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kelyon · 3 years

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Golden Rings 22: An Offer

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Lacey has a meeting with Mayor Mills

Read on AO3

Content warning for verbal abuse and sexual fear

The clacking of Lacey’s heels against the sidewalk was music to her ears. She felt right, dressed like a whore and parading herself down Main Street. After her conversation with Mayor Mills, the stupid voice in the back of her head was quiet. Finally, things were back to normal.

Now it didn’t matter that Mr. Gold had been acting like a stranger since October. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want her, that he was fucking somebody else. She didn’t need him. She didn’t have to be “Mrs. Gold” in order to get what she wanted out of life. All that bastard did was pay her. He didn’t own her. He’d given up that privilege months ago. She didn’t have to belong to him. There were lots of other people out there. Mayor Mills wanted to help her. Mayor Mills wanted her.

At least, she was pretty sure she did. It was hard to tell. Lacey had never had a woman look at her the way Mayor Mills did sometimes. It was a sharp, laser-focused look. A look that cut her to the bone and then began to saw into her marrow. Like everything Lacey was, everything she had ever been or had ever dreamed of being, was laid bare for Mayor Mills’ approval.

Mr. Gold used to look at her like that.

Lacey dug her nails into her palms. Or maybe she was an idiot. Maybe she had been imagining the little signs. Maybe the mayor of Storybrooke would try to help anybody she came across in town, offer them rides in her sporty black Mercedes-Benz. Maybe she would arrange an after-hours meeting with any married woman who called her up. Maybe it was a public service.

Or maybe not.

She remembered this feeling, this knowing-but-not-knowing. The anticipation. The unanswered questions. The tension gave her a thrill. A thrill she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Maybe that was why it was so easy to lie when she walked into the pawn shop.

Mr. Gold looked up from his inventory book when he heard her. His eyes were cautious. Afraid? Was this sad little coward really afraid of her? Maybe that was why it was so easy to grin at him, to reassure him with bright eyes and a lilting voice.

“I wasn’t sure what you were doing for lunch,” she chirped. “Want me to pick up something from Granny’s?”

The corners of his mouth lifted up. It was almost a smile. “No thank you, Mrs. Gold. I brought leftovers from home today.”

She nodded, and tapped her fingers against the counter in front of him. How many times had he fucked her against these display cases? How many times had she dropped to her knees behind the cash register while the shop was still open? He would challenge her to hurry, to suck him off before a customer walked in on them. He told her he would beat her black and blue if she failed.

What kind of things would Mayor Mills want her to do?

“Hey, I’m sorry about this morning,” Lacey lied. “I’ve just been really stupid and emotional lately.”

“You’re not stupid,” Mr. Gold said softly. “I know I haven’t made things easy for you. I’m sorry about that.”

A plastic smile was a wonderful talent. She was used to using it on other people, but now Mr. Gold was as easy to fool as everyone else.

“It’s not your fault,” she said sweetly, even though she was ready to spit acid in his face. “I just needed some time to myself this morning. But I feel better now. Later today I’m gonna get my hair done. I scheduled an appointment for around five.”

Easy as it was to lie, there was a specific delight in letting him get the wrong idea from entirely factual information. He had taught her how to do that. She would go to Janine’s and get her hair styled. And then she would have her appointment with Mayor Mills at five o’clock on the dot.

And he just nodded, just went along with it. Idiot. “The shop will be closed by the time you’re done. I can pick you up at the salon.”

She wrinkled her nose. Playful, casual. Not a care in the world. “No, I don’t know how long I’ll be, and the weather looks like nothing but blue skies. Besides, you’ll want to start supper. What are we having tonight?”

He began to ramble on about spring onions and fricasseeing, while Lacey counted the hours until her appointment at City Hall.

****

Officially, the city offices closed at 4 PM, but everybody knew that Mayor Mills stayed as late as she needed to keep the town running. Everyone admired her devotion, but pitied how often she had to leave her sweet little boy unsupervised. Rumor had it that was why Henry was so troubled, why he kept hanging around shady characters like Sheriff Swan, his birth mother. But his real mother was doing the best anyone could under such circumstances. Henry had appointments with Dr. Hopper several nights a week to keep his moods under control.

