wide and begging eyes you pleading with her silently to let you go. She looked past you and glanced at your torturer instead, who was grumbling on the ground with his bleeding leg.

“I’ve got it from here.” he replied as he got up. “Time for something new anyways. The little mouse isn’t screaming as much as she used to.” he made his way over to you and grabbed the collar of your shirt roughly from her. You make yourself as limp as possible, trying to stall your impending doom. He was a small man, so it surprised you by how much strength he had as he dragged you back into your room and secured the heavy ropes onto your arms, securing you back into your chair.

This time he pulled a dark brown belt and fastened it around your head and stuffed it into your mouth. You let out a muffled yelp in protest to this intrusion. This man had done so many unspeakable things to you. You had been burned heavily, close to drowned, had fingernails ripped out, but each time you had prided yourself on staying as strong as you had. You were unbearably tired of fighting. It had been so long since you saw the sun. You would give anything to have rays of light touch your skin again.

“I have to admire your strength. Many don’t last as long as you have. Will you join the phantom troupe? Will you join us?” your torturer asked curiously. You shake your head in a vehement no. “That’s a shame. I hope the boss doesn’t mind that I do this.” he replies nonchalantly as he takes out his many knives. This time though he has something different. This time, he has an iron.

You barely flinch at this point when he begins expertly cutting up your skin. There was a certain art that was in the way he opened up your delicate flesh and created such pain and terrible marks. For what seemed like hours he did this, ripping apart barely healed wounds, creating new ones, all the while he smiled and kept asking those four annoying words. You briefly considered entertaining him and saying yes. No! You refuse to do that.

He removes the belt that acted as a makeshift gag, asking those four words again, “Will you join us”. You boldly spit your blood onto his face and smile wickedly. This seems to egg him on as he takes a lighter and begins warming up the iron. You hadn’t seen it before. It was beautifully shaped and at the very end you saw what looked like a… no. It couldn’t be. The more you looked at it, the more your stomach hurt and rage began building in your chest. At the end of the iron was an expertly crafted 12 legged spider. You hadn’t realized it but the rage had turned your eyes into the most passionate crimson. A shade that you refused to show anyone who wasn’t trusted. Your torturer smiles, “The boss always liked those eyes”, as he quickly shoves the leg of your pants up to leave your thigh bare and open. The iron was sure to be hot now. The reality of the situation was setting in as the man tugged your gag off and said happily, “be as loud as you want”, before he shoved the iron onto the area beneath your soulmark. Pure pain, white hot pain blinded you. Your only form of agency now in this hell was to be quiet. You knew that sleep was taking you again as your vision darkened and your head nodded off as you passed out.

»»————-　　————-««

Panicked breaths tore through the silent room. Your ragged gasps for air breaking the peace of the pitch dark stillness. As your eyes slowly adjust you try to calm yourself, you focus on your soulmark and the level-headed blonde that has the matching one. It started to feel like reassurance but now it’s become a mark of pain and conflict.

“How are you feeling?” a calming baritone voice spoke through the darkness. As he steps forward you take in his menacing appearance. He was tall and had the funniest looking coat you’d ever seen. It was fur and looked expensive. His whole appearance and tone just screamed wealth and power. He was a man who was clearly sure of himself. He’d come to visit your torture sessions several times before already. Each time he would stand close to the shadows, just out of sight, but still close enough for you to catch a glimpse of his outline. He never said anything, choosing to watch you instead. His smoky gray eyes are always on you and drinking in your appearance.

“I’d feel better if you just let me leave” you whimper softly. The ropes that a spider had secured on you when you had gotten here were digging roughly into your skin. You felt like your aura was constrained and it was hard to breathe.

“You know I can’t do that darling,” he all but purred, the pet name setting your face on fire with blush. “all you have to do is say yes.” he continued, coming closer and closer to your face. You do your best to move away from him. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Chrollo Lucilfer. It truly is a shame that we had to meet like this.” he had his finger raised now and languidly stroked the less bloody side of your cheek.

You whimper softly at his movement. His intense ashen eyes felt like they were piercing your soul. “All you have to do is say yes and all of the pain can go away,” he grinned down sweetly at your pitifully shaking form.

Your tangible fear seemed to edge him on as he got closer and closer to the side of your face. “I don’t want to,” you stated in a last attempt of defiance.

His warm breath was fanning across your bloodied cheek. “Oh, but you will.” He remarked casually before leaning down further to your flushed body.

His lips were soft and they had meshed well against your own dry ones. This was the first sign of comfort you had been given in your time here. You refused to kiss back at first, but he was right, you would give in. As he politely nipped your lip, asking for permission to take it further, you couldn’t help but take it as a sign. A sign to cling onto any warmth you could get. You had no idea if you would see this man named Chrollo again. A part of you screamed that you were betraying your soulmate, but the hungrier and more desperate part of you cried to let him comfort you.

You pulled your head back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about you.” you mumbled and bit your lip. Missing the warmth that the raven looking man had provided you with.

He smiled sadly and sighed, “That is unfortunate. I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after that. We have some time to get to know each other before you join me.” He backed away from you and let a hand linger in your H/C hair. Pressing his lips lightly against your hand, he let you go and left the room. The heavy door slammed shut and the lights flickered off as he left.

Wind, you thought to yourself. He smelled like the fresh and intense wind that came after a hurricane. He tasted like a small dash of sugar and fresh fruits mixed in the best tarts. You determined that you liked these new feelings. They weren’t foreign but they were still unfamiliar to you. You want to experience more, but that would hurt your soulmate wouldn’t it? You yearn for him with all your soul, but your body can’t help yet yearn for the raven haired man who offers you protection. The ghost of comforting warmth lingers on your lips as you start to feel uncertain about your future here in the spider’s den.

a/n hope you enjoyed the tieback to the teaser and first appearance of Chrollo. The reader and Chrollo are going to have a very complex and intricate relationship that will be explained much more later. Next chapter will be in Kurapika’s POV and will be the last chapter until we hit another milestone. thanks everyone!

Also very sorry about the formatting. I don’t understand spacing at all, I hope it doesn’t bother anyone too much.

askbox is open if you want to talk or leave requests.

#chrollo #chrollo x reader #x reader #angst #spice #kurapika #kurapika x reader #chrollo lucilfer #gon #killua #leorio #hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh x reader #feitan #machi #torture #soulmate

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comrade-meow · 3 years

Link

‘Sex work’ advocates and the Nazi propaganda playbook

Last month Nordic Model Now! was asked to participate in a University of Exeter student debate on the proposition that “This house believes that sex work is real work.” As a group, we are ambivalent about taking part in such debates. On the one hand, they are seldom a conducive forum for understanding nuanced and complex issues – but on the other hand, if we don’t participate there is a risk that the audience won’t hear the feminist analysis of prostitution. No one else in the group was able to take part that night, so reluctantly I agreed.

From the comments on social media during the debate, it appears that most of the students were won over by the arguments of the two proponents of the proposition – even though it was clear to me that they both had powerful vested interests in a booming sex industry, that much of what they said was palpably false and much of their argument relied on ad hominem attacks on myself and the other speaker against the proposition.

I was awake much of that night wondering why the students at one of the top universities in the UK appeared to be so unable to see beyond the self-satisfied veneer of the two speakers for the proposition. By the morning I’d resolved to analyse the arguments for the proposition and place them in context, with the aim of providing some help to those coming to similar debates in the future. This article is the result.

The Nazi Manual of Propaganda

Yale professor and expert in the history of fascism, Timothy Snyder, talks of the 1924 Nazi manual of propaganda that advised finding simple slogans and repeating them over and over and framing opposition as disloyalty or worse. Many people, he says, have taken up these tactics in recent years, leading not only to an erosion of the understanding that politics should be about reasoned debate leading towards constructive and informed policy, but also to politics being viewed as a battleground between ‘friends’ and ‘enemies’.

You would need to be blind to not recognise that these tactics have become increasingly common in the UK and US in recent years, and how they have been used to manipulate the public into support for policies that are not in their best interests and that might have catastrophic consequences. Depending on the arena, dissent is framed as hatred, ‘anti-science,’ or not ‘evidence-based,’ and this acts as a powerful silencing force that shuts down critical thinking and coerces acceptance of what is often little more than hot air.

These tactics obscure who are the real beneficiaries of the propaganda – usually people who gain power or who benefit in financial or other ways from whatever is being promoted. Bizarrely, we can observe these practices on both the right and left of the political spectrum.

These tactics were on display in the University of Exeter Debating Society debate. It was by no means the first or only such debate I have taken part in or observed, and nor was it the first time that I saw those promoting the idea that ‘sex work is real work’ consciously or unconsciously using tactics from the Nazi propaganda playbook.

You don’t have to take my word for it. You can read the transcript of the debate and I’ll illustrate my claims through an analysis of the key arguments used by the two speakers for the proposition.

Jerry Barnett

The first speaker for the proposition was Jerry Barnett, who’s the author of the book, Porn Panic. He regularly writes on sex and the ‘economics of sex,’ and runs a YouTube channel called ‘Sex and Censorship.’ In other words, the sex industry indirectly provides his daily bread and butter.

After introducing himself, he defined work as: “A voluntary exchange of time or labour for money or some other payment.” He didn’t mention that this definition deviates significantly from the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition, which is based on mental or physical activity, and he didn’t explain how you can exchange time for money.

One of the key arguments against prostitution being considered normal work is that although it involves some mental and physical activity (pretending the punter’s a great guy, cleaning up afterwards, etc.) the core feature of prostitution is that he uses her body – he gropes and penetrates her. This is not about her being actively engaged in mental or physical activity but someone doing something to her.

What other work involves someone doing something to you while you lie back and endure it? The only thing that I can think of is participating in medical trials – but that’s not considered work – even though you might be paid for taking part.

So, he sneakily expanded the definition to make it easier to argue that a man penetrating your orifices is a normal form of work – although of course he didn’t mention penetration because, like most sex trade lobbyists, he buries such fundamental realities in euphemism and obfuscation.

Interestingly, he did admit that it is invariably men who are the customers (or punters as we call them) and nine or more times out of ten it is women who are being penetrated – or earning an income from ‘sex work’ as he euphemistically described it.

His arguments hinged around two key contentions: First, that ‘sex work’ is well-paid, enjoyable work that has short hours and is particularly suitable for anyone who needs flexibility. I will leave aside the questionable ethics of promoting such a skewed reality to an audience of impressionable young women and men.

Second, that opposition to ‘sex work’ is based on false statistics, the conflation of trafficking and consensual ‘sex work,’ and moralistic values from people who are anti-sex and who attack women’s rights, and refuse to “listen to sex workers who say it’s empowering.”

Most of the time, he expounded on one or other of these claims, all presented with utter conviction, while implicitly framing anyone who disagreed with him as the enemy – the enemy of women’s rights, of rational debate, of men, of more or less everything that he considers good in life.

He dismissed my arguments as “anecdotes” even though most of his were based on wishful thinking rather than hard evidence – while at the same time claiming they were “evidence-based.”

For example, I mentioned that the murder rate of women involved in prostitution is the highest of any group, including in the UK, and that where prostitution is legalised, the murder rate of women in prostitution usually remains high.

His immediate response?

“Anna is good with anecdotes but when she tries to use statistics, they don’t seem to add up at all. I think the last time I looked, the professions with the highest [murder rate] were police and fast-food delivery people who are overwhelmingly men. But yeah, the anecdotes stack up, the statistics don’t.”

I didn’t manage to respond to this until much later in the debate, when I quoted a senior police officer who, when giving evidence at a Home Affairs Select Committee inquiry in early 2016, said:

“We have had 153 murders of prostitutes since 1990, which is probably the highest group of murders in any one category, so that gives the police cause for concern.”

I didn’t have the stats for police murders at my fingertips but I looked them up later and found data that suggested there had been about 28 murders of police officers in the UK during the same period (1990-2015). So, there were more than five times as many murders of women involved in prostitution as police officers. I couldn’t find any data on fast food delivery drivers other than a few isolated press reports.

So much for his grasp on statistics. But the damage had been done.

Charlotte Rose, the other speaker for the proposition, compounded the damage by asserting more than once that there had been no murders recorded of women involved in prostitution in New Zealand, where the sex industry is fully decriminalised.

But again, this is untrue. The German women who run the Sex Industry Kills project have documented 10 murders of prostituted women in New Zealand since the sex trade was decriminalised in 2003 along with a number of attempted murders. That is a significant number given New Zealand’s small population (currently less than 5 million).

One of my key arguments was that the sex industry normalises and eroticises male dominance and one-sided sex, and feeds men’s entitlement and reduces their empathy – which are the very attitudes that underpin the current epidemic of rape, child sexual abuse, and other forms of male violence against women and children.

Jerry’s response? That there was not an epidemic of male violence against women. He based this assertion on another made-up definition centred on “a steep sustained increase” – unlike the Oxford Dictionary, which centres the definition merely on a disease being widespread.

He said that not only was there not an epidemic of male violence but that the prevalence of such violence has been on a steep decline for 50 years.

But this is not true. Research has shown that male violence against women has risen significantly in the UK since 2010 and that new forms of gender-based abuse are increasingly prevalent. Even the UN describes male violence against women as a pandemic – which is an epidemic that has spread to cover multiple countries.

I mentioned that the judge in a judicial review about Sheffield Council’s relicensing of Spearmint Rhino (a lap dancing club) had castigated the council for rejecting a large number of objections from women and community members who said that the club had made the streets less safe on the basis that these objections were nothing more than “moral values.” The judge was clear that the objections were not about morality but were issues of equality.

Jerry responded as follows:

“There was briefly the anecdote about Spearmint Rhino and that women didn’t feel safe in the area. The fact is I’ve been involved, I’ve got stripper friends who’ve been involved in these campaigns to keep the venues open and these claims are false. They come up over and over again – that the presence of a strip club in an area makes women less safe. This has been de-proved, debunked, using evidence over and over and over again. So, the idea that women don’t feel safe in the area is a different thing.

Unfortunately, if women don’t feel safe, that’s sad but then they should acquaint themselves with the facts that actually the presence of a strip club in an area does not lead to an increase in sexual violence. And yet these kinds of things are continuously claimed to make it look like this is a woman’s rights movement rather than a morality movement, which it is.”

As for his claim that the increased violence in the vicinity of lap dancing clubs and similar has been “debunked” many times, well I couldn’t find any clear evidence that supported that. Rather I found much to the contrary. The Women and Equalities Select Parliamentary Committee in its report on its inquiry into Sexual Harassment of Women and Girls in Public Places, accepted the considerable evidence that sexual entertainment venues, such as lap dancing clubs, “promote the idea that sexual objectification of women and sexual harassment commonly in those environments is lawful and acceptable.”

But that is not good enough for Jerry. He sticks to what he knows is effective, and repeats sound bites that are simply not true while dismissing solid evidence and presenting any opposition as irrational and the work of moralistic enemies.

As to a man telling women they are being irrational to fear male violence, what can I say? I am not sure anything I would like to say is publishable.

Charlotte Rose

The second speaker for the proposition was Charlotte Rose, who was wearing a t-shirt advertising Fan Baits, a new commercial sex industry advertising platform. She introduced herself as, “a former multi-award-winning escort, current radio presenter and advocate for decriminalisation of sex work.”

She went on to say:

“I just want to discuss something that may affect your moral judgement. How do you all feel when I mention people who work in abortion clinics, abattoirs, factory farmers, nuclear power station workers? To name just a few. For me I do not like it. But just because we do not like what these people do, it doesn’t give us the right to state that their work is not legitimate.”

Since when have people campaigned against factory farming or nuclear power because they didn’t approve of the people who work in those industries? Eccentrics aside, the arguments are always around the impact of those industries on the environment, human and animal health and welfare, and other wider issues – and any personal disapproval is reserved for those who, knowing the damage caused, profit from those industries.

The inclusion of abortion clinics in this list is a sneaky attempt to associate our opposition to the commercial sex industry with extreme anti-woman protestors against abortion. This is a classic example of suggesting guilt by association. For an audience of students whose average age is likely to coincide with the peak age for abortions, this is particularly reprehensible.

Charlotte then said that “until you’ve worked as a sex worker, you’ve got no right whatsoever to dictate anything against [sex work].” This is an argument that we hear repeated over and over in true propaganda playbook style, making people lose their critical faculties and the ability to say, hang on a minute, I’m entitled to have an opinion on factory farming and nuclear power and other industries that have a wide impact, why on earth can’t I have an opinion on the sex industry?

And the truth is, of course you can have such an opinion, and indeed as a concerned citizen, you should – but they don’t want you to. Because once you really look at the sex industry, it’s hard to ignore the rampant abuses and negative impacts on us all, particularly young people.

Like Jerry, Charlotte expounded on how “consensual sex work” has nothing to do with sexual abuse, exploitation and trafficking. But of course, it does. There is no separate market for trafficked women – they are on the same street corners and in the same brothels and so-called massage parlours as women who may have made some kind of choice to be there. From the outside you can’t tell what led a woman to that place – nor what is holding her there.