Why do you know so much about Regina’s life? Why is that woman the center of the universe in this town? Think about it!

Of course the voice was back. Lacey wasn’t sure if she wanted a stiff drink or a total lobotomy. Whatever would get it to shut up.

City Hall was quiet, that was part of the trouble. The empty hallway echoed so much she could hear her heart beating along with the sound of her footsteps. The voice always started jabbering at her during moments of stillness, moments when she should have been at peace.

She couldn’t tell if City Hall was serene or creepy. Like most buildings in the rich part of New Town, the design was sleek and modern. The interiors were stark white trimmed in black--plaster walls and gleaming tile floors. Right now, it had the terrible oddness of a place that was supposed to be filled with people, but wasn’t.

At this late hour, the fluorescent lights were dimmed. During the day the brightness was intimidating, but long evening shadows didn’t inspire confidence either. The doors lining the hall were a fake wood laminate, so dark they were almost black. The only other color came from the occasional piece of corporate art hanging up on the walls. Black and white photos of Storybrooke, all in frames as red as blood.

This is a bad place. You need to leave!

“Shut up,” she hissed. She would try not to tell Mayor Mills about the voice right away. No need to let the mayor think she was crazy. Besides, if all this went right, Lacey would feel a lot better very soon.

The door to the mayor’s office was ajar, but Lacey still knocked on the ebony frame.

“Come in,” Mayor Mills’ voice was brusque. For a split-second, fear clenched at Lacey’s stomach. She should listen to the voice in her head and run! Run away from this place that felt like a haunted house, run back home to Mr. Gold or to her father or to Sheriff Swan or anyone but Regina!

But she didn’t.

All Lacey did was adjust her purple bustier and walk in.

“Close the door behind you.” Mayor Mills didn’t look up from her paperwork.

Lacey did as she was asked--did as she was told. Her pulse quickened to be obeying orders again.

Like the rest of City Hall, the mayor’s office was nothing but black and white. The only difference was the clutter of prints and patterns. The wallpaper, the curtains, the upholstery on the conference table chairs--they were all a different print, but they were all monochrome. There was no illusion of serenity here. The room looked designed to disorient.

Even the stone floor was inlaid with black and white. An outline of a circle took up most of the space between the door and the desk. The circle was black, with tapered black flags coming out from the center. It looked like a pinwheel, or a clock, or something a bad guy would use to hypnotize someone in a cartoon.

Without any other instructions, Lacey decided to stand in the middle of the circle. She waited, at the point where black and white met and disappeared into each other.

Mayor Mills stayed at her desk. After a few more signatures, she set her pen down in a drawer and began to stack the papers neatly into a shiny black file folder. So she was meticulous. Lacey could appreciate that.

She kept waiting. The mayor didn’t look at her until the desk--a white slab of polished stone set on top of two carved stone pillars--was empty.

“You were seven minutes early,” she said at last.

Lacey swallowed and kept her hands at her sides. “Mr. Gold says that punctuality is the virtue of princes, Madame Mayor.”

One perfectly outlined, jet-black eyebrow raised on Mayor Mills’ forehead. “Mrs. Gold, if you’re looking for a prince, I don’t think I can be of any help to you.”

Would it be okay to laugh? Or would Mayor Mills think that was impertinent? Lacey just pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“Do you want to tell me what you are looking for, Mrs. Gold?”

Now she opened her mouth, but she didn’t have the words to answer.

Rumple. Rumple, help me! Rumple!

“R--r--really, I… I don’t know if I can put it into words, Madame Mayor.”

Mayor Mills gave her a considering look. She stayed at her desk, but leaned back in her black leather office chair. “Sit down.”

Two black and silver chairs sat in front of the desk. Lacey put her purse down in one and perched on the edge of the other.

“Would you like something to eat?” Standing up, Mayor Mills went to the conference table that took up most of the space on the right-hand side of the room. A large white bowl--ceramic, and shaped so that it looked like a collection of bleached, dead coral--was full of apples. All of them were as red as blood. The mayor took two and held one out to Lacey. “I often find that when I need to think, one of my prize-winning Honeycrisp apples always helps me focus on what’s most important.”

Lacey took the apple and held it in her hands. If she had seen this in a grocery store, she would have sworn that it was a Red Delicious. But of course the mayor would know her own apples. She had grown apples since she was a little girl. The tree that grew these ones was right outside the window behind the desk.

“Are you going to thank me?” The mayor was quiet, but it was the quiet of a viper about to strike.

“Yes,” Lacey said automatically. “Yes, I’m so sorry, Madame Mayor. Thank you for the apple. And for your time. I--I know you’re busy.”

“I am,” Mayor Mills agreed. Behind her desk, she pulled open a drawer and took out a silver knife. There was a design carved into the handle, Lacey couldn’t tell if it was an apple or a heart. After walking back to the front of the desk and leaning against the edge, the mayor began to cut into her apple. “There’s a lot of trouble brewing right now in Storybrooke. But I’ll make time for you, Mrs. Gold.”

“Why?” Lacey muttered. “I’m just a cheap, trashy slut.”

Grinning, the mayor took a slice of her apple. She chewed, swallowed, licked the juice off her red lips. “Is that what Mr. Gold told you to think of yourself?”

“Yes,” she whispered, looking down at the apple in her lap. She had said the words before to people, said them with a smile, like they were an honor. She had puffed up her own performance like a balloon. Only now she had popped, and there was nothing left of her but tattered shreds of rubber.

Lacey felt something cold on the bottom of her chin. Mayor Mills held the flat edge of the knife against her skin and lifted her gaze until they were eye to eye. Sitting down, she was looking up at the mayor. “Is Mr. Gold in charge of you, dear?”

She blinked. “I--He was. But I don’t want him to be anymore.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes.” Lacey wanted to look down again, but the mayor hadn’t released her yet. “He--he cheated on me. And he’s been keeping secrets from me. And--and he’s just different, I don’t know how to explain it, but I hate it. I hate it, Madame Mayor!”

Mayor Mills took the knife away, and cut herself another slice of apple. She smiled. “He’s not the man you married.” She seemed almost smug to say it. “So now you’re looking for someone who can take his place. Someone who can remind you of why you were put in this world.”

“Yes!” Absurdly, Lacey felt her eyes begin to well with tears. Those were the words she had been looking for! She had been so right to come here. Mayor Mills knew exactly how to make everything right again! “I--I hope you’re not offended or anything. That I thought of you first when I wanted to find someone who would--would treat me the way I like to be treated.”

“The way you deserve to be treated, you mean.” Her voice was so low, so dark and so dangerous. “You cheap, trashy slut.”

It was like her heart had been ripped out of her chest and she was just perverted enough to love it. Repeating the same words that had just caused her shame, rubbing them in her face. This was exactly the kind of pain she had been looking for. Mayor Mills was brilliant.

She wanted to kiss her boots.

Lacey looked up at the mayor, at the way her crimson dress clung to her curves. Her silhouette was an absolute hourglass, tapering down into legs wrapped in tasteful nylons. So much classier than Lacey’s whorish fishnet stockings.

Mayor Mills’ eyes were dark and intense. Black, where Mr. Gold’s were brown. Her makeup was dramatic but flawless. Her lips were as red as the apple she was eating, her teeth as white as its flesh.

Lacey had never felt so small before, not in front of another woman. Not in front of anyone but Mr. Gold. She looked down. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper, a breath. “What can I do? In order to deserve you?”

The mayor’s laugh was rich and throaty. It sounded like red wine at a midnight feast. She set down her apple and her silver knife and held Lacey firmly by the jaw with her own silky-smooth hands.

“Let’s make sure we understand one another, Mrs. Gold: You don’t deserve me. You can’t deserve me. Nothing you could ever do would be enough to get you even close to my level. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Lacey whispered. She couldn’t move. Fear and arousal were too overpowering. “Yes, Madame Mayor.”