As we have written elsewhere, most pimping meets the international definition of human trafficking and most women involved in prostitution have one or more third party (i.e. pimp) feeding off their prostitution. And the evidence of the violence inherent in prostitution is overwhelming.

Charlotte may not be a male chauvinist pig as all the evidence suggests that Jerry is, but she was equally happy to misrepresent our arguments and frame us as hateful and dangerous. She claimed several times that we want to “delegitimise” her work. (What work? Didn’t she say she was a former sex worker?)

In an attempt to convince everyone that her work really is real work, she went into a long explanation of what it entails: dealing with emails (80 a day), text messages (120/day), phone calls (50), notifications, advertising, website SEO, updating her photos, social media and special offers, booking hotels, etc.

She then asked whether that sounded like work – which of course it does. But that was missing the whole point of the debate because she didn’t mention the core aspects of prostitution – sexual intimacy with a stranger who pays you to have his every whim and fetish met with a smile.

She claimed that “delegitimising sex work” damages her credibility and means men won’t see it as legitimate work and means she “can’t get a mortgage by writing down that I’m a sex worker.” But later when she was asked why she was against legalisation of the sex trade (she favours full decriminalisation), she said:

“Legalisation is what happens in Amsterdam, but women, or sex workers […] have to pay for a licence. So, first of all, they’ve got to give a large amount of money to be able to get a licence to give them the ability to work and be in a legitimate premise.

Number one, they cost a lot of money. Number two, their details are known so there’s no anonymity. If someone wants their business not to be known to the government, then unfortunately they won’t be able to work. So, these two massive factors are why we don’t want it to be legalised.”

But hang on a minute… Isn’t she arguing for ‘sex work’ to be considered ‘real work’?

And isn’t one of the things that distinguishes ‘real’ – or legitimate – work from scams, drug dealing and other illegal activity, that when you earn money from ‘real work,’ you fill out a tax return and inform the government about where your income comes from.

So actually it sounds like she doesn’t want it to be regular ‘real work’ after all.

She made other arguments that were equally dodgy. She claimed several times that by expressing our views, we are causing actual harm to sex workers:

“One of my morals is not to cause harm to other people. I would never use my morals to cause harm to anybody. Your moralistic view is causing harm to sex workers.”

She is talking about an industry in which women involved in it have an extremely high murder rate – almost invariably by male punters and pimps – and yet she suggests that the problem is naming and describing this reality.

I explained that our position is that nothing can make prostitution safe and so we need to reduce the amount that happens. Anything that normalizes it means it will increase – it will increase men’s demand for it and more women will be sucked in and be hurt. As her position is that prostitution should be legitimised and become a normal job, you could therefore argue that her position will cause harm – like she claims about us. However, we prefer to argue on the facts and actual evidence.

Conclusion

Judging by the comments on social media, the young audience were swept along by Charlotte’s glamorous and suave act – in the face of which our attempts to focus the debate on the depressing realities of prostitution appeared about as alluring as a school assembly address by Miss Trunchbull on a bad day.

But reality is what we must deal with. Basing public policy on wishful thinking and propaganda invented by those with powerful vested interests is a recipe for disaster. You only need to consider Brexit to understand that.

The Brexit debate was dominated by sound bites and hot air underwritten by hedge fundies and other capitalists salivating at the prospect of looser and weaker regulation of business and commerce. But large sections of the British population were swept along by the propaganda and were blind to the likely dangers. It is only now, four years later, as the actual reality of Brexit is becoming impossible to ignore that opinion polls are showing the majority turning against it and realising it is almost certainly a terrible mistake.

You can’t help wondering in this context why schools and universities are not educating students about the dangers of propaganda and how to recognise and resist it. All of us, but especially young people, need to understand how to identify vested interests, easy answers and soundbites that oversimplify complex subjects, attacks on opponents and unevidenced assertions that they are motivated by hate or worse, and to see these as red flags.

Much of life is complex and messy and inequality and abuse of power is rife. There are no easy answers. Real solutions require hard work and challenging powerful vested interests – not following them like sheep.

#Anglo.txt

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vanchlo · 3 years

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The Partner / Chapter Two, “One Step Closer”

Word Count: 10k words / Story Masterlist / Read The Assistant / Read on Wattpad / *College resumes for me this coming week so chapters will, once again, be random* / Song: Love Is On The Radio by McFly

“You’re weak. Everybody is. Everybody fails. Maybe this evil did bring you back, but if it did, it’s because it needs you. And that means that you can hurt it.”

- Buffy the Vampire Slayer | 3x10 - “Amends”

It had been bothering me all morning, ever since Harry’s comment. If I was telling myself the truth, it had been gnawing away at the insides of my brain for longer than that.

There was so much inside of me telling me that his suspicion was right when all I wanted was for it to be wrong. If I was doing that truth thing again, of course, there was a remaining part of me that wanted it to be right, but it was miniscule at best. No more was said about it after that, but that fact in itself only made it harder to forget. Even if I had wanted to speak to him about it, he had been in partner meetings all day. I knew he was due for lunch here soon, and that’s what led me to run a quick errand before then, nabbing the car keys from his right drawer where he always left them for occasions like this.

I certainly didn’t think that this was how it would be happening, at Harry’s firm of all places. Our firm? Guilt seeped under my skin the second I had put my plan into action, well aware that he had no idea what I was doing. Tears had been close all day long, since the time those joking words had left his lips. Sure, the blame went to him on that, but I couldn’t have known what it would lead to, either. Even he didn’t. We both could deserve the blame for this entire thing, if it turned out to be true.

The second it’s done, I find that I can’t get myself to follow through. The closest thing I’ve felt to relief all day comes when I see my watch reads one o’clock. It feels like every person I pass knows my secret, despite that being an impossibility and more. The only person who could have the smallest inkling is the person whose door I stop in front of, because I’m not sure how I can do this. Or, that I can. I’ve surprised myself by getting this far in my plan.

When the door opens for me, I can’t decide whether I feel lucky that he made the next decision for me. “Hi, bug. How’s yer mornin’ been? ‘ve missed you, y’know. Oh, whatcha got there? Did ya get me lunch?” his words couldn’t be sweeter. Neither could his hand that brushes against my cheek, sliding down my arm next. Alarms blare inside of me, yelling to tell him while others repeat the opposite. I don’t know why, but doubt floods me within milliseconds. I know that he wouldn’t be upset, but then how come I suddenly worry that he would be? “Ev’rythin’ okay, Becks?”

“I-I . . ,” I try and my failure is almost immediate. The only thing that I succeed at is pushing him back into his office, and closing the door.

“Becks, what’s wrong, love?” urgency shines through in his voice. It’s the last thing that I can find, in my hand or my lips. My name graces my ears a few times more as I stare at the floor, not knowing how I could ever say this. Not just that, unsure of how I can make the next move, knowing that it very well may change my life from this moment on. His, too.

“I-I can’t do it, Harry.”

Three Weeks Earlier . .

The sound of the wooden door finding its hinges is deafening, ringing throughout the historic hallway. His booming footsteps may be even louder as I try to follow them, but his legs are just too damn long. I’m not sure if I want to even follow him, knowing what’s about to happen.

“What tha fuck was that?” he spits at me, malice laced throughout his words. I thought at least he’d wait until the car, but I guess not. Fuck me, and not in a good way.

“Can we not do this here?” my attempt at a whisper is pathetic. When he whips around, making me stop suddenly, I wish I’d never said anything.

“Do what? Talk ‘bout how you jus’ made us lose our fuckin’ case?” Harry retorts. Hanging my head low, I keep it that way as I walk around him. It’s not that easy though, or so I find, as I walk past them. All of the other lawyers waiting, as if in the dugout, outside the doors to Courtrooms 11, 12, and 13. “‘Cos you did, y’know that, right?” Wow, thanks for the fucking audience, Harry.

“How was I supposed to know they had that evidence, Harry?” my words are explosive, but they’re nothing compared to his eyes. If you slapped a long haired wig on him and made him clean shaven, it’d be just like four years ago. He hadn’t always stayed away though, especially not when he had been drinking, but it had been a while since that. Nearly a year. Then, why now?

“We knew ‘bout it, so you should’ve planned fer it, Becks.”

“I did my best, Harry,” I mutter under my breath, pointing my eyes at him. Why was he acting like this, so entitled and . . not like my Harry?

“Ya, well ‘s not good enough,” he replies curtly with a nasty curl to his lips, disgust painting his face. I make the mistake of lifting my head, catching the last second of wandering gazes before they pretend like they weren’t watching our spat unfold. “Let’s go befo’ dinner traffic starts.”

“Where d’ya think yer goin’?” it’s not a joke, like it would so often be. No, he’s still here, and I was so close to finally making my escape.

“I’m going to Skye’s for dinner.”

“But, I was gonna make fish, and-,” I don’t let him finish, because he’s been doing the very same thing to me. All day long. Clipped replies, shooting down my ideas, and doing nothing to hide his disappointment in me. “And, we’re not done talkin’ ‘bout t’day, Becks.”

“No, Harry, we are. And, you don’t get to call me that when you’re acting like this,” my words are firm, the most they’ve been in awhile. It was long overdue, even more than that. It zips his lips shut quicker than I could have hoped, and at last, he’s listening to me now. “We spoke about it the entire way here from the courthouse, Harry. You talked at me, yelled at me the whole car ride. Don’t you think that was more than enough?”

I know that I’ve made the wrong decision entirely when he rises from his chair, standing to his astounding height of six feet. I’d been loving him for the last few years, and officially for the last one and a half, so I knew what was coming by the look on his face.

“No, ‘m yer boss and I say we’re not done speakin’ ‘bout this. So, sit.”

“No,” emphasis carries in my voice, making him look as if I slapped him across the face. A groove appears between his eyebrows that sink towards his eyes. “You can’t talk to me like that, Harry. Yes, I’m your mentee and your employee, but I’m your girlfriend too. Isn’t that more important? I fucked up and made a mistake, and we lost a case. How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that I’m sorry, Harry?” a response from his lips is absent, and I can’t find one on his face as he stares back at me blankly.

The look in his eyes begins to tug at my heart once the tears have begun to leave stripes down my cheeks. God, could there for once be a time that I don’t fucking cry?

“Shit,” I mutter, wiping hastily at my cheeks. Huffing, I blink them away until his face focuses in my view. I love him, and I try to remind myself of that, but God, I am so fucking mad at him right now. He had said it to me, and now, I can’t stop thinking about it. “We’re on the same team, Harry, have you forgotten that? You keep saying lately that we should fight with love and while on the same team, but you’re a hypocrite, because you don’t! What the fuck? I’m sorry I missed that evidence writing up our argument, and that I wasn’t prepared when it came up, but what was I supposed to do? You didn’t tell me how to fix that- y-you didn’t teach me what to do when that happens, Harry. This is why I haven’t worked a case with you in awhile, because you get like this. You micromanage, you hover when I’m trying to work, you have me on too short of a leash when I’m trying to take some freedom, or you give me too much of it when I need more help. You’re demeaning, Harry, you pull the boss card when it’s not fucking needed. I know that I’m dating one of the most renowned and successful lawyers in London- hell, all of Britain, but you’re my boyfriend too. I haven’t even been practicing for two years, and it’s going to be a long time until I don’t make mistakes anymore. I’m doing my best, and it’s never enough for you. Do you remember that, when you said my best isn’t good enough in front of all of those lawyers at the courthouse, Harry? Can you even comprehend how embarrassing that was for me? I’m your girlfriend, and despite how we tried to hide it, everybody knows it. That’s not how you treat your girlfriend, Harry, or even if we weren’t dating, your coworker. We’re talking about getting engaged soon, Harry, and then what? How can we be the Styles lawyer couple when my husband treats me like I’m below him because he gets mad at me for not knowing how to do something that he never taught me? . . Talk to Simon or Jilly, because I’m not working another case with you until you stop acting like this.”

“Becks, honey. I-” the very same word from his lips is found in his words, but I’m already shaking my head at him. A part of me wants to let him continue, but the other one insists that he’s the one who does the listening this time.

“No, don’t you give me those goddamn puppy dog eyes, Harry Styles,” my warning holds more weight to it than I thought I could manage. He’s surprised too, by the way I don’t return his few second smile. “You can’t just fix this with an ‘I’m sorry’ and some pet names, Harry. I-I need to go. I can’t be here right now.”

And so I leave, fleeing to my other best friend to pour my heart out about the other one. Rinse and repeat.

The house was unusually quiet for eight o’clock. I kept putting it off, coming home. Finally, Skye did what she does best and kicked me out, insisting that I go and have some angry sex with my boyfriend, and then talk it out. It beats me why her solution to everything was sex, no matter how many times I vented to her about a row we had, that was always her answer. Sex. Have angry sex. Shower sex. Sofa sex. Slow sex. Dirty sex. Bent over the kitchen counter sex. Car sex, even. It only reminded me to never ask her where she hadn’t done it.

It was dark, save for the soft light above the stove. “Alexa, turn living room light to warm,” I ask softly, hoping that he can’t hear me. I’m just not ready yet.

Ideas for my lunch tomorrow fill my head until they’re whisked away when I open the fridge, finding my lunchbag beside his. An electric blue Post-It note sits on one of the purple handles.

I got your lunch sorted, bug, and for the rest of the week. Month, if you even want. Love you most, I’m so bloody sorry xoxoxo

His chicken scratch plants a warmth inside of me, one that I can’t deny when I close the door, and pad up the stairs. “Alexa, turn light off.”

If he was working in his downstairs study, I’d done a good job of being quiet enough, but that was never the case. I swear, I had the sound of his footsteps memorized by now. My knack for recognizing my mum’s angry stomping had carried on to my adult years, somewhat fortunately.

When it came down to it, there were few things about Harry that weren’t attractive. Sure, I could make a list of them spanning a notebook page if I thought hard enough, starting with today’s main feature. He wasn’t any more perfect than the rest of us, but sometimes in the right light he was for me. He still was despite his flaws.

The slope of his toned back was one of them, one of his imperfect perfections that he didn’t even know about. It was the first glimpse I got of him when I stopped in the open doorway of our bedroom. It had been a long time since I could remember him wearing a shirt to bed, probably last winter, if I had to say. If he heard the whispery sounds of my breaths and impending footsteps, he didn’t make it known. Neither did he when I crossed the room and escaped into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Despite the time I spent readying myself to see him and talk to him, it wasn’t enough. No, it didn’t prepare me for the way my heart seemed to split open when I stepped out of the bathroom to find his face devoid of sunshine and red rimmed eyes threatened with more tears. If I could find the right words, which I couldn’t, I wouldn’t have even said any as I found my way to our bed, slipping under the covers on his side, the left one. His ragged breaths are hot against my bare neck, and his tears soon gracing my skin are tepid, but passionate with sobs.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he whimpers, words divulged into me. Against my skin. Apparently, today was opposite day, because as I hold him against me, I’m teeming with guilt. “Did ya not think I could handle t’ hear it?”

“No, not really . . I wanted to find a good time to tell you, and not when we were having a row, but it just came out today. I’m sorry for the way that I said it, and how I left like that. You can’t fight fire with fire.”

“‘s okay, I deserved it fer how I treated you t’day, bub. ‘m so sorry,” his sob stings against my ears, almost pulling an adjoining one from my lips. “I think yer a great lawyer, really, I do. This case was jus’ so hard and I let it get t’ me and overshadow ev’rythin’ else. ‘s s’posed t’ be a learning experience fer you, and I fo’got that. Becks . . “

“It’s okay, Harry. It’s not, but it is. You just . . you have to work on it. Not just for me, but Simon and Jilly too who work with you, and for yourself,” I tell him amidst combing the tangles out of his ear length curls.

“Maybe ‘m not cut out t’ be a teacher, Becks. ‘m terrible at it, as you can see.”

“No, you’re not, Harry. You’re my favorite teacher, you still are. Teachers have their own learning to do, too.”

“I dunno,” he sighs, sniffling against the tears that have made my neck slick. A silence falls between us, and I’m not sure what else to say, before he does it for me. “How can I get better, Becks? Please, tell me.”

“Harry, you . . you have to relax about it. Jilly’s only an intern, and Simon graduated when I did, but he may not have as much experience as me, I dunno. Everybody’s different and every case is, too. You have to lower your expectations, I think, and raise them when you can. Sometimes, you need to loosen the leash you have on them, or tighten it, depending on how much help they need. You need to act as if they don’t know something - how to write briefs, how to finish a closing statement, how to interview a witness . . Not in a demeaning way, but in a teachable way. When they mess up, take a deep breath before telling them it’s okay, and use it as a teachable moment. Nobody is perfect, Harry, and it’s okay that you aren’t, either.”

“Sounds like you should be tha teacher, not me,” he remarks gingerly, but in a way that the sadness has devoured his happiness. This was the voice of his I perhaps hated worse than when he yells at me. “I can’t believe tha way I treated you t’day, Becks. I didn’t go over what we should do if tha state found that evidence, ‘cos I forgot ‘bout it once that missing witness was found . . ‘s not yer fault that we lost it, it really isn’t. They jus’ played their cards right, ‘s all. We’ll do better next time- Well, if you’ll have me back.”