“Good.” She took her hand away and went behind her desk. “You know, you’re actually a very lucky girl. Until quite recently, I was content with the submissive I had. But then he… disappointed me, and we had to part ways.”

You killed that poor man, you vile--

“So!” Lacey said, too loudly. “Are we agreed then? Will you take me on as a ‘submissive’?”

Mayor Mills looked at her from her office chair. Her gaze was steady and unblinking. “Do you think you can submit to me? Even though I’m not your husband?”

“Yes,” she said. “At least, I’d like to try.”

“Have you ever served a woman before, dear?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No, of course you haven’t, not properly. Well, I’ll warn you, we’re not like men. We’re not easy. There’s no one-and-done climax while you lie back and think of England.”

Lacey opened her mouth. Her instinct was to defend Mr. Gold, to say that sex with him had never been like that. But that wasn’t anything Mayor Mills wanted to hear.

“I’m going to demand a lot more of you than a man would,” the mayor went on. “I’m not satisfied by anything but perfection. And the cocks I use never go soft.”

She shifted in her seat. Were these threats or promises? “I would like to satisfy you, Madame Mayor,” she said softly. “I would like to please you.”

The mayor smiled again. “Of course you would,” she purred. “I think everyone in this town understands the benefits of having a happy mayor.” Her eyes flickered over Lacey’s body. “Are you wearing anything underneath that ugly skirt?”

A flash of heat went through her body. Partially it was the shock and pleasure at the sudden shift in the conversation. But there was also a bit of embarrassment. Lacey liked this skirt--black vinyl with blue tulle ruffles underneath. Was it really ugly?

“Well?” Mayor Mills said patiently.

“Oh! I--yes. A thong. It’s purple, like my bustier.”

“Mmm.” The mayor smiled like a cat with a bluebird in its paw. “Well, that I simply must see.”

Lacey sprang to her feet. She moved to unzip the tight skirt, but then she got an idea. “May I take off my blouse as well?”

“Oh, if you insist.” Leaning back in her chair, the mayor picked up her knife and cut off another slice of apple. She ate it, while Lacey stripped down to her lingerie and folded her clothes neatly on the conference table.

Then she stood in the center of the circle again, in front of the mayor’s desk, wearing nothing but purple silk, black lace, high heels, and jewelry.

Looking at her, Mayor Mills crunched into the last bite of her apple, then threw the core into the trash.

“Turn around,” she ordered. “Slowly.”

Lacey obeyed. God, this was amazing. Under the mayor’s scrutiny, every inch of her felt alive. This was what she was made for. This was the reason she existed in this world.

“You're groomed, at least. And it looks like you have some marks,” the mayor said coolly. “Am I safe in assuming they’re not recent?”

“No--I mean yes. They are not recent. Mr. Gold hasn’t touched me since October.”

“I imagine that would be frustrating,” she smirked. “For both of you. Come closer.”

Lacey stood directly in front of the desk. It was like she was here on official business, like she was going to ask for funding to re-open the library or something.

“Bend over, with your elbows on the desk. Lean forward until that pert little ass of yours sticks up in the air like a bitch in heat. I’m sure you’re familiar with the position. Keep your head up, but your eyes lowered. Don’t look at me.”

She did the best she could, remembering that the mayor was only satisfied by perfection. Once she was settled into place, she kept her eyes downcast. Her head was spinning. For some reason, it was hard to breathe.

Then Lacey felt the mayor’s hands on her throat.

She gulped, but didn’t move. Do the brave thing. And it wasn’t that she was afraid of Mayor Mills. But the movement had been so sudden, so unexpected that it caught her off guard. And the mayor did have a very tight grip.

Her hands weren’t cold, but Lacey would have been hard-pressed to call the touch warm. A better word would have been to call the touch… proprietary. Appraising. She was inspecting the goods before she made a claim on them.

Obediently, Lacey kept her eyes down while the mayor touched her. She couldn’t see her face. She heard her chuckle as her fingers explored the skin of her neck.

“All these little scars here look like you lost a fight with a rose bush. How did you get them?”

You gave them to me, you bitch! You and your dragon! She made thorns grow into my skin while you made me fuck you!