He didn’t mean to, but he feeds the guilt monster inside of me. I wish I could hate it, but I know he means well.

“It’s not a question, Harry. I will come back to work with you. I just- I didn’t know it’d be this hard working together sometimes. Since we’re dating and we both are passionate about law, I thought it’d mean we’d be great on a team together at work, but . . “

“‘s easier said than done,” he concludes for the both of us, reminding me of that talent he has with words. “Becks, I don’t wanna be like this . . ‘specially when we have kids. I hate it when I hurt those I love,” his sob rips another seam in my heart. Pulling him closer doesn’t help, but it brings a temporary respite when he’s pressed to my front.

“Harry, you’ll be a great dad, I know it. We all have things we need to work on, we’re always a work in progress, and that’s okay too,” something inside of me clenches at the appearance of his red rimmed eyes and wet cheeks when he pulls away from me. He had always been better at wiping away the tears, but I do my best, and know that’s all that I can do. “We better hope none of them become lawyers.”

The rip starts to stitch itself back up when a ray of sunshine spills from his grinning lips, even if it’s the smallest of smiles. Tipping my head forward, my forehead comes to rest on his, and I watch as his eyes fall shut.

“You still love me?” his question is mumbled, and there goes that stitching.

“Don’t be silly, of course I still love you, Harry. I don’t think I could stop if I tried, not that I’d want to.”

His sages are tired when they open, and it makes it difficult to not think about late nights with him and a baby in our arms. One that I hope looks like him, getting his dimples, eyes, and sunshine. I wonder what we’d name them.

“You still stuck on that girl name if we had a daughter?” I pose aloud to him, welcoming the change of subjects. His nod is emphatic and so is my giggle, still unable to think of a better baby name than that one.

“Can’t believe ya still insist on namin’ our one day son Lenny,” Harry tsks, but I know he’s joking by the dimple set in his cheek.

“Come on, you still don’t like it? How do you, a Beatles and John fan, not like the idea of naming your son Lennon Styles? Doesn’t it just sound, I dunno, so perfect?” I hope I’m right, that the tears have begun to dry up from his eyes.

“Sorry, love, but as much as I love The Beatles, I jus’ can’t get on that bandwagon. Maybe ‘Lennon,’ but defo not ‘Lenny,’ sounds like an old man name or somethin’,” Harry titters, the very sound going straight for my heart. Yawning, I decide it’s my time to bury my face in his neck, sighing at the comfort of his arms going around me. “‘m so sorry ‘bout t’day, Becks. I promise you ‘ll get better. Fer you . . fer me, and our family one day.”

“Thank you. Your dedication to wanting to get better is one of the things I love most about you, Harry. You know that?” I hum, my eyes fluttering shut at the intoxicating smell of him. I’m not sure there was ever a time where it didn’t calm me, until earlier today.

Any sign of sleep is whisked away when I’m rolled onto my back, and he’s hovering over me, pinning my arms above my head. Oh, boy. This could go two very different ways, but I know which one I’m leaning towards.

“Ya sure ‘s not me huge dick ya love most?” despite the tears stuck to his eyelashes, the shine in his eye is beginning to return. It may be a different kind as of now, but I welcome it, regardless.

It’s undeniable that I’m going to get it for this one, but this too I embrace, “Now, I wouldn’t call it huge.”

It grows in his eyes, the twinkling of mischief. God, how could I ever not learn to forgive that face? That stupidly goddamn handsome face.

“Becky Styles, what tha fuck am I gonna do with you, Ms. Smart Mouth?”

“Come on, you know that’s what you love most about me,” my grin couldn’t be bigger. Neither could his automatic eye roll. “My mouth.”

“Hush, li’l one, or else yer not gettin’ any o’ this dick.”

“I know what you can do with me . . well, with that huge dick of yours, Harry,” at the end, my words collapse into a loud chuckle, especially when his teeth nip at my ear.

“Bloody hell, stop talkin’, Becks. Yer distractin’ me.”

“Good.”

With his curls hanging in his eyes, a different warmth appears in his eyes, “‘s a good thing yer me favorite distraction, love.”

I had tried and tried, but nothing. It wasn’t working.

“What the fuck?” I mutter underneath my breath. Pulling my light coat around me tighter, I shiver, narrowing my eyes at the screen. Sliding my sleeve back, I lift my wrist and wake up my Apple watch. “Hey, Siri. Call Harry.”

There’s a pause until I hear the robotic voice, “There is only ‘Harry Big Dick Styles’ in your Contacts. Would you like to call them or another number?”

“Yes,” I groan, rolling my eyes at the new name Harry had chosen for himself in my phone. By now, I could sniff it out on him, the little smirk he got when he’d ask to ‘borrow my phone’ to look something up. The little shit.

“Yes, call who?”

“Call ‘Harry Big Dick Styles,’” although it doesn’t warrant a whisper, I still do, despite being alone in my office. He got what he wanted, alright. The device soon starts to ring, and it rings, and rings. Pressing the red phone icon, I end it, “Yeah, avoid my call so I don’t chew you out for putting your name as that in my phone, Harry Edward.”

While my head rocks from side to side, mumbled curses fall from my lips as I close out of that tab. Switching to another, I type in the name of the other database, reentering my search for like, the hundredth time.

“Knock knock!” somebody chirps from outside my door, opening it regardless. “Hey, Ree, hope I’m not interrupting some important lawyer thing of yours. I’m just glad I didn’t walk in on a row of yours with Harry. You two lovebirds better now?”

“Oh, hey, Skye. No, you’re okay and we’re good again. I was about to chuck my computer at the wall, so it’s probably best you came and saved me,” I sigh, watching my best friend waltz in, plopping onto my sofa. With an ‘ooo,’ she helps herself to Harry’s candy dish on the corner of my desk. Sometimes, I really do hate him.

“What’s this ‘bout throwin’ yer Mac at tha wall? Tha thousand dollar laptop I bought you?” comes another voice into my office. Huffing, my hand comes to my face, rubbing at the furrow between my brows. Have I said lately how much I hate his sarcastic ass?

“Shutup, Harry,” Skye retorts for me, sorting through the caramels and chocolates until she locates the last mini Snickers bar.

“Hey, watch tha mouth and Skye, those are my sweets!” he exclaims, quick steps carrying him over to my desk to bat at her hand.

“Fuck off, I got it first.”

“Shouldn’t you two be workin’ or somethin’?” Harry sighs, biting off a block of chocolate as he takes a seat besides Skye.

“Shouldn’t you?” by accident, Skye and I say it at the same time. Moaning, Harry crosses his arms over his chest with a pout. Good God, I don’t even want to imagine how stubborn our kids would be.

“Fuck off, I own that sofa yer sittin’ on, could very well kick you outta me firm, if I like.”

“Fuck off, I own that sofa yer sittin’ on, yada yada, ‘m this big fancy lawyer who thinks he has a big dick and ‘s tha best thing since sliced bread,” I try and fail to hold back the laughter spurred by Skye’s near perfect imitation of Harry’s accent, and his cocky attitude. His head slowly shakes from side to side, eyes narrowed at Skye while taking another bite from his dark chocolate bar.

“Yer really gonna get it. Swear, yer never gonna be tha godmother, Skye.”

“Wait, really?! It’s about time you fucking knocked her up,” she blurts

out and I’m laughing before I register what she’s saying. It comes to a skidding halt, but Harry’s shaking head doesn’t.

“Ya, don’t think ‘d want me kids ‘round you, ya fuckin’ nutjob,” my boyfriend jokes, mouth full of chocolate.

Skye’s jaw falls and she slaps at his arm, shoving at him next, but of course, he doesn’t go anywhere. Leaning forward, Harry easily towers over her in his dark violet suit, lips spread into a shit eating grin.

“Who’s pregnant?” now, this voice is new, but it doesn’t take me long to locate its owner. All eyes flit to the doorway where Asher spreads his hands on the frame, peering inside with bent brows.

“Um, nobody but . . ,” Skye sighs. A look dawns in her eyes, and it doesn’t take me long to figure it out. “I may be after looking at you . . Fuck, did I say that out loud?” she whispers, looking away from him with wide eyes.

Harry’s obnoxious belly laughter breaks the silence when he puts his scarlet colored face in his hands. I’m afraid he might piss his pants if he laughs any harder. There’s nothing I can do to stop mine from joining his. Thankfully, Skye and Asher are soon laughing too. A few moments after we’ve collected ourselves, she gets to her feet, walking over to him in a Scooby Doo tie-dyed sweatshirt. This is one of her less eccentric outfits, if I do say so myself.

“Hi. Um, let me try that again. I’m Skye, Becky’s best friend. And, you must be?” she says, holding out a hand accented with neon pink nail polish. A sound jars me from my watching of the moment. Looking over, I find it to be Harry taking a seat on the corner of my desk, his long legs touching mine.

“Would ya look at them? Who woulda thought?” he whispers to me, nodding his head at the pair who exchange introductions and laughs.

“Yeah, God.”

“Aww, love,” Harry croons, loudly chewing his chocolate.

“Yeah, speaking of that,” I exclaim in a hushed voice, pinching the inside of his thigh.

“Ow! What’d ya do that fer? Y’know ‘s sensitive there,” he almost retorts, rubbing the skin underneath his trousers. “You could’ve gotten me balls!”

“Don’t you give me that look, Harry Styles! You have some explaining to do - what the fuck is this?” I bite back, grabbing my phone and showing him my recent calls. I don’t even have to blink and his eager lips are dealing irresistible laughs, cheeks reddening like a tomato. “I tried to call you like five minutes ago for help with the databases, and I see this! What if I’m with my Dad and you called, Harry?”

There’s no chance he’s saying anything anytime soon, because all he can do is laugh and avoid. Picking up a magazine from my desk, I swat it at his shoulder.

“Hey, watch it!” Harry warns, but his voice swimming with laughs does little to intimidate me. “That’s tha issue we’re in! Don’t wrinkle it now, we hafta frame that one.”

Groaning, he carefully pries the copy of the local business magazine, Pulse, that he and Myles were on the cover of. I’m rather sure I wanted to frame it and hang it on my wall, because that was one good picture of Harry, if I ever saw one.

A tiny yelp leaves my lips when he leans forward and pinches my boob.

“Harry!” I exclaim, shoving him away, but it’s hard to do so when he’s laughing up a storm. “I’ll do it, I swear to God.”

“You wouldn’t,” he bets aloud with a disbelieving shake of his head. His lips have begun to quiet down, and so have mine as he stays leaning towards mine, hands resting on his thighs. God, those thighs. “Not in front o’ them.”

“You pinched my fucking boob in front of them, you don’t think I’ll do it? They don’t even remember we’re here right now,” I bite back, sitting up in my chair and meeting him in the middle. A word readies on his lips, but his face changes instantly when my hand flies to his bum, poking between his cheeks.

“You li’l shit!” Harry almost yelps, grabbing my hand, only infuriated more by my laughing.

“Can you two stop being so gay over there? I’m trying to talk to Asher,” Skye pipes up. Harry gives me a funny look at the way she says his name all sultry like.

“Oooo, kissy kissy,” my boyfriend whispers to me from the cover of his hand. Turning his head with a smirk, our attention goes back to them. Mine only lapses for a moment when Harry pulls my hand into his, thumbing at my promise ring. It was something he had been doing a lot of lately.

Something I had been doing a lot of lately- well, always was how I could never stop myself from admiring the way he looked in what he wore to work. His suits. If Skye and Asher weren’t in the room right now, although on a different plane of existence it seems, I’m not sure there’d be much stopping me from devouring Harry’s thighs right now. It didn’t help that he had them spread wide open facing me, and that his trousers were especially tight today.

“You’re bad,” I almost hiss, squeezing his hand. With questioning brows, he looks back to me with a ‘what?’ “Sitting like that.”

I can’t roll my eyes fast enough at the way his dimples fall into his cheeks with another shit eating grin of his. “Y’know, Becks,” he whispers, moving so he’s full on facing me, showing me a lovely view of the bulge in his pants. “If ya told ‘em t’ leave, ‘d fuck you so hard on that sofa tha second they’re gone.”

“Harry,” it’s a soft laugh at best, but it doesn’t get very far when his lips smash themselves against mine.

“Hmmm, seems we got our wish,” he muses aloud, bringing my eyes to the door, watching them leave on their own accord. Skye’s smile couldn’t be brighter, and wait, was Asher blushing? “Hello? Becks?”

Blinking hard, my eyes snap back over to Harry. Blankly, I watch his every move. The way he slinks off his blazer, revealing the sheer white button-up he had teased me with this morning- well, all day. My bottom lip sings with pain from my teeth when he takes his time pulling his trousers down, exposing the significant bulge in his briefs. A wet circle of precum already marks where the tip of his dick is.

“Ya got tha door?” he asks, just like every time, and I mumble an impatient response.

God, I wouldn’t be surprised if I happened to end up pregnant sometime soon, because holy shit, this man. He may be an asshole, but the name he put in my phone wasn’t wrong, that’s for sure.

I had come to memorize many things about Harry, from the way that he would only shave on Friday nights, would drink a glass of water first thing in the morning, and the sounds that he made. All the kinds. He had his own little humming that he did sometimes when he didn’t think anybody noticed, or the way he played with his lips and bit them.

There was one thing about him that had melted into the background, like so many of them had by now, and that included the sound currently stemming from behind his office door. Words paused on my lips once I stepped inside, instantly mesmerized by the sounds that came from the way his fingers danced across the strings. It seems he had my sounds memorized too, because his stop suddenly, and his eyes are searching for mine. When they land on me, his cheeks crease with a shy smile.

“You finished it,” it’s more of a statement than a question, despite knowing that he could spend another week perfecting it until he’s happy. He nods with a content smile, mindlessly picking the song slowly. “It sounds amazing, babe, even better than yesterday.”

He mumbles a few words of thanks before his attention is captured again by the six stringed instrument, head bent over it in concentration. The luster has fled from his lips but the furrow above his nose has returned.

The question leaves my lips and I’m not sure if I should’ve stopped it, uncertain of the story on his pages, “Alright?” His response isn’t immediate, neither a good or bad sign, I’ve found. With my arms looped around his neck from behind, I have a bird’s eye view of his fingers on his guitar.

“Jus’ nervous fer t’night,” Harry’s voice is seldom shy, but right now, that word covers it. Over and over.

“It’ll be okay. It’s just dinner.”

“Ya right, ‘s the dinner, Becks. I don’t want it t’ go wrong or somethin,’” he remarks, fingers drifting up and down the neck of the guitar. It finds me, hastily and passionately, a sudden decision. I surprise even myself, leaving my stance behind him to walk around the chair, plucking the guitar from his hands. “What d’ya think yer doin’?” it comes out in his joking lilt, a dimple popping.

“Teach me,” I say, and you’d thought by the look on his face that I had said I was quitting or something worse. It doesn’t stay very long because it melts into a smile that almost touches his ears, if only it could.

“Thanks, bug,” although it’s not all there, I hear his words. All of them. Thanks for the distraction from my anxious thoughts, Becks. “C’mere, baby.”

Patting his lap, I roll my eyes when he winks at me, sending me air kisses. I mutter a ‘shut up’ as I carefully take a seat until my back is flush with his chest. Letting him take control, he guides my hands to hold the guitar - left hand grasping the neck at the top and my right resting on the strings over the guitar’s hole. The smile already claiming my lips climbs a little higher at the feeling of his lips sponging a kiss to my cheek.

“Thank you,” it’s a mere whisper but I catch it. It’s gone in a blink, but the way he placed his face against mine made my heart flutter. It had been a long time since I had let Harry try to teach me guitar again, despite his insisting that I could learn another instrument. Let’s just say that the first few times didn’t go that pretty due to a certain over controlling teacher.

“Will you help me too?”

“Mmmhmm,” I respond softly to his nervous question, turning my head ever so slightly to connect my lips with his cheek. “What does E major look like again?”

“This here, Boops,” his breath tickles my cheek, smelling of what else, but black coffee. He really is getting old, I think jokingly to myself, hoping I never have to give up teasing him about his age. I hope that I can keep it going for years and years to come, especially when he actually is old. The thought only makes me wonder what he was like as a teenager, and even just in his twenties, before I had met him. “‘Kay, noodle arms, help me out here.”

“Oh, sorry,” I wheeze, maneuvering my hand with his help to the second fret, arranging my fingers on the strings. I strum but we both laugh at how bad it sounds, nothing like when he does it. “Harry?” pressing my fingers down more firmly on the metal strings, I drag the hard pick across the strings. Again and again.

“Ya, Becks?”

“What were you like when you were younger?”

“What, ‘s this another o’ yer old jokes where ya think yer funny?” he muses, helping me to move my hand again. “Here’s a C, this one may be easier fer you. E and C are some o’ tha main chords. Y’know, many songs don’t have mo’ than 5 chords, so once you master tha main ones, yer golden.”

“Okay, but I can’t even play one,” it comes out in a giggle, lighter than air. He says something about practice and trying, dodging the question. “No, I’m just curious what you were like . . before I knew you. Baby Harry.”

“You’ve seen photos o’ me, and heard stories from me mum and sista.”

“Yeah, you were all hair, that’s nothing new,” the strings have begun to make my fingertips sting. That was one of the reasons I had thrown in the towel so early when it had come to learning guitar. Patience. It’s not something that Harry or I have. “You were in a band in high school, and you worked at a bakery running the till. What else? Like, what did you enjoy doing in your free time? What was your favorite cereal? When was your first real kiss?”

“Y’know some o’ this already, Becks,” a snort of his almost graces my temple where his cheek is pressed to mine. “I listened t’ music almost any chance I got, hung with me best mates - Tommy, Lola, and Morgan. Me fav cereal were tha chocolate puffs, whatever they were called. First kiss, hmm . . I guess me first real one was like fifteen, or somethin’ close t’ that. Here name was Heather Roberts. How’s ‘bout you, love? Seein’ as how we’re doin’ this twenty questions thing, I s’pose ‘s my turn. What was yer first job? First record? Favorite kid program you never missed an episode of?”

“First job was babysitting my neighbor’s two boys. God, they were a handful, two and three and mad as can be. My first record was Abbey Road, my dad’s copy he gave me after I got into The Beatles when I was like, 13. Um, favorite program was What’s New Scooby Doo,” the memories tell themselves. My cheeks fill out with a smile as he nudges his nose against my face, forgetting about the guitar to press repetitive kisses there. “Sir, you’re supposed to be teaching me how to play the guitar, not making out with my neck.”

“Priorities,” he mumbles. First, there’s the smooth feeling of his nose underneath my ear, and then the contrasting feeling of his hairy upper lip. Squirming, I hadn’t even noticed the guitar was absent from our hands, he must have snuck putting it down.

“Harry,” my giggle doesn’t last long before he’s turning me in my arms, and smashing his lips against mine the second he gets the chance. Effortlessly, my legs find a place on the other side of his, and my hands fall into his hair, just like always. “We’re supposed to be . . . working,” I hardly get out in between kisses from his busy lips.

“Couldn’t care less,” he insists in sighs. “Yer boss says not t’ worry ‘bout it.”

“Rose is my boss now.”

“God, would you please shut up?” his lips buzz against mine with a chuckle, one that I can’t help but copy. Rushed breaths tickle at the other’s skin amidst escaped laughs. There were few moments in the day where I wasn’t enveloped by his scent, one that had by accident spread to me too when I stole his body wash in the shower. My fingers are met with the satiny ribbons of his curly hair, despite his often protests to not mess it up after he had finally gotten it perfect in the morning.

A squeak escapes me when his rings press against my bum through my black slacks, some harsher than others. I just make out the beginning of his mischievous laugh as my body shifts above him, finally settling down on top of his lap.

“Woman,” Harry grumbles against my mouth, trapping my bottom lip between his sharp teeth. My giggle turns into a whine of pain with the pressure of his teeth. It only stays at the feeling of his crotch bucking up against mine from beneath. “You drive me mad,” a long sigh touches my lips when I tug down, listening to the sound of his zipper.

“Priorities,” I echo, watching the way his rosebud lips spread with sunshine.

“Breathe.”

“I can’t, dunno how you can,” it comes out as a perturbed sigh and nothing less. “‘m sorry, don’t mean t’ get short with you.”

“It’s okay,” I answer, feeling the way his rings pinch my skin when I squeeze his hand.

“Hope so,” is all Harry says when he glances over at me, rubbing a hand down his face.

“He’ll come, it’s only been a few minutes. You were like, ten minutes late for our first date, don’t you remember?”

“Oh ya,” his cheeks couldn’t be more red as they’re attacked with a surprise smile. “God, I still can’t believe I did that.”

“Neither can I. That’ll be a good story to tell our kids.”

“Ya, we’ve got loads o’ ‘em, and plenty o’ embarrassin’ ones ‘bout you,” he quips with a sly grin, making me shake my head. “What? If yer gonna tell tha bad ones ‘bout me, then ‘ll tell tha bad ones ‘bout you,” his lips end in a curled smile, the first one I’ve seen him share since we stepped foot in this place.

“Seems ‘ve missed a good joke,” a voice comments from nowhere. Our heads both whip to the side, and before I’ve seen him, I notice it. The way Harry’s lips have fallen into a line, and the way his adam’s apple bobs nervously in his throat.

“You didn’t miss anything good, don’t worry,” I assure him, standing to my feet with Harry.

“Please, sit down, there’s no need fer that,” Harry’s dad says with a wave of his hand, and we oblige. Undoing the button on his coal gray suit, he falls into the chair opposite. “‘m sorry if I kept you waitin’, traffic was a bitch.”

“Oh, it’s fine. We haven’t been waiting long. How was your day, Mr. Styles?” I find myself saying, instantly hearing a titter from Harry, followed by his father. God, these similarities are mad. First, the comment about traffic, and now, this.

“‘s Dez, none o’ that Mr. Styles rubbish.”

“Rememba when ya used t’ call me that?” my boyfriend chirps, cocking his head to the side in a funny way. Laughs pass between us and our inside joke.

Looking back to Harry’s dad, a question sits in his eyes, ones similar to Harry’s. I’d met him twice now, but it still amazes me how he looks like his dad. It’s like meeting his mum all over again, seeing him in them.

“I was his assistant before, at the firm,” my explanation comes, and so does the realization on his face.

“Oh, yes. I think we met befo’ then. That was what, four years ago? ‘m sorry we had t’ meet that way.”

“It’s okay,” it’s automatic, and so is the next few minutes sitting in silence staring at our menus. It’s as if I can hear all of the conversations around me but ours in this restaurant decorated with white tablecloths.

I’m not sure why Harry had to pick such a fancy place until I asked him, and he said it was his Dad’s idea entirely. I’d never been here, but Harry had, hence why he was pointing at my menu with whispers. Sometimes, it was hard to not stare at him while he talked, memorizing the way his lips moved when he spoke. The way his entire face could change with a flick of his eyebrows, or a lift of his lips. Tonight, I resisted, knowing how much was riding on this dinner with his dad. How important it was to him that it went well, and I understood, or as much as I could having a parent I didn’t talk to.

“This ‘s good, and Myles likes their steaks. Maybe you’d like this one with tha pasta,” he mumbles, his long pointer finger dragging over the off white, paper menu. I could tell that he was nervous, from the way he bit at his lip to how his thumb hadn’t stopped rubbing the inside of my thigh under the table.

Now, I wasn’t sure who to watch, my boyfriend beside me who kneaded at his bottom lip, or his father who did the same thing with his. It amused me, how I kept being surprised at the mannerisms between the two. First, there was the deep voice and the accent. Then, there were the almond green eyes, the towering height, and the nose. It was uncanny, the resemblance, even more so than his mum, I thought. What physical features he didn’t have of his mum’s, he made up for with his kindness and warmth of her’s. He got the sense of style from her, I think silently when I see the plain white shirt underneath his father’s blazer, and the denims I saw when he walked in.

Our meals had been ordered and waters had been poured. Soon, the questions began, too.

“So, you met workin’ at Harry’s firm?” his dad asks, scratching at his head. One lone ring sat on a pinkie, and his hair couldn’t be further from Harry’s. I couldn’t figure out where he’d gotten the curls from, seeing his mother’s wavy black hair, and his dad’s cropped gray head of hair.

“Yeah, back in . . 2021. I was his personal assistant for a little bit that fall before I left for a different job.”

“Ah, I see,” he muses aloud, awkwardness ensuing. Again. It wasn’t just him. The both of us had found it hard to retell this part of our story to anybody. Anybody who didn’t know us, or who wasn’t there. “And you came back, I see. ‘ve heard yer a rather great lawyer already.” His words bring me to turn to my boyfriend who does a poor job of hiding a smile whilst drinking water.

“Yeah, I really like it there. I’ve hopped around working with some of the lawyers there, but I think I might have a favorite.”

“I don’t blame you. Myles has always been my favorite too,” Dez chuckles, and like his son, it’s contagious. Harry yelps with a small protest, clucking his tongue at the both of us. “So, what are yer plans at tha firm?”An answer escapes me, and I turn my head, looking for it in the man next to me.

He mouths a ‘what’ at me before messing with his hair, pressing his palm against my thigh in encouragement. If you could even call it that.

“Well, right now I’m completing my mentorship, which will probably last another year and a half. So, I’m halfway. After that, I’m not sure. I’m just trying to get over this hill right now.”

He nods with my words, taking a long drink from his pint he’d ordered. It still can remind me of the look on Harry’s face when he debated whether or not to mention that he doesn’t drink anymore, despite his father’s harmless badgering to order him a whiskey on the rocks. His old favorite.

“Maybe you won’t be working by then, who knows. Anne and I had begun to have kids when we were yer age, or ‘s that not somethin’ you’d both want?” it’d be an understatement to say that his question had caught us off guard. I could tell by the way Harry’s thumb had stopped drawing circles over the fabric over my dress.

“We’re not that far yet, Dad, but . . ,” when he trails off, I meet Harry’s eyes, catching the glimmer in them at the mention of a family. “We think we’d like t’ have a few or more, sometime soon. Afta a wedding, o’course.”

“So ‘ve heard, that’s rather excitin.’ I know you’ve always wanted this, t’ find a great girl and t’ become a dad, Hare. Seems yer halfway there,” his dad comments. As if from the sidelines, I watch on as Harry nods at his father with the smallest of smiles on his face, making me wonder what he could be thinking. “You’d make a great one, you’ve turned into a great young man, son.”

“Thank you,” it was the smallest of many I’d heard from him, but the glint in his eyes spoke volumes to what he’d really wanted to say. Even if I couldn’t remember how much his dad had been around when he was growing up, it seemed to mean a lot to Harry for him to say that. “I uh, have this one t’ thank that fer. . quite a lot, actually.”

Blinking hard, I suddenly feel their eyes on me. I blame the warmth in my cheeks from that in Harry’s eyes, the sunshine overflowing from them. “He’s come a long way. I’m very proud of him too,” emotion weighs down my words, more of it speaking through my fingers when I lay my hand on top of his that hasn’t left my thigh since we sat down.

He wasn’t my son, so I couldn’t relate there. Regardless, it felt like I knew how his parents felt when they looked at Harry, because pride poured out of me just at the sight of him. I was sure that if I said another word about it the feeling would come out of me in tears.

“What do you think?”

“‘Bout what, love?” his voice sounds far away, despite it being just across the middle console from me.

“Dinner tonight.”

“Oh,” Harry sighs, realization tying his voice together. A further response doesn’t come, but his attention is on the cars behind him, where he looks while trying to merge onto the highway. “It was good, I thought. How’s ‘bout you?”

“I agree, it was good. I no longer see your dad as this big, scary bloke,” I joke, knowing I should regret it when it doesn’t pull a smile from his lips. I hardly know him, but he may still be that to Harry, because only he knows the real him. Just like with my mum. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking-.”

“Oh, yer fine, Becks,” he insists, but there’s something else. I can’t quite grasp it, despite the effort I put in to try and open his book again.

“Alright?”

“Ya, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Don’t lie to me, Harry Styles,” I insist softly, dancing my hand across until it arrives on his warm thigh. He doesn’t speak but instead, he sighs, and laces a hand with mine.

“Jus’ nervous . . still.”

“Why? It went really well tonight, Harry, without a hitch,” I tell him, unable to look away and to the window. I had lived here for years now, and so the sights hadn’t amazed me for a while now.

“I know, ‘s mad, but . . I don’t wanna get my hopes up, Becks. He’s done this befo’, charmed his way back into me life. ‘s all normal at first and almost too good t’ be true, until he turns like a light switch, explodin’ on me ‘bout somethin’ or bein’ a dick again.”

“It’s like they become another person, right?” my experiences flood my words, and all he does is nod, staring ahead at the road. Despite his silence, the tips of his calloused fingers drag up and down the spanse of my fingers. “I know how you’re feeling, and it’s okay to feel that way, Harry. I understand that you don’t want to get excited and have it all just be for nothing if he turns on you again.” Like they so often are, his nods seem silent but they’re brimming with unsaid words. Fearful ones, and worried, as well. More than he lets on. “I wish I could tell you that it’ll be okay, Harry, but I hope it’ll be.”

“Thanks, Becks. Me too,” his voice is soft, but the way his fingers press against mine is loud. He can’t help the way the worry shouts from the lines and frown on his face, either. I just hope that I can do a good job of hiding mine.

Voices drown amongst each other in my ears, one after the other. An off white mug is set down in front of me, a painting of a cat donning the front.

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Yes, please,” my answer comes, and a dish with a spoon graces the table next.

“How’ve you been, love?”

“Good, and you, Claire?” he looks like her, or so I think he does. When her eyes lift to him standing across the room, I see it in the glimmer in her eye.

“I’ve been doing well, thanks for asking. Harry seems happy.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” it comes out in a laugh, and when she shares it with me, I see the hint of a dimple in her cheek. Happiness may leak from ours, but the boisterous one of Harry’s from across the kitchen trumps ours completely. “I love his laugh.”

“Me too, it’s always been so happy, ever since he was a baby.”

When I look, nostalgia sits in the lines around her mouth and eyes, memories from the last eighty years of her life held in her eyes. A content smile doesn’t budge from her lips as she brings the mug to them again. I’d never tell anybody this, but I think Harry’s gran was my favorite of his family, despite there being so many good ones to choose from. It was the eyes and the smile, I think, where I saw him in her. Glancing between them, the happiness was contagious, just like his always is.

“What?” he chuckles when he looks to us, talking with his hands, like always. Shaking my head at him, I bring the steaming mug back to my lips, watching as he returns to talking with an old mate of his, Tommy. Every few moments, his eyes squeeze shut with another bout of laughter.

“I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time.” Turning my head, I catch her cerulean blue eyes sitting on me with a knowing smile. The similarities are absent otherwise, noting her ivory colored hair cropped short around her ears. “Thank you, Becky.”

“I don’t know what you’re thanking me for,” the pieces haven’t clicked together for me yet, sitting unsolved in the expression of confusion I give her over my mug of tea.

“I think you know.”

Her laugh is short and cute, as is the wink she gives me. Okay, maybe he is more like her than I thought. I’d only met her a few times now, starting with the first time Harry brought me home to Cheshire where he grew up, last Christmas at his Mum’s, and now for a weekend home.

“His other girlfriends, they didn’t make him happy like this. Not even close,” her explanation comes with a shake of her head, eyes on her grandson. I follow them, unable to stop looking at Harry and the sunshine that radiates from him, and his happy lips.

He was a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure. It was always suits and ties for him at work, but at home it was a different story. Today, it was a blue cap turned backwards over his gorgeous curls, and a black and blue flannel with dark skinny jeans. “I’d never seen him more upset than around the time my husband died, that year before it seemed horrible for him too. It all had come to a head for him, it broke my heart. I wanted to ask what was going on, but wasn’t sure how to until the two of you told me how you had met the last time he brought you here, and it all made sense. The way he had lost you, and then found you again. I wouldn’t know where he’d be if it weren’t for you, Becky, and I hear a wedding is on the horizon.”

“I’m hoping so,” I muse aloud, feeling the familiar surface of the promise ring on my ring finger, remembering when we had explained it each time a question arose. “I’m not sure where I’d be without him either, he’s my anchor.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to hope, honey. He’s really serious about you,

he’s told me himself.”

“H-He has?” I don’t know why I was surprised, but I still was. The fluttering inside of my chest still came when I watched him remove his hat, and comb a hand through his matted curls. I wonder if it’d ever stop, but I was rather sure it never would.

“Can I hope to be a great grandmother again soon?”

“Excuse me?” I chuckle, having to set down my mug whilst choking on my tea.

“Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to surprise you there,” she apologizes. With red cheeks, I wipe a napkin across my face, feeling Harry’s eyes on me.

“Gran, don’t rough her up too much over there,” he quips from his Mum’s kitchen island, placing a slice of cheese on a cracker that he feeds between his lips. Somehow, he looked like how I thought he would as a teenager or a uni student with that outfit. It was cute as hell, and only made me wish more that I had known him then, because there could never be enough time with him.

“I’m not,” Claire laughs, patting my back. At last, I’ve recovered and take a long pull from my mug.

“One day soon I hope, but don’t hold your breath too much,” I decide to say, my eyes unmoving from Harry’s figure as they come out. Standing there, he talks animatedly with his friend Tommy who sits across from him on a stool, his mum doing laundry in the other room. Harper and Ollie were due to arrive soon for a family lunch, and I wasn’t sure of how it could get better, except for a little baby on Harry’s hip one day.

One step at a time, Becky, but when have we ever done things in order?

The smile on her face warms me from the inside, and it only grows as a laugh erupts on her lips, shared between her and my gran. Two of my favorite people in the entire bloody world. I’m rather sure that I could listen to that sound for my entire life, and then some.

“So, when ya plannin’ to do it, H?”

“Soon.”

Just a few more weeks, Becks, and then, forever.