“I don’t remember,” Lacey said. Honestly, she didn’t remember having scars on her throat. “I don’t think Mr. Gold gave them to me.”

“Hmm.” Despite Lacey’s ignorance, Mayor Mills sounded pleased. Her hand moved from Lacey’s neck down to the upper edge of her bustier. There was enough space between the cloth and Lacey’s skin that the mayor could have slid inside and copped a feel. But all she did was trace her fingers over the mounds of cleavage and pinch.

“Ow!” Lacey yelped, but stayed braced against the desk. It was a little shameful how quickly she reacted. But a sharp pinch could hurt more than a spanking and she was out of practice. Besides, Mr. Gold always liked her to be vocal. He liked to know exactly how much pain he was causing.

The mayor rubbed at the sore patch of skin and gradually expanded her touch so that she cupped the whole of Lacey’s breast.

“Oh poor thing,” she cooed. “I’m just surprised to see that they’re real. Of course, it would be a waste of Mr. Gold’s money if you paid for tits and these were the best you got.”

The mayor emphasized her words with a sharp twist, digging her long nails into the soft flesh.

Lacey gasped in pain. The heat of it started at the mayor’s hand, coursed through all the nerves in her body, and eventually settled between her legs. The gasp turned into a whine, and then a moan.

“Good girl,” Mayor Mills said quietly. “But remember, slut, this is a public building. I can’t have you defiling these hallowed halls with your grunts and groans. You disgusting animal.”

Pressing her lips together, Lacey tried to swallow her hungry noises.

“Ugh.” She could imagine the mayor rolling her eyes. She could imagine the disdain, the contempt on her face. Lacey was so worthless. And now she had finally found someone who understood that she was worthless, who would treat her like she was worthless.

God, she was so wet.

“Here.” The mayor took Lacey’s apple from where she had set it down earlier. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you refusing to eat this. That was exceptionally rude. Ungrateful, even. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s ingratitude.”

“I’m sor--” She began to apologize, but as soon as her mouth opened, Mayor Mills had shoved in the apple. Lacey’s teeth broke through the red skin and she tasted the sour-sweet juice on her tongue. After only a moment of having the apple in her mouth, she felt the juice dripping down onto her chin. It mingled with her saliva and made her a slobbery mess.

“Better.” Now Mayor Mills’ voice was gentle, sweet. She was happy. It was good to make her happy.

Lacey heard her footsteps move around the desk. She couldn’t see the mayor, and she couldn’t make any noise. Apple flooded her senses of taste and smell. All she could do was hear. And feel.

The mayor was behind her. Manicured nails scraped at the exposed flesh of Lacey’s ass. She would have made a noise, to show how much her body liked the attention, but the apple was an excellent gag.

“You know, I can smell how wet you are, you tramp.” Her hands rested on either one of Lacey’s hips. “You stink. You’re filthy. You’re a disgrace.”

Unable to moan, Lacey shivered. Her hips rocked against the desk for a minute, until Mayor Mills dug her nails in and she stopped.

“Why do you even wear panties?” She plucked at the straps of her thong. “You always soak right through them. Every time I walk by you, you reek of pussy. You needy, greedy little cunt.”

She couldn’t stop herself. She jerked up, pushed against the desk in a desperate search for any kind of friction.

“Wriggling like a worm,” the mayor sneered. “You’re not even really a person, are you? You’re just a sex machine, like a junkie looking for a fix. You’re nothing but your need. Just a trio of fuckholes, desperate to be filled.”

When had Lacey started crying? She was bent face down on the empty desk. The apple in her mouth was the only thing that kept her face from pressing against the cold stone. Her hands were balled into fists on either side of her. She didn’t dare move her arms.

Everything the mayor had said echoed in her mind until she felt the vibrations of the words in her body. Her flesh trembled and shook. Her cunt clenched and it didn’t matter that it had nothing to clench against. She just wanted. Her body wanted...

“Don’t you dare!” Mayor Mills roared. “I forbid you to come. Don’t you--”

But then there was silence.