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leia-organa-fics · 3 years

Note

If you are taking prompts: Han and Leia get arrested on some planet, but escape before the imperials can get there. The problem is Han and Leia were handcuffed together. Now they're forced to work very closely with each other in order to make it to the Falcon.

trapped on Wayland (part I/III)

The door closed with a loud thud and suddenly, they were shrouded in darkness. Leia heard Han curse next to her. He let loose a string of Corellian swear words, before finishing with, “What a great situation you got us into, Your Royal Geniousness. Again.”

Her temper rose at that. “I got us into this situation? You were the one who had to shoot before thinking and alert everyone in the perimeter of one click to our presence.”

“If it wasn´t for your stubbornness, we would have never been here in the first place. I told you it was a bad idea, but did you listen to the smuggler who has been to Wayland before? No, of course not, because you always know best.”

Well, he did have a point there, but there was no way Leia would admit that. Instead, she threw him a haughty glare and said, “Most of the time, I do know best.”

“This time, you didn´t.”

“How about we find a way out of here, instead of appointing blame.”

In the darkness, she couldn´t see Han´s face, but in her mind, she could picture the half exasperated half angry look he must be throwing her right now. “Alright,” he snarled, “we´ll have enough time for finding the culprit once we´re outa here.”

The first obstacle was a pair of handcuffs that the smugglers who had caught them had put on them. Leia´s left arm was chained to Han´s right and as if that wasn´t bad enough already, the chain between the two cuffs had been tucked behind a pipe so that they couldn´t move away.

“Your hands are pretty small,” Han said. “Can you get out of the cuff?”

Leia tried to force her hand through the handcuff. She managed to get it to the middle of her palm, but no farther – even when she tugged at it with all her strength. Blood started to trickle down her wrist and still, she couldn´t get free. “No,” she finally admitted defeat. “We will have to break the pipe somehow.”

“Let´s try. On the count of three.”

Leia nodded, even though Han couldn´t see it in the darkness. She prepared herself. Her wrist was already aching, but it was nothing in comparison to what the Empire would do to them when they arrived.

“One,” Han started. “Two. Three.”

Both of them pulled forward with all their strength. The pipe creaked loudly. It didn´t yield though. They had to try two more times before it broke so suddenly that they fell forwards. With their hands still cuffed together, it was hard to brace her fall. Leia´s free hand buckled with a sickening crack and her forehead collided painfully with the floor. Pain shot through her wrist and her head so sharply, that she couldn´t suppress a scream.

“What was that?” Han groaned. Apparently, he hadn´t landed softly either. “Are you alright?”

Leia tried to move her right hand and had to stifle a whimper. Something was definitely broken. “I´ll survive,” she answered. “Wrist´s broken.”

“Sithspit,” Han cursed.

Leia just gritted her teeth. She´d survived worse. Getting up turned out to pose a real challenge though since she couldn´t support herself with her free hand and the other one was still chained to Han. He got up faster than her, and in the process pulled out her unhurt hand from under her so that she fell back down.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, before grabbing her waist with both hands and hauling her up next to him. Leia threw him an angry look. She didn´t like being handled like that, but she had to admit that she needed his help. And Force, how it irked her!

As soon as they were standing, they were faced with the next problem: the door to the room was locked and no amount of pushing or pulling could get it to open. In the end, they decided to wait until their capturers returned and then try to overpower them – with their hands still cuffed together and Leia injured, a very unlikely possibility.

“What if they only return to hand us over to the Imperials?” Han asked.

“We will deal with them too.” Leia didn´t really believe that, but her voice betrayed no doubt.

Unfortunately, Han wasn´t fooled that easily. “Yeah, fat chance they´ll let us get away that easily. Not with the bounty on your head, sweetheart.”

“Then we better hope our capturers will stop by before that. We could try screaming …”

“Your plan is to annoy them into letting us go?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of pretending that you passed out and won´t wake up anymore. Scream for them to help you.”

“Huh.” Leia felt more than saw Han shrug. “We might as well try that. Would be better if I was the one who´s screaming though. Your bounty is higher. They want you alive for sure.”

“But they probably don´t see me as a threat, so if I´m the one who´s screaming they might let their guard down.”

“Won´t help us if they don´t show up,” Han drawled. “You´re the star prize here, princess.”

“Don´t say that like it´s something good.”

“It´s something to be proud of. You´re enough of a royal pain in Vader´s –“

Leia cut him off. “Don´t finish that sentence.”

“Of course, Your Daintiness. Wouldn´t want to hurt your sensibilities.”

“Are you going to put some action behind all that talk or was it just your ego who thought it could take on those smugglers?”

Han sounded actually offended when he snapped, “You better hope it wasn´t just my ego talking. With that broken wrist of yours, you´re not gonna be much help.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” she bit back sarcastically. “I was beginning to think it was just hurting to spite me.” Damn, she hadn´t meant to say that out loud, but there was no chance of taking it back now.

Han didn´t comment on her slip, but his voice turned soft. “We better get outa here before the Imperials arrive.”

Leia nodded grimly.

The door was so old-fashioned that it had to be opened manually with a latch. Unfortunately, it was opening outwards so that they couldn´t hide behind it. Instead, they chose to wait on the side opposite the hinges. As soon as they were in position, Han started screaming for help. It took a couple of minutes, but then they heard fast steps approaching. Leia´s body tensed in anticipation of a fight. Han was right: She might not be much help, but that was no excuse not to try. More than anything else, even more than a princess or a rebel, she was a fighter.

For once, luck was on their side. When the door opened, only one of the smugglers entered. He was humanoid and only slightly taller than Leia. When he realized the prisoners weren´t where they were supposed to be, he froze for a second. It was enough time for Han to hit him in the face and for Leia to kick him between the legs. With a strangled cry, he fell to the ground.

Leia went to bend down and search him for keys or a weapon, but she didn´t take Han into account. He didn´t move down with her so that her left arm jerked upwards when she kneeled. She managed to suppress a surprised yelp and threw Han an angry glare.

He huffed. “How was I supposed to know you were goin´ to do that?”

Instead of answering, Leia pulled on her arm to get him to come down to her level. He huffed again and mumbled something about bossy princesses but complied. Together they searched the unconscious being. He didn´t have any keys on him except the ones for the door, but he did carry a blaster. When Leia reached for it, Han beat her to it. She tried to take it out of his hand, but he was faster again. “How do you even want to shoot that thing with one of your hands cuffed and the other one broken?”

“Can you shoot with your left hand?” she asked in return.

“Are you tryin´ to offend me?”

Leia raised an eyebrow and stared him down.

He scoffed. “I can shoot with my left hand and both eyes closed, sister.”

“I will believe that when I see it, flyboy,” she replied unimpressed.

“You better prepare yourself to be amazed then.”

Leia rolled her eyes and started walking down the hallway, leaving Han no choice but to follow her.

***

Here´s part I. Part II will be uploaded sometime this week. I hope you enjoy it. :) If you want to read more, send me a prompt.

You can now find part II here.

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emachinescat · 3 years

Text

New chapter! :)

Title: A Remedy to Cure All Ills, Part Four | Story: The Power of Three | Fandom: Merlin

Summary: While Arthur visits Merlin in the dungeons, Morgana confronts Edwin herself. Merlin is faced with a terrible choice.

Characters: Merlin, Morgana, Arthur, Edwin, Uther

Words: 5,308

TW: None

AO3 Tags: Friendship, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Magic Revealed

Full Story can be read here.

Full chapter here or on AO3!

Arthur wasn’t there when Merlin was arrested and brought to his father. He didn’t want to risk his father getting suspicious and thought it best to make himself scarce. Instead, he let himself into the dungeons and sequestered himself away on a stool in the corner to wait for Merlin’s arrival.

Nearly an hour later, the door swung open and three figures appeared, the one in the middle being held by the others. Arthur watched from the shadows as the guards shoved Merlin into the same cell Gwen had been held in. One followed him in and shackled his wrists to the chains in the floor. Metal squealed and clanged as they locked him in, and then they retreated up the stairs. Arthur had no idea if they’d seen him waiting there, nor did he care. There were more important matters to deal with.

Arthur grabbed a torch from a wall sconce and hurried over to the cell, where Merlin was just picking himself up, more than a little ruffled. Arthur noticed with fury when he turned around that there was a red handprint standing out starkly on his left cheek.

“Merlin! Did my father–”

Merlin waved him off, coming as close to the bars as the chains would allow. “No, one of the guards was a bit too enthusiastic when they were arresting me. Apparently, I was impertinent.” He gave Arthur a strained half-smile.

Normally, Arthur would have made a snide comment about how Merlin’s impertinence didn’t surprise him at all and that he wasn’t aware that Merlin could be anything but, but instead he demanded, “Which guard? Who was it?”

Merlin shrugged, uncomfortable. “It doesn’t matter. We have far more important things to worry about.”

Arthur knew he was right and tried to quell the sudden protective energy that had consumed him. Since when had he cared so much about what happened to Merlin? The answer was fairly simple and hard to swallow: Almost since Merlin set foot into Camelot. He drove Arthur mad, never did what he was told, and his very presence was illegal – and yet, absurdly, he had swiftly become an irreplaceable part of Arthur’s life, no matter how many times the prince threatened to replace him.

As quickly as he could, he told Merlin all that had happened – about Edwin blackmailing Gaius and then somehow finding out that he had told him and Morgana, and how the king had believed Edwin over them. Merlin was fidgeting nervously, the chains clanking, by the time Arthur had finished. A dark look brewed in his eyes. Arthur understood it for what it was – Merlin felt betrayed, and rightly so. Not only had Edwin pretended to be his friend and then turned against him in an instant, but he was also another sorcerer who had come to Camelot for evil instead of good.

“Right,” Arthur transitioned, clapping his hands together once. “Can you magic yourself out of the chains?”

Merlin looked puzzled. “I can, but why?”

Arthur regarded him blankly. “So you can escape. Or do you fancy being executed at first light?”

Merlin winced. “If I escape, that will either just prove that,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “that I do have magic, or your father will think you helped me escape like you did Lancelot, and then you’ll be in trouble.”

“So you’re just going to die for being a sorcerer so that no one will know that you are actually a sorcerer?”

Merlin scoffed. “Not if I can help it, not anytime soon, anyway. We have to find a way to prove that Edwin is lying and that he’s plotting to kill the king.”

“I agree,” Arthur said slowly, “and Morgana’s already tailing him, trying to catch him in the act or find some sort of proof that he’s using dark magic.”

Merlin furrowed his brow. “You said that your father plans to retire Gaius. Did he say when?”

Arthur thought back. “Immediately,” he responded apologetically. “But at least he’s not being implicated by Edwin’s accusations against you – what?” He broke off at the look on Merlin’s face.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Merlin demanded. “If he’s taking Gaius’s place today, then he’ll set his plan into motion now. He’s going to kill your father tonight!”

Dread poured over the prince like cold water. “What – no – you think he’s going to try now, after he’s just been accused? Even if my father sided with him, that’s too brash–”

“Don’t you see?” Merlin asked desperately. “He doesn’t care about the little details like that. If he’s as bitter and vengeful as you say, then he’s going to take the first opportunity he gets to take his revenge. And anyway, do you really want to risk it?”

Arthur felt a sudden, strange swell of gratitude toward Merlin, paired with something akin to affection. It was an unusual, almost uncomfortable feeling, but it came with the realization that Merlin had nothing at all to gain from stopping the king’s death. In fact, he would gain more from letting him die. But because Uther was Arthur’s father, and because he cared about Arthur, he was doing everything he could to save the life of a man who would see him dead – who had just sentenced him to hang an hour ago!

“What should we do, then?”

Merlin responded with a question. “Did you say that Morgana was following him?”

“Yes.” His eyes widened. “If he’s really as desperate as you believe, and he’s already this close to his goal, then he won’t hesitate to hurt her to get to my father. If he sees her–”

Merlin’s eyes flashed gold. Without uttering a single word, he’d cracked the shackles off of his wrists and nearly blew the cell door off its hinges. Arthur dove to the side just in time to avoid being bludgeoned.

“ Merlin!”

“Oops.”

Arthur had gone from being grateful for the loyalty of his manservant to wanting to strangle him in seconds. “What happened to breaking out causing us more trouble in the long run?”

“If Edwin is acting tonight, we don’t have time to play it safe,” Merlin answered, rubbing his raw wrists. “If you and Morgana are going to face Edwin to save your father, you’re going to need someone with magic. You’re going to need me.”

Arthur scoffed. “I’ve faced sorcerers in battle before and won, Mer lin. Just because you’ve been protecting me magically doesn’t mean that I cannot look out for myself.”

“I know,” Merlin said earnestly, “and Morgana is more than capable of standing up for herself, too. But this is a sorcerer, and neither of you have magic, and we don’t even know just how powerful he is. It’s better not to take the chance.”

Arthur finally saw to the heart of Merlin’s decision to join them, despite the increased risk to himself if he were to be caught: He was worried about them. Merlin couldn’t stand the thought of sitting around, waiting, while his friends put themselves in danger. Arthur didn’t argue with Merlin further after that. It was exactly what he would have done, too.

Morgana was rather adept at sneaking around the castle. Having grown up within its walls, she had developed early on an intricate knowledge of the maze of hallways, the many floors and staircases, and array of rooms. She knew where to avoid and how to get in and out of the kitchen without being seen. The servants’ passages were a personal favorite of hers, because they allowed her to move about silently and invisibly as the rest of the bustle of the castle passed her by.

Nowadays, she didn’t sneak around as much – Uther had caught her hiding in a secret passage when she was fourteen eavesdropping on a council meeting and had given her a stern but indulgent talking to about how sneaking around like a common thief was not appropriate behavior for the king’s ward. The king’s reprimand hadn’t been what stopped her secret escapades, but rather the realization as she grew into a woman how much more those in the open hallways respected her. Crowds would part when they saw her approaching, her heels clicking imperiously on the cold stone floor. She no longer needed to sneak, because no one questioned her presence in any part of the castle now that she was no longer a troublemaking child. If only they had realized that she had, in fact, only morphed into a troublemaking adult who was just very adept at hiding said troublemaking.

Even if she no longer routinely employed her knowledge of the ins and outs of the castle, the secret passages and servants’ hallways and hiding places, it didn’t mean that she had lost the mental map she had forged so long ago. This is how Morgana followed Edwin now, watching him from the shadows, following him from adjacent, hidden passageways. The conniving physician marched with great confidence, a nauseating sort of prideful strut, and it was apparent that he assumed he had already won.

Arrogance, Morgana reflected testily, is both one of the most obnoxious and useful vices nature imparts on men. It was because of this arrogance that she was able to follow him so easily.

Morgana had spotted Edwin going into the chambers he was using as his laboratory, where he stayed for quite some time. She got bored waiting on him to emerge, but she knew that there was no alternate way out of the room, so she just had to wait in the shadows until he finished whatever he was doing. Finally, when the chill of dusk had settled into the air and on her bare arms, he eased the door open and set out on his way, not even bothering to check if he was being watched.

She trailed him down five corridors, up two flights of steps, and down the dome-ceilinged, guarded hallway that led to Uther’s chambers. Her heartbeat quickened as she realized that the man was wasting no time in executing his revenge. The moment he had stolen Gaius’s job as Court Physician, he had put the remainder of his plan in motion. Morgana hesitated for the briefest of moments before steeling herself, wrenching a sconce from the wall of the servants’ alcove she lurked in, and holding it before her to use as a weapon if it came down to it. She had no idea where Arthur was – probably trying to free Merlin or at the very least make a plan with him. Not that it mattered. She didn’t need him to confront Edwin. She was perfectly capable of doing so herself.

And so she did.

She stepped out of the shadows, and in the clear, cold voice she had learned as a beautiful woman often approached by undesirable men, said simply, “Edwin.”

Edwin froze, then spun around in one fluid motion. His eyes changed from cruel to surprised, and then melted into a tense indulgence when he saw who had snuck up on him. “Lady Morgana,” he exclaimed sweetly, his voice hushed. Morgana narrowed her eyes, disgusted by how obviously he thought he could manipulate her so easily. His candied words may have fooled Uther, but they had never worked on her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a level tone. Her heart pounded, and she tried not to think about how a show of bravery would mean ultimately nothing in the face of his magic. The sconce she held before her was no more a weapon against a sorcerer than a needle against a knight. Still, she stood firm, back straight, chin held high, eyes cold and haughty. Morgana was used to fighting until she got what she wanted. This time was no different.

“I could ask you the same question,” Edwin evaded, taking a step closer to her, arms held out placatingly at his sides. When she said nothing, merely fixed him with an impatient stare, he yielded. “Lady Morgana, I am merely bringing the king his medicine. I am the new Court Physician, after all, and the king is waiting.”

It was Morgana’s turn to move closer to him. She put every ounce of ferocity into her next words. “If you get what you want, the only thing the king will be waiting on is his death.”

She watched the short-lived battle flash behind Edwin’s eyes and knew that he was trying to decide whether he should continue playing his part or drop the act. Finally, he sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling in an over-dramatized air of annoyance. “Okay, fine, you’ve got me,” he said, still in the same good-natured tone as before, but this time, there was a slide edge to his voice. “I should have known you would have figured me out, my lady. You are, after all, much more intelligent than the men who rule this stupid kingdom.”

She raised an eyebrow menacingly. “Flattery is trite, and will get you nowhere, Edwin. And I believe Gaius discovered your plan before anyone else.”

Edwin shrugged, unimpressed. “Only because he remembered me from when I was a child. That’s basically cheating.”

She tilted her head to the side contemplating him. “You are in an awfully good humor for someone who has just been caught committing treason,” she remarked dryly.

Edwin’s smile took on a strained quality. “Lady Morgana,” he said, and she curled her lip at the patronizing tone. “Please try to understand that I am not a bad person. I’m not evil. ” Her other eyebrow rose to join the first, but she did not speak, so he continued. “I am not doing this out of greed, or cruelty. I only wish to avenge my mother and father. Surely you can understand that?”

“I understand that you came into my home, used me as a pawn in your revenge and nearly killed me with a terrible illness. I understand that you forced a kind, competent man and great friend out of the job he has held for decades. I understand that you accused a close friend of magic, that you got him thrown into the dungeon and slated to be executed. And I understand that even now, you are marching to deceive and destroy my guardian, the man who took me in after my father died. These are not the marks of a good person.”

The smile had turned to a sort of grimace now. “My lady, I only did what I had to do in order to achieve my revenge. I took no pleasure in making Gaius look like a fool–” a brief pause, “–okay, so I felt a little pleasure in that. The man sat back and watched my parents – his friends – burn! But I did take no pleasure in betraying one of my own.” His eyes glittered. “Interesting that you are aware of the servant’s secrets and that you not only keep them but refer to him as a close friend. Perhaps your loyalties are not as easily defined as you would like me to believe.”

The hand of uncertainty clenched around her heart. Her loyalty to her guardian had come into question in her own mind many times before, especially since she had learned Merlin’s secret. Certainly, she had never approved of the king’s reckless hatred of magic, his harsh sentencing of any and all who possessed it. She didn’t know much about the Purge, for Uther had sealed those records up as tightly as his own heart, but what she had heard, in fearful whispers or the dying curses of the accused, sickened her, and she found a growing disgust rising within her when she found herself alone with the king. She fought against him, rebelled, did anything she could to prove that he had no control over her. She tried to force him to change, to help him see the truth, and she was tossed aside, like she was nothing.

No, not like she was nothing. Like she was a girl in a council room full of self-important old men – less than nothing.

She hated it. Sometimes she hated Uther. The kindness and indulgence he had bestowed upon her as a child were few and far between. Lately, she found herself contemplating what she would do, how she would feel, if a bitter sorcerer succeeded in their plot to kill the king. Would she mourn? Or would she breathe a sigh of relief for the oppressed and abused?

A small part of her was tempted, very briefly, to turn and walk away, especially when Edwin wheedled, “I have seen your heart through your actions, my lady. I have seen how you have embraced those like me, how you have become loyal to a sorcerer. You have empathy. You cannot bear to see innocents suffer. Just think of how many lives you will be saving if you just turn around and pretend you never saw me.”

His words struck her deeply, and she found herself thinking of all the times that Uther had belittled her, executed someone without a trial, hated those with magic indiscriminately. Edwin was right in that her heart ached for those like Merlin who had lived in terror their entire lives because of something they were born with. Then she remembered growing up in the castle, the way Uther would ruffle her hair, how he would always take her side over Arthur’s, and the tender way he had kissed her forehead when she had woken from her illness. As completely as she knew she hated the king of Camelot for the atrocities he had committed, she knew that her guardian truly loved her.

And besides, he was Arthur’s father. Merlin would be determined, she knew, to save the king even though letting him die would make his life easier. He would save Uther for Arthur’s sake. And even though Arthur was obnoxious and thick-headed and proud, he had also grown remarkably since Merlin came into his life. And she had grown up with him, seen him at his highs and at his lows. She knew how much it hurt him that he never got to meet his mother. She could not be responsible for taking his father away, too.

She chose her next words carefully, for she could feel the hurt and the sorrow and the rage bubbling just beneath the surface of the man before her. In a way, she pitied him, and all that he had lost. But he had hurt her friends, and she would not allow it to happen again. Perhaps, if she could just reach him… “Edwin, you of all people should know that revenge is never this simple. Think of all the people that Uther has killed in his quest for vengeance. Think of how Gaius and Merlin – Merlin, a sorcerer, like you – have already suffered because of your hatred for the king. And if you do kill him, that will only continue the cycle. Don’t you see? Arthur will seek vengeance for his father’s death, and people will continue to get hurt.”

“The cycle stops with my death,” Edwin said, and he sounded haunted, fragile. “I have no one left to fight for me.”

Morgana hesitated for a fraction of a second, then vowed, “If you stop this now, I will fight for you. Arthur and Merlin will fight for you. You are hurting, I know. And you have a right to be angry. But can you not see how different Arthur already is from his father? He knows about Merlin’s magic, and he supports him. He hides it from his father. If you stop the cycle here, then Arthur and Merlin can work to build a better, safer Camelot for magic-users like you. Change – good change – can only come from time, and patience.”

A tear trickled down his face, nesting in a divot of his scar. “I watched my parents burn. I tried to run into the flames to save them. I don’t have time, or patience. I want to see him die.”

Morgana took another step forward. “If I let you walk away, how am I better than Uther?” she asked softly. “If you kill him, how are you better than Uther?”

Edwin shook his head, something like pity in his eyes. “Someday, my lady, you will see that your moral high ground means nothing in the face of tragedy.” He studied her closely, his eyes boring into hers, and she fought the urge to back away or avert her gaze. If he was trying to intimidate her, it wouldn’t work. She put all of her frustration, all of her passion, all of herself into her glare, felt the rush of emotions build up behind her eyes as she met his gaze. Abruptly, Edwin took a step back, as if she had slapped him.

“Perhaps we are more alike than either of us thought,” he said cryptically.

“What are you talking about?” Morgana demanded. For reasons she could not explain, her heart was thrumming madly, and she felt alive, exhilarated – powerful.

Edwin hesitated for the fraction of a second, then murmured, “Your eyes…”

He trailed off, eyes catching on something over her shoulder. Approaching from behind, Morgana heard sound of echoing footfalls and knew without having to turn around that the rest of her party had arrived… at exactly the wrong moment.

“Edwin!” Merlin’s voice resounded, pinging off the high walls and domed ceiling. He didn’t sound like himself – the one name he called radiated power, deeper than his usual tones, serious and cold. A warning. Chills arced down Morgana’s spine.

And then, Arthur’s voice, as irritating and dripping with male bravado as ever, followed, and the spell of Merlin’s voice was broken immediately. “Morgana! Look out!”

Irritation flared up in her chest, and now she turned to meet her approaching friends with a withering glare. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “I’d nearly gotten through to him!”

Arthur and Merlin – whom she was relieved to see looked relatively unhurt, though with a bruise adorning one cheek – skidded to a stop in her ire, eyes wide, slightly out of breath. Merlin’s eyes widened in alarm. “Morgana–”

His warning, for that was what it had been, came too late. Or perhaps Edwin was simply too fast. One moment, she was reprimanding two of the most powerful men in the kingdom like they were naughty children, and the next, she was airborne, propelled from the ground with an invisible hit that knocked the breath out of her lungs and sent her crashing into Merlin and Arthur.

Well, she would have crashed had it not been for Merlin’s magic. Instinctively – it had to be instinct, for though his eyes flared gold, no spell passed his lips – he caught her with magic. The feel of his power being used on her was like nothing she had ever imagined. She had watched him do magic plenty of times before, in the secret of Gaius’s chambers. But he had never performed magic on her.

She’d wondered what it might feel like, and suddenly, she knew: Merlin’s magic was just like him, gentle, good-natured, but steadfast and real, like the feel of sun-warmed grass underneath your back on a breeze-kissed summer day. It was also duplicitous, with another, almost invisible layer resting just beneath the surface. This part was unyielding, shivering with power, and a little bit terrifying, like the lightning-charged sky in the moments after a great storm. It made her want to laugh and weep at the same time, to wrap her arms around him and to run as far and fast as she could. The top layer, she knew – it was Merlin. But something far more powerful and foreign – not evil, just strange, almost old, somehow – lay beneath. And yet she knew – this was Merlin, too.

All this ran through her head in a matter of seconds, and then Merlin’s magic had deposited her gently on her feet. She staggered, pain flaring in her middle back, as the magic left her. Edwin’s spell had hit her hard. Merlin reached out and steadied her, and though Morgana did not enjoy being “rescued” by anyone, she had to admit that in this situation his hand wrapped loosely around her upper arm was actually helpful. She regained her footing moments later, and Merlin, as if realizing he’d been holding a poisonous serpent, sprang back, and his hands disappeared behind his back, almost as if he were a good, obedient servant.

Morgana could tell with one glance at Arthur’s face that he’d watched the whole exchange, but he had no time to contemplate what it meant – nor did Morgana, for that matter. Edwin had used the distraction to disappear, and Morgana knew that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to simply make his escape. She’d almost broken through to him, but a bloodlust had still tinted his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asked in a terse voice. She nodded, said a quick, “Thanks” to Merlin for keeping her from further injury, and then the three of them rushed to Uther’s chambers, hoping they would be there in time, but all knowing already that they would be too late.

Edwin was gone when they burst into the room. Merlin swore under his breath, an anger most unlike him sizzling just under his skin. The rage swelled as his eyes alighted to the open window. The king’s chambers should have been too high for anyone to escape from without serious injury, but when Merlin leaned out, toes barely brushing the surface of the floor as he tilted forward, peering into the darkness below for any sign of Edwin, the courtyard was empty. Edwin had escaped. A heavy weight settled directly onto his heart at this realization – and he came to the sudden, jarring understanding that he was not angry at all.

He felt betrayed, lost, and alone, but the rage had dissipated as quickly as it had come upon him.

He was wrenched from his thoughts, and from the cool night air blowing gently against his face, with a desperate shout from Arthur. “Merlin!”

Merlin knew at once what was the matter, and what Arthur would want him to do. A pang of anxiety joined the aching betrayal consuming him, followed quickly by fear, then an intense, deep-seated guilt. It was one thing for Merlin to stop Edwin before he could work his dark magic on the king. It was another entirely to play an active role in saving the life of the man who had driven Edwin and so many others into the reapers of death and hatred they had become.

Yes – Arthur was going to ask him to heal the king who had arrested him, thrown him in the dungeon, and sentenced him to a horrific death without a trial. Worse yet, the man who had killed so many like Merlin, who only used their magic for good, or to get by, or because it was the only thing they knew how to do. The thought of performing magic on a grief-torn, vengeance-born husk of a man such as this stirred something deeply uncomfortable inside of the warlock, and for an insane, panicked moment, he was half-tempted to follow Edwin out of the window and into the night, away from the dangerous and impossible thing that Arthur was about to request.

And yet, it was because Arthur needed it that Merlin stayed. It was because it was Arthur’s father who was dying that he gathered the strength to turn away from the fear and self-loathing and nameless voices of the magical dead that screamed traitor! in his mind and agreed to use his magic to save a man who hated it. Who hated him , and wanted him dead.

Now that he understood Edwin’s magic, it would be relatively simple to heal the king. He’d just need the box, which the sorcerer had, in his haste to escape, left on the end table beside an unconscious, death-pale Uther. “I can heal him,” Merlin said, his voice rough and uncertain, and he could tell from the looks on both Arthur’s and Morgana’s faces that they understood his struggle.

Morgana took a step forward, green eyes softening in sympathy. “Merlin, you don’t have to–”

Merlin shook his head, cutting her off without uttering a word. When Morgana had spoken, Merlin had looked to Arthur and saw something wonderful and terrible on his face – resignation. Wonderful, because it meant that he had never intended to force Merlin to use his magic to save the king. Terrible, because he doubted for a moment that Merlin would refuse to help his closest friend’s dying father.

I’m not doing it for a king, Merlin told himself firmly, I am doing it for a father and his son. In the back of his mind, he heard those same voices, those of the damned, the oppressed, the executed, the slain, whisper their vile insults and curses. Traitor! they spat. Traitor to magic! Traitor to your kind!

The battle waged fiercely for a few seconds more. Merlin squared his shoulders, took the box of dark magic from Morgana’s pale, slender fingers, and stopped trying to justify his choice. He leaned over the magic-hating king who wanted him dead, and used magic to make him whole once more.

As soon as Uther stirred, Arthur grabbed Merlin and shoved him out of the king’s chambers, escorting his servant quickly but silently, through the empty corridors of a sleeping Camelot, and back into the dungeons. The guards were still sleeping by the door, having been knocked out from behind by a sleeping spell upon Merlin’s jailbreak. Merlin had assured the prince that these men would remember nothing when they woke up – probably. Merlin’s astounding confidence aside, Arthur hadn’t felt particularly reassured, but knew he needed to check on his father.

Soon, he knew, the king would learn the true story of Edwin’s betrayal, and Merlin would be released, though Arthur knew an apology from his father was far too much to expect. Gaius’s position would be restored, and life in Camelot would resume in some facsimile of normal. Except normal, Arthur knew, didn’t exist anymore. It couldn’t, not with threats like the griffin and Valiant and Edwin surfacing seemingly every week; a heavy fog of dread and death had descended upon Camelot, and Arthur had thought his servant untouched by that darkness. Until now. He knew how hard it must have been for Merlin to willingly use his magic to save a king who wanted him dead because of said magic. He knew Merlin felt betrayed by Edwin. Did he now feel betrayed by himself? The question twirled a sickening dance of uncertainty in Arthur’s mind as he escorted Merlin back into his cell.

Reluctantly, Arthur secured the shackles around his friend’s wrists, as Merlin almost sheepishly magicked the cell door back into place. The sorcerer smiled reassuringly at Arthur, but the prince was anything but. He was unsettled by the way Merlin’s smile barely touched his eyes, and Arthur’s skin crawled in unease at the choice he had forced upon his friend as he made his way up the stairs, away from the friend he had just locked in a dark, damp dungeon. The man who had saved the king, the killer of so many of his kind, with magic. The King of Camelot was alive, the prince was still a prince and not a king, and Arthur still had a father.

But at what cost to Merlin himself, Arthur feared but did not know.

He went to his father, but his mind stayed on his servant.

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for-i-am-dying-of-such-love · 4 years

Text

you know, where I'm headed, there'll be trouble...

...Ok, but can we talk about Sins of the Past?...

I’m not usually a fan of pilot episodes. Even the ones for my very favourite tv shows. They don’t tend to age well, hardly ever look like the shows they will become, and often suffer - like many First Seasons - from a laundry list of Unfortunate Things: actors still unsteady on their character’s legs, inconsistencies in plot and pacing and motivation, secondary characters that are too one-dimensional, low-budget wardrobe and set design. It takes time for a show to settle into itself and then a little more for it to evolve. So, it can be tough to revisit pilot episodes - awkward and maybe a little cringey.

Surprisingly, though, that’s not really the case with Sins of the Past. I say ‘surprisingly’ because the first episode of Xena Warrior Princess automatically starts out at a disadvantage. It’s a mid-90s, syndicated, genre television show, so it already contains a lot of elements that are fundamentally at odds with our modern sensibilities regarding visual storytelling. Coupled with the fact that it’s the first episode too? Well, you’d expect that it would feel dated and silly and trivial, but it doesn’t!

It’s actually kind of a joy!

Don’t get me wrong, the episode isn’t perfect. The visual aesthetics feel very late last-century, and the social mores of the mid-90s means there’s a woeful lack of kissing between Xena and Gabrielle (yes, even this early in the series, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO SEE IT TOO, DON’T BE COY), but the storytelling holds up remarkably well. And, as far as first episodes go, it does a brilliant job of laying the groundwork for what the show will ultimately become: the Greatest Love Story Ever Told. Not just on tv. Ever.

Yeah, I said what I said.

On the surface it sets up the series’ two most obvious narrative arcs. Xena’s journey towards forgiveness, redemption and self-love. Gabrielle’s daring first steps into a world of adventure, heartache and self-discovery. But nestled in there too - the interstitial tissue connecting the two - is the show’s third, and arguably most fulfilling (and surprising?) storyline: the slow and magical weaving together of Xena and Gabrielle themselves. Their lives; their journeys; their hearts. And, ohmygod, it’s so fucking amazing and epic and lovely and the Greatest Love Story Ever Told.

So, let’s talk about where it all began. Let’s talk about SotP. Only, where to begin?!? There are so many moments worthy of exuberant and detailed praise. I have prepared a list:

Like this moment here. This glorious moment of first meeting...

Source: xenagabrielleforever

When Xena first lays eyes on Gabrielle. And she’s immediately struck by the sight of this farm girl - brave and foolish - who throws herself at Draco’s men in exchange for the safety of her fellow villagers. And I swear in that moment you can hear the rusty hinges on Xena’s heart creak slowly to life in knowing anticipation, as Gabrielle unwittingly takes a chisel to Xena’s defenses.

Or here. When Xena lets herself be distracted...

Source: hyxenagabrielle

The Warrior Princess. Confident and sure and untouchable. Completely disarmed by some young thing in some podunk village somewhere. Completely at the mercy of soft green eyes and youthful round cheeks and strawberry-blonde hair. Mesmerized by the tickling sensation of recognition as it cascades across her body when their eyes finally meet and hold.

Or, this gift of a scene. When Gabrielle wants so desperately to tag along with Xena.

Source: jadedownthedrain

And the entire time she might as well have a neon sign hanging above her head that flashes ‘Only Gay in the Village!!!’. Not that Xena isn’t immediately aware of this fact. She knows precisely everything she needs to know about this girl sitting in front of her. She knows it deep in her marrow. A long forgotten instinct dancing and swirling to life in the sleepy valley nestled between her lungs.

And here, just a few heartbeats later. When Xena pretends to act as if she doesn’t actually want Gabrielle to tag along.

Source: xenagabrielleforever

Only she does. Desperately. Except, she doesn’t know what to do with that feeling. So she drapes it in casual indifference and accessorizes it with empty threats, all the while secretly hoping that this inscrutable farm girl understands, is up for the challenge, feels the undercurrent too. And Gabrielle does. She tastes it on the air. Her blood is buzzing with anticipation. Make her mad? Of course, that is exactly what Gabrielle wants. No, not the ire, but the feel of the thrum that will course through Xena’s veins when her heart is set to pounding and her chest to heaving. Gabrielle wants to wield the mallet. Wants to see the fire in Xena’s eyes directed squarely at her. Wants to know the intensity of Xena’s scrutiny. She wants all these things very much. Even if she doesn’t quite know it yet.

Then of course there is this scene. When Xena is raw and vulnerable and exposed…

Source: xenagabrielleforever

And Gabrielle just steps from the shadows, like sunlight slicing through a storm cloud. Like her heart is saying: ‘I’ve been whisperin’ to you through the ether, listenin’ to your cry.’ And goddamnit, if they haven’t finally found each other again. This is a fucking homecoming! Of course I wanna talk about it!!!

But then there’s this. These two fools are already in love, can’t you see?!?

Source: hyxenagabrielle

But they’ve always been in love and they’ll always be in love. It’s muscle memory, the way one holds the other’s gaze. The smile that forms on their lips. The warmth that colours their cheeks. The pull, the pull, the pull. The inevitable surrender. The glorious fall. And somewhere back at the beginning of time and somewhere in the future when it all ends and here in this moment they just fucking know: ‘You were whisperin’ through the ether, letting me know you’re mine.’

All these moments. All these things. All of it, I want to talk about all of it. And maybe one day I’ll have more to say. But, right now I want to talk about Gabrielle’s prognostication skills.

Source: xenagabrielleforever

I’m being serious, though. I know this scene was played for laughs - Gabrielle says ‘do her’ and everyone giggles like a fifth-grader. It’s just an off-hand comment that Gabrielle tosses out there to get herself out of a tricky situation. Just a bit of inconsequential fun. Only it’s not inconsequential at all, it’s fucking prophetic.

And I’m not just talking about the fact that one day Gabrielle will actually get close enough to Xena to ‘do her’ - yes, that kind of do her, and ohmygod, just...

<ASIDE:> THIS BEAUTIFUL ASSHOLE SHOW KNEW EXACTLY WHAT THE IMPLICATIONS WOULD BE BY USING THAT LINE, THE SHOW FUCKING KNEW AND IT WENT THERE ANYWAY. GLEEFULLY. LIZ FRIEDMAN, WAS THIS ONE OF YOUR SCRIPT NOTES? LIZ? LIZ! LISTEN LIZ, IT’S OKAY, YOU CAN TELL ME. BECAUSE IT WAS A CHOICE, AND BOY WAS IT. A. CHOICE. SO, FAM, DON’T LET ANYONE TRY TO TELL YOU THAT THE SUBTEXT WASN’T THERE FROM THE BEGINNING. IT WAS THERE AND IT WAS DELIBERATE, AND YOU CAN FIGHT ME ON IT. </ASIDE>

No, I’m talking about the fact that this silly little throw-away scene both perfectly distills the essence of Gabrielle’s character - clever and unstoppable and pure-of-heart - and encapsulates the show’s most tender truth. And that is this: Gabrielle, the unsuspecting and innocent farm girl from Poteidaia will do the one thing that certainly no man - though handsome and strong and commanding - and, arguably no one ever, has been capable of doing. She’ll slip past Xena’s defenses and completely disarm her. Not physically, of course, but emotionally. And not to do harm, but to love unreservedly. Through all the changing seasons of their lives. For all of time. And the fact that this very poignant and romantic and fundamental truth is draped in humour and accessorized with innuendo makes it all the more perfect for a show that, on its surface, is campy and sexy and ridiculous, but at its core is tender and earnest and profound.

But, ohmygod, is it ever a wild ride. And Gabrielle, sweetie... you precious baby gay, giddy the fuck up.

Source: hyxenagabrielle

UP NEXT: Chariots of War

#xena warrior princess #xena #gabrielle #xena and gabrielle #xena rewatch #season 1 #s01e01 sins of the past #SotP #xwp #otp: for i am dying of such love #let the gay begin #diablog

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beauty-grace-outer-space · 3 years

Text

Ok... update.

My dad came home Thursday night, on Christmas Eve, be wouldn’t look at or talk to us. He accidentally entered a room we were in (not knowing we were in there) and immediately just turned around and walked back out. That night, while my mom was still up and about getting ready for bed, he turned off all the lights. My mom got the dog and came to sleep in my room with me.

The next morning, he still wasn’t talking to us. We ended up each in a different room, doing nothing. I waited until about 1PM and then thought, “You know what, if he’s just going to pout downstairs all day, mom and I are going to have Christmas” and I moved all of my mine and my mom’s gifts into my room (where I have a tree). I made cookies, and set up a little snacks platter. I turned on Christmas lights and Christmas music. I put the Yule Log burning up on my tv, and I told my mom to come with me.

When she saw it all, she teared up and said, “I just don’t know what the right thing is to do.”

At this point, my dad decided he wanted to talk. We went out to the living room and he proceeded to tell us that we “really hurt him” by not “checking on where he was the last two days” and “now taking away Christmas” when “he didn’t do anything wrong” and that he “wanted us to apologize and acknowledge that we could have stopped that at any time if we had just stopped when he told us to” and that while all of the destruction to the house was “childish behavior”, it’s really our fault for “pushing him to that point.”

And I immediately said, “Well, that’s not going to happen, so.”

At this point, it devolved into an argument of him saying the same thing over and over again and me saying, “You can say whatever you want, but you storming through the house breaking shit is in no way my fault.”

He tried a lot of different tactics, “This is just what men do” to which I replied that I didn’t know anyone else who’s dad got angry, threw a glass at them, punched a hole in the wall, knocked the closet doors off the hinges, bailed for two days, and then had the gall to come back and demand an apology.

He reiterated that it was my fault it happened and, “what did I expect when I push him to that point and then don’t stop when he asks me to?” I told him it wouldn’t have mattered what I did, because we always wind up back at this point anyway, but I am not responsible for his behavior. When he tried to push it I said, “How many times have you reduced me to screaming and tears and I have never once broken anything in response.”

He tried to get my mom on his side, telling her he was hurt that she didn’t even try to stop me from pushing him like that, and I told him to leave her out of it because a: she didn’t say a word, I was the one “pushing him” and b: that’s part of the problem, that he doesn’t view me as an adult. I repeated that I’m 28 years old and no one gets to tell me when I’m allowed to speak, how I’m allowed to speak, etc. I can say what I want when I want, and while that sometimes may have consequences, it doesn’t justify domestic abuse.

At that point he scoffed and started in with the usual, that I’m just a liberal idiot and I’ve got these misinformed ideas about everything and that wasn’t abuse, you should see what other men do to their families. I just cut him off and sarcastically said, “Oh so that makes it ok. You didn’t hit me, you just threw a glass at me, ok then.”

Then he tells me that he didn’t throw it at me, if he had thrown it at me, it would have hit me. I said, (again sarcastically) “Oh good, very reassuring.”

I told him that there is nothing he can say that will make me believe that what happened was my fault, and that he needs to know that he crossed a line, because what happened was inexcusable bullshit and I will never forgive it.

This continued for a while, he tried to pretend that he’s kept a lock on his temper for 30 years and that I somehow just hit the trigger point and it’s my fault. I told him that he does this shit all the time. He asked for examples. I gave him some. He told me they never happened and that I was just making things up in my theatrical brain again.

My mom stepped in and said that no, he really does do this stuff all the time (to lesser degrees).

He somehow decided to talk about the Black Lives Matter poster I have up in my window and how embarrassing it is for him, and how his friends have all told him they would have kicked me out of the house but he won’t censor me like that, etc. and I told him that he still does, all the time. Because we’re either only allowed to agree with him, or to sit in silence, but never to say what we think. If we say nothing, he gets mad. If we say what we think, he gets mad. We’re not allowed to speak, and that is censorship.

And then he pulled out the cliche, tried and true: “In my own fucking house, that I fucking pay for, I get to say what I think, and if you don’t like it, you can go out there and think whatever you want.”

And I said, “I am, I have an interview tomorrow for an apartment.”

After a lot of this, he said we should just stop because clearly we’re never going to get anywhere, and I told him that he’s been saying that for years and look where we are, so what’s the alternative.

After like two hours of this back and forth, I got him to agree to anger management because my mom chimed in and said that, yes, he’s always angry about something and it’s miserable, and that she and I basically walk on eggshells about everything from shows we watch to conversations being had to decorating the house to music we listen to, the list goes on and on.

He told me not to “put myself in a financially stressful situation” by moving out when he’s going to work on his issues and “I can’t afford it”. I told him that I can afford it and while I can appreciate that he’s willing to work on, not to do it for me to do it for my mom and their marriage, because I’m done. I ended up sobbing and basically just blubbered out that I’m done, I’m exhausted, and I feel like as long as I’m here the tension is going to be here because he and I are such fundamentally different people. He tried a few comments about “when you make a real budget you’ll see--” etc. but I’ve done the math, I’ve looked at it with my mom, my mom is 100% on board with whatever I want to do and willing to cosign things if needed (though I doubt it) and I’m slowly making my peace with it. And I told them to look into marriage counseling.

I’ve got an interview tonight for one apartment that I love, and another person looking for a roommate replied to me this morning, so I’ve got a few options. Hopefully I get the first one, because it’s less than 5 minutes away and my mom already said she’s happy to meet up with me daily if needed (which sounds insane but honestly my mom is my favorite person in the world and my best friend). I sat her down and told her to be really honest with me and to tell me what she needed to happen because I’d bail on getting an apartment and get a place with her in a heartbeat. She said she’s ok, and actually super shocked and impressed that my dad agreed to anger management, and apparently he pulled her aside later and asked if they needed to look into marriage counseling and asked her to let him know if they did because he’ll do it.

We ended up opening Christmas presents around 5PM, and eating spaghetti for dinner, and then I hit a point of such total exhaustion that I physically could not stop crying. from like 7-10 I was just bawling. I asked my mom to come sit with me and watch a show so I could try to calm down and go to sleep, and I drank some water and took a sleep aid.

And now it is morning, and the tension in the house has noticeably decreased, and I’m am still so tired I can barely function. But I’m probably moving within the next few weeks, and I’m trying to be excited about that.

#abuse tw #domestic violence tw #an update #long post #not trek #it speaks

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shih-coulda-had-it · 3 years

Note

8 and 60 any bnha ship

8 (Hospital AU) & 60 (Poorly Timed Confession) | any bnha ship [Shizenji]

A/n: inaccuracies are possible, but not with the tug-of-war over surgeons!Nana and Chiyo’s favorite OR RN: Sorahiko. I’ve been told that surgeons will privately confer with charge nurses to rearrange the roster according to preference.

The whole affair could have been avoided if Sorahiko simply did not work at U.A. General Hospital.

Shuuzenji Chiyo, Chief Surgeon in residence, would not be furiously pining after her fellow doctor if Torino Sorahiko did not exist.

“That’s unfair,” said Sorahiko, OR registered nurse. He was seated across from Chiyo in a corner booth of the cafeteria. The contents of his plastic tray resembled hers, except he had produced his own plastic-wrapped taiyaki from seemingly nowhere.

“It’s not unfair. Any time I think I’ve got an opening to ask her out for a date, you’re in the background silently judging me!”

“Because you suck,” he responded eloquently. “At pick-up lines, specifically. We all worship you at the operating table, Shuuzenji-hakase.”

“I have more game in my pinky finger than you do in your entire body,” Chiyo shot back.

“Then why haven’t you asked her out yet?”

“Ugh!” Chiyo popped open the lid of her bento and retrieved her chopsticks from their paper wrapping. She did not have a good answer for Sorahiko, who politely did not gloat over his victory. This was the real trial, she thought glumly. Because while she and Sorahiko were bosom break-buddies, Sorahiko and Shimura Nana were childhood best friends.

One would think that with Sorahiko as a mutual friend, Chiyo wouldn’t be having a communication issue.

“If you asked me,” said Sorahiko modestly.

“I haven’t.”

Silence fell between them, save for the crackle of Sorahiko opening his beloved treat and the soft murmured conversations of other people in the cafeteria. Chiyo gritted her teeth. She would not be the first to give in; the potential result of Sorahiko’s smug face at her tacit concession was too aggravating to bear.

She poked at her bento’s serving of cold chicken breast, caught a glimpse of the pallid vegetables beneath, and resigned herself to a terrible lunch.

“See,” Sorahiko said, “this is the first problem.”

“Is this your patronizing voice?”

He ignored her acerbic tone, if only because Chiyo hadn’t explicitly told him to shut up and change the subject. “You’re not letting yourself cool off. You need to take a step back and re-evaluate the situation, and then try and ask Shimura out on a date.”

“If I take a step back,” Chiyo complained, “then she’ll never respect me as a fellow surgeon who can go toe-to-toe! She already towers over me! I need my monumental stubborn streak to be unquestionably present!”

“Trust me, it’s undeniable,” he muttered.

Chiyo decided she had to let that comment slide, because Sorahiko was the unfortunate victim of a tug-of-war between her and Shimura. It started months ago, when Shimura was first hired by U.A. General and reunited in the workforce with her best friend. Chiyo hadn’t known anything about it, other than ‘new surgeon, likely capable,’ and wouldn’t have cared if it wasn’t for the sudden absence of Sorahiko from her operating room.

Sorahiko was a good intra-op nurse; he lent a certain focused calm to any surgery, and could always be trusted to provide a helping hand without panicking.

Chiyo hadn’t liked the fact that some uppity new hire had snatched Sorahiko from her hours, so she got him back. Without doing Shimura the polite courtesy of a head’s up. Chiyo had justified this rude action to Nezu, the Dean of Medicine, as: Shimura did it first.

They had yanked Sorahiko back and forth between their teams for a straight week before Chiyo finally got her first glimpse of Shimura.

Blatantly! Talking! To the charge nurse about rotating Sorahiko’s hours yet again!

She bitterly resented Shimura for all of three seconds, because by the fourth second, Chiyo had intruded on her personal space and been overwhelmed by the woman’s sheer presence. Shimura had said, with a toothy smile, “Ah, Shuuzenji-senpai. I was just asking Futaba-san about switching Torino-san’s placement for the next week. You don’t mind, do you?”

Inwardly, Chiyo had screeched about losing Sorahiko from Mr. Morimoto’s heart surgery.

Inwardly, Chiyo’s breath had caught in her lungs, her heart had stuttered, and the very unprofessional thought about wanting to be pinned down and ravished by her fellow surgeon crossed her mind.

That’s my favorite nurse, you can’t just yank him out of rotation and shuffle him where you will, Chiyo wanted to say.

“For a surgeon like you?” she said instead. “By all means.”

It was an unintended slight. A double-edged compliment. One that hinged on vague implications of flattery and insult.

It didn’t help that Chiyo had to tip her chin back to stare Shimura in the eye; it didn’t help that Chiyo had visibly registered Shimura’s generously-endowed figure before yanking her eyes up and up and up--

Of course, rather than accept this graciously, Shimura’s smile had widened into a triumphant grin. As Chief Surgeon, Chiyo couldn’t accept that, so the tug-of-war continued. Futaba became accustomed to being accosted to adjust Torino’s hours, and Sorahiko tried pretending nothing was happening. Occasionally, Chiyo saw Shimura chatting with Sorahiko and laughing, and Chiyo had to pretend she wasn’t a gremlin.

All this to say, now Sorahiko was attempting to give Chiyo dating advice, as though Chiyo hadn’t been trawling the sea for fish since she graduated medical school.

“Just say you like her to her face,” said Sorahiko.

“Where’s the art in that?” she demanded.

“Because,” he opined, “you two are in some serious miscommunication troubles, and it’s in the hospital’s best interests that you aren’t feuding anymore.”

“It’s not a feud.”

“The other nurses think you two are fighting to date me, you know.”

“Would you be open to a threesome?” Chiyo gave Sorahiko a critical once-over, just to cement her views of her favorite nurse. He was tall, like Shimura, and he was crabby and crotchety when he wasn’t forced to be professional, like Chiyo. She didn’t feel any intense desire. Just a certain fondness, cultivated over the inevitable losses in the OR and their shared gallows humor.

Sorahiko considered her right back. Then he said, “No, I think we’d be a nightmare for HR to deal with.”

“HR,” Chiyo grieved. As Chief Surgeon, Chiyo had to maintain certain boundaries between herself and her colleagues. Dating your technical underlings was highly discouraged, and Chiyo’s stance was that she had to be untouchable in order to maintain respect.

There was a reason the other nurses were in awe of Sorahiko.

“Maybe you should leave it alone,” he suggested. “It being, trying to date her.”

“Sorahiko, genuinely, I will beat you over the head with my lunch if you cockblock me,” said Chiyo. “You’ve seen your best friend, right? I have been keeping my nails clipped short ever since I entered medical school, but now I’m this close to asking her if she owns a strap.”

“Don’t,” said Sorahiko, pained by receiving too much information.

“What? What? Are you losing all your respect for me?”

“Keep using me as an outlet for your failed flirtations, and I really will,” he threatened.

“Maybe I should send you back to Shimura’s team, with a note that says, ‘Do you like me? Check yes or yes.’ You can be the peace offering. Is it pimping you out if you manage to sweet-talk her into having lunch with us?”

“Pimp me out?”

“You’re very high-value,” Chiyo reassured him. “You’re worth a cease-fire.”

“I should be the one filing a complaint to HR,” Sorahiko muttered to his bento. “No compensation is worth bearing witness to this.”

#bnha #shizenji #shuuzenji chiyo #recovery girl #torino sorahiko #gran torino #shimura nana #shih.txt #asks #anon #I didn’t quite incorporate 60 as well as I should have #but I was agonizing over how to write this overall #call that a 6/10 on execution

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baldwinboy5choices · 4 years

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The Family Night Out (M! Robin Flores x MC)

Someone who absolutely never, ever writes fics (me) is so in love with Robin that they were actually compelled to write Choices fic for the very first time.

Book and Pairing: The Nanny Affair, M!Robin Flores x MC (Jett Hawthorne)

Words: 2.7k

Rating: I’m so new to writing fics I don’t even know what kind of rating system to use, but this is extremely tame, and, much like a PG-13 movie, contains exactly one very judiciously-placed F-bomb.

Summary: I sort of started with “collision course,” which is the name of one of the Ice Age movies, and then worked my way backwards. So, in a manner of speaking, you could say that this is Based on the Comedy of Ray Romano. (Not really. The first part’s true, though.) No, it’s really more about the start of Robin and Jett’s relationship, with a little bit of inspiration from Sam saying in a diamond scene, “You could do so much better than him.” (me) (also me)

Thank you so much @semiautomaticheart for proofreading, and thank you @yaushie & @brightpinkpeppercorn for first pass feedback! You guys are all really awesome and I appreciate you all so much.

Another day, another experiment for Mickey and Mason. Today’s flavor was taking photographs of deep space, courtesy of the telescope they remembered they got last Christmas, and their father’s old phone that they were allowed to occasionally play games on.

“Do you think that counts as… deep space?” Mickey wondered, as he and his brother peered at the phone screen.

“Well, yeah! And we’re just starting out,” Mason insisted. “We’ll get better!”

“Yeah! Print it out!” Mickey hollered. “Our very first picture of outer space!”

Jett heard the bell of the elevator as she watched the boys signing the printout in colored pencil and running to the refrigerator with it. “Hold on, boys. I think I hear your father,” she said.

Jett never met Sam at the door when he arrived home, with the exception of the time she had to distract him so Mason and Mickey could finish the birthday dinner for him. Today, however, she had a friendly warning for him. It just so happened that when she stepped out into the hallway, she was greeted by not only Sam, but also Sofia and Robin.

Jett’s breath caught in her throat as she and Robin met eyes for a brief moment. The sight of him reminded her that the same night of Sam’s birthday dinner was also the night that brought Robin into her life, right here in that hallway. She quickly composed herself with a neutral demeanor. Addressing all three, she instructed, “Hey, guys. When you get inside, there’ll be a really blurry piece of paper on the fridge. Pretend you love it.”

For once, Sam, Sofia, and Robin were united, sharing the same puzzled look directed at Jett, but before anyone could voice an actual question, Mickey and Mason were bursting out of the apartment door.

“Mort’s! Mort’s!” the boys were chanting.

“That’s right, boys,” Sam said brightly. He then turned to Jett and said, “Jett, we were hoping you could join us.”

“But… it was going to be a night off,” Jett replied. Sam generally preferred dinners at home, but occasionally, he would take the boys out for some family time, and Jett would be off those nights.

“I insist - dinner’s on me,” Sam said firmly, as everyone poured into the apartment and began raving over the hazy photo of a blob on the refrigerator.

“M&M graciously donated one of the unused save files on their video game to me. And I thought tonight was supposed to be family night,” Jett said lamely. “Wouldn’t I be intruding?”

“No, because someone invited you,” Sam said, tossing his head in Robin’s direction. “And even if he hadn’t, you’re welcome to join us on the family night out.”

“Oh… you’re going, too?” Jett said, catching Robin’s eye once again. This news changed things.

Robin gave her a casual grin. “I never pass up Trader Mort’s.”

Sofia chimed in, “It’s literally the only place all of us agree on. Even the kids, and Robin with his crude taste. That in and of itself should be considered a miracle.”

Jett knew of Trader Mort’s, a no-expense-spared tiki bar and restaurant that liked to tout itself as more of an “experience” than a mere dining establishment. She herself had never gone, but she’d heard others sing its praises. The founder, James Mortemer, was supposedly descended from some legendary pirate captain and the restaurant apparently hinged heavily on this gimmick.

“Has something for everyone,” Sam put in. “There’s a cool volcano show for the kids, Sofia and I both adore their menu…”

“Separate bar area where Robin can always find a girl to take home,” Sofia finished.

Jett studiously ignored this comment as she led the boys away to find their coats.

Moments later, Jett was finishing getting ready herself, and wandered back into the boys’ room. Robin then appeared at the boys’ bedroom door. “Kiddos, you want to go tell your dad you’re ready?” Robin said, knocking on the door frame.

“Yep!” they cried in unison, running off.

“You’re coming with me in my car, right?” Robin asked.

Jett shot back his question with another question. “Because you want me to, or because it’ll piss off Sam?”

“Nah, that’s boring now. Because I want you to,” Robin said with a grin.

Jett had to smile. “Okay, you got me, then.”

They spent the drive in comfortable conversation, and Jett’s heart fluttered when they left the car and approached the restaurant entrance, because of who was accompanying her.

“Shall we, beautiful?” Robin said lightly, offering Jett his elbow to hold as they walked through the door.

At dinner, things were generally civil, even as Robin insisted on sitting next to Jett and keeping close to her. The adults made polite small talk, and Mason and Mickey, as children were wont to do, had already long forgotten about “Suck-fia” and had moved on to other things.

As the meal wound down, Robin nudged Jett. “You know, when those two take the kiddos to watch the volcano show, I bet we could sneak a little time to ourselves,” Robin said in a low voice into Jett’s ear.

Though Sofia couldn’t hear the words, it was impossible to miss that Robin had leaned in very close to Jett to whisper to her.

“Jett, tell me you’re not falling for this,” Sofia said with a slight roll of her eyes. “And Robin. Really? Just because you’re in a dating slump doesn’t mean you should be going after her.”

“What, just going to do a drive-by on me like that? I have a great personality,” Jett said with a hollow laugh in between bites of her dinner.

Robin glared, all traces of his earlier good mood gone from his face. “There’s nothing wrong with Jett.” Then, softening his expression, he turned back to Jett and asked, “Split one of these desserts with me?”

Sofia sighed with exasperation and forged ahead. “I meant, you shouldn’t be leading her on, and then subsequently breaking her heart like you so frequently do, and leaving us to deal with the mess. We’ve never had to deal with your dating disasters before; why bring us into this now?”

“Yes. For goodness’ sake, she’s an integral part of this family, now,” Sam piped up. “You can’t do that to her.”

Sam had been admonishing Jett to steer clear of Robin ever since the three of them had met. It felt to her as though, even if Sam couldn’t have her himself, he still wanted to be the one that she longed for.

But could it be that it wasn’t jealousy on Sam’s part, but simply the truth? Jett also remembered back to when she first met Sofia - she, too, had warned Jett that Robin was “a player.” That was the word she had used.

The entire conversation made Jett let out an audible chuckle. It was the type of nervous laugh that one lets out when they know they’re in deep trouble, and so, one can’t help but simply let out a joyless laugh with a hint of melancholic despair.

Sam glowered, and then turned towards Robin. “Don’t make her pay for it just because you’re annoyed you can’t get anyone else to fall for your charms right now.”

“That’s not true,” Robin protested.

“Fine. Then pick up one of the other beautiful women here tonight. Now. I bet you can’t do it.”

Sofia raised her eyebrows in slight interest and amusement. She felt that Sam was more bewildered than upset or hurt by the situation. Things had always been handed to him, and, with the tragic exception of the loss of his wife, he’d had little experience in dealing with anything less than Easy Street. Sure, Jett had started the nanny position with an infatuation for Sam, but that was before she had gotten to know everyone better. Jett now wanting Robin instead of him appeared to have short-circuited Sam’s brain.

“Watch me,” assured Robin belligerently, standing up to begin the search for his quarry.

Sam couldn’t hold it in any longer. With Robin now gone from their table, he demanded, “Jett, what do you see in that guy?”

An eight-hour explanation formed in Jett’s mind. “Nothing,” she ultimately said.

Sam let out another sigh, and pulled out his phone. “Look,” he said. “This was actually an old business partner of Robin’s,” Sam said, scrolling through the phone. He handed the phone over to Jett. It was a multi-part Pictagram post. Swiping through revealed a rant written by an angered woman about how she’d felt “led on” by Robin only to find that their relationship was not what she thought it was.

Jett skimmed the Pictagram post as Sofia and Sam watched Robin continue to walk around all the various sections of Trader Mort’s - the bar, the dining area, the fire pit, the merchandise booth. He was observing all of the other patrons of the restaurant as carefully as if he were shopping for a house or a car.

“This was an old girlfriend,” Sam said, navigating to a different Pictagram post showing a scowling woman, followed by a lengthy diatribe of a caption talking about how truly wronged she’d been during their breakup.

Sam took his phone back, swiped around, and gave it to Jett again, showing another Pictagram post with a different woman. “Girlfriend,” he said.

“Girlfriend.” Another post, equal amounts of rage and spite in the caption.

“Aaaaand, girlfriend.” Another post. More rage.

“Sam, you seem like you’re just looking out for me, which is… nice, but totally unnecessary,” Jett ventured cautiously, before a touch of anger seeped into her voice. “And, I mean, did you just already have these pictures ready, or something, just to show me?! All prepared to disparage him like this? You pulled these all out awfully fast.”

“Oh, no, I just searched by the hashtag. It was really easy to find,” Sam said with pure innocence. He showed the last photo again to Jett. Oh. There it was: #fuckrobinflores

“Oh.”

“To be perfectly fair, sometimes he just has one-night stands and the women aren’t all that bothered by it. You wouldn’t see those on the hashtag, though, I guess,” Sofia said with a chuckle. “But he hasn’t been getting any dates at all lately. I think that’s why he’s targeting you.”

“I wouldn’t call it targeting,” Jett insisted. “We’re not exactly… well, you know we’re not together, but I wouldn’t say any of this is one-sided.”

The conversation was interrupted because Sam noticed that Robin had settled at a standing table. Sam had to hand it to Robin - the girl he picked was absolutely stunning, a tall, slim brunette with a beautiful face.

Robin had ordered the Poseidon’s Revenge Grog, the most expensive drink that Trader Mort’s offered, which was an elaborate, fruit-topped rum drink served in a carved bowl so massive it could comfortably house several tropical fish.

Deftly as a master painter crafts their portraits, as a maestro weaves their notes together in a beautiful melody, and as anyone of extraordinary skill in their art wields their talent, Robin demonstrated to his onlookers his effortless skill in flirting. He simply poked two straws into his monstrous Poseidon’s Revenge Grog, pointed one of them at the girl, lowered his chin an inch, and gave her a sultry smile in invitation without so much as a word.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline - he thought he saw the immediate future flashing before his eyes. As the beautiful brunette girl leapt for her straw, and Robin leaned forward for his, Sam saw the inevitable collision course that their respective heads were on and tensed up, bracing himself for two visits to Concussion City. He would have sworn, “There’s nothing anyone could have done.”

Except Jett wasn’t just anyone. In a lightning-quick motion, Jett lunged for the Poseidon’s Revenge Grog too, and her hand shot out between Robin and the girl, preventing the double head injury.

“Jett!” Robin exclaimed.

“Oh my god! Thank you!” cried the girl. “That was almost a disaster!”

Jett shook out her hand and winced, looking everything like a hero who’d just punched out the bad guy. “I was supposed to be off baby-sitting duty tonight,” she said through gritted teeth, though her tone was light. “The universe decided that this would not be the case.”

After a few more rounds of “Thank you,” and “Are you okay?!” the girl introduced herself to Robin as Phaedra, and smiled at him.

Robin mumbled a quick apology to her. “Sorry - keep the Grog, though. I’m headed back to the bar with her, for some ice.”

“No, I get it, totally. But if you want to hang out sometime - give me your phone?” said Phaedra.

“Oh. Sure.” Robin placed his hand on Jett’s back as Phaedra typed away, and as soon as she was done, he gave her a quick thanks.

“See you!” said Phaedra, grabbing the tiki bowl and flouncing away back to her friends.

Robin led Jett to the bar, where he found an empty bar stool. He cleared his throat and gave a charming smile to someone seated on the next bar stool, and asked with all the confidence of a man who could still score the phone number of a girl he’d almost concussed, “Hey, buddy. You mind?”

“Not at all,” said the other man, moving one stool over.

“Thanks,” Jett managed weakly, as the two of them sat side by side and Robin asked the bartender for a bag of ice.

“What do you say you and I share a much more reasonably sized drink?” Robin asked.

Jett laughed. “Yeah. Sure. And dessert, too, since that didn’t happen earlier.”

They sat mostly in silence for a short while, as Jett iced her hand, and awkwardly ate with her non-dominant hand. Jett mumbled an apology as her hand brushed against Robin’s, reaching for their shared drink. They had decided on a Damnation, a mixture of light and dark rums and fruit juices served in a ceramic mug in the shape of a piranha. It was, as Robin had suggested, a much more reasonably sized concoction.

“I’m really uncoordinated with this hand,” she joked.

In response, Robin closed his hand around her uninjured one. “Jett?” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“You can trust me,” Robin said with an unusual sincerity.

For a moment, Jett debated feigning innocence and asking, “About what?”

She couldn’t decide what to say for several more minutes, but eventually settled on “Yeah. I want to.”

When Robin and Jett returned to the others, they were then standing at the miniature volcano display waiting for the show to start. Sam had a triumphant look on his face. It dawned on Jett that this was a win-win situation for him: either Robin couldn’t pick anyone up and Sam would force him to admit that he only wanted Jett because he’d been in a dating slump, or, he did score some other girl’s number, and well - he would have scored the number of a girl who wasn’t Jett. It was as though Sam wanted to somehow prove that Robin couldn’t ever take her seriously. If Jett were to ask Sam, he would probably tell her that he would treat her like royalty - never mind the fact that he was engaged to someone else - while Robin would treat her like a customer at a delicatessen. “Now serving number five-oh-eight.”

Jett could see herself understanding why Sam would think that. But Robin… Robin had asked her to trust him.

“I hate to say I told you so…” Sam began.

“Then don’t,” Jett snapped.

“Well, it seems this was to be expected. All of us always have a good time when we come to Trader Mort’s,” Sofia said flippantly. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose, Robin. Enjoy your date with what’s-her-name.”

“Mickey, Mason, look above you!” Sam interjected.

As the boys marveled over the animatronics display descending from the ceiling - which Jett had to admit was actually pretty cool - she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Robin giving her a small smile, and holding up his phone screen for her to see. It showed the name Phaedra, followed by her phone number. Her contact name was accompanied by a bunch of heart emojis, a sort of digital age equivalent of kissing one’s lipstick to a napkin and writing “Call me!”

Wordlessly, Robin made a bit of a show out of displaying the screen to Jett as he pressed “Delete contact.”

He tossed the phone into his pocket.

Lights began to flash and fog filled the room, and the Trader Mort’s crew started chanting. Jett’s hand slipped into Robin’s as the two of them watched the volcano erupt while the crowd cheered.

#playchoices #the nanny affair #robin flores #robin x mc #choices fanfic #bb5 fic #i guess that's a tag now #and i guess i love robin too much to stop myself from writing fic now #but i still can't believe i did this #my FIRST EVER choices fic and believe me I have been kicking around in this fandom for AWHILE #not since that earliest of the early days but... early enough #anyway hope you all enjoy this or...#at least even if you don't enjoy it i hope the robin fans out there appreciate that there's a slight bit more robin content out there now #don't worry edward we will carry on your legacy after that shit ass ending #ah there we go the real summary to this fic

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