Desperate to obey, Lacey tried to stop her orgasm. She had done that often for Mr. Gold. There was a trick to it--pretty much the same thing as stopping yourself from having hiccups. As her body calmed, she became aware that Mayor Mills hadn’t spoken.

Then she became aware of a breeze swishing back and forth over her nearly-bare ass. It was like when Mr. Gold would pretend to spank her, just to see her jump. He would laugh at that. But Mayor Mills didn’t seem to find it amusing at all.

“What the hell?”

Even without seeing her, Lacey could tell that Mayor Mills was clenching her jaw. Again and again, she felt the breeze of phantom spankings. Did the mayor not want to spank her? What was going on?

“Hands flat on the desk!” the mayor barked. “Let me see your fucking wrists!”

Her wrists? Why? But Lacey did as she was told. Gracelessly, the mayor pulled on her hands. She turned them around and examined them. While she was distracted, Lacey dared to look up at Mayor Mills.

She was livid. Her breath came out in huffs and her red lips snarled around bared teeth. Suddenly, she slapped her right hand beside Lacey’s left.

“This ring,” she hissed. “That’s your wedding ring, isn’t it?”

Lacey lifted her mouth off the apple and nodded.

Mayor Mills looked angry enough to burst into flames. “Take. It. Off!”

Hands shaking, Lacey tried to obey. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken off her wedding ring. Mr. Gold had wanted her to wear it day and night. But what the fuck did Mr. Gold matter now?

When the ring was off, she set it on the desk next to the gnawed apple. She stood at attention, with her eyes downcast.

The mayor took the ring and held it between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at it, and shook her head.

“Unbelievable.”

Yes, it was unbelievable that Lacey would go to a seduction still wearing her wedding ring. What a stupid whore she was. Thoughtless. Sloppy. Ungrateful.

Mayor Mills tossed the ring back down on the desk, like touching it made her sick. Then she stood up again.

“Let’s try something else.”

For a moment, her anger had abated. Her hips swayed softly as she walked over to Lacey. Gently, she put one hand on Lacey’s neck, and cupped her cheek with the other. She tilted her head back.

Lacey closed her eyes and parted her lips--but nothing happened. The mayor’s hands moved away. After another moment, Lacey opened her eyes.

Mayor Mills had one hand extended toward Lacey’s face. It was flat and open, like she was about to slap her. But she wasn’t. She hadn’t. Aside from some pinching, Regina hadn’t been able to do anything to her.

Rumple, you genius!

When Lacey caught the mayor’s eye, she started and looked away. Without a word, Mayor Mills walked over to the other side of the room. There was a cabinet by the fireplace, from which she pulled out a bottle and a glass.

Her back to Lacey the whole time, the mayor poured out a measure of clear alcohol and drank it in one gulp. Then she took a deep breath.

Then she turned around.

“Mrs. Gold, I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to continue this relationship.” She gave a bittersweet smile. “You see, unlike some people in this town, I value marriage. I couldn’t possibly engage in an affair with a married woman.”

“What?” Lacey’s voice cracked. “No, you can’t mean that! I-- Mr. Gold isn’t taking care of me anymore. Our marriage is dead! I--I need you, Madame Mayor!”

“And you can never know how happy I am to hear you say those things, dear. But the facts are facts--as long as you’re married to your husband, I can’t touch you. Not in any way that matters, at least.”

“Fuck.” Lacey put her hand over her mouth. “Oh fuck, Madame Mayor. I--I really need this, you know?”

“I know,” she nodded. She went over to the conference table and picked up the stack of Lacey’s clothes. She held them out to her. “And I am truly sorry that I won’t get to punish you the way you deserve. But this is how it has to be.” She turned back to her desk.

“Wait!” Lacey clutched her clothes to her chest. “You--you’re just doing this because I’m married, right?”

The mayor nodded again. She had pulled out a paper towel from a desk drawer and was wiping up Lacey’s spit and apple juice.

“Well, what if--what if I left him? What if we got a divorce?”

Mayor Mills stopped cleaning mid-wipe. For the first time in a while, she looked Lacey in the eye. “Divorces can be messy. They can take a long time. I thought your issue was more pressing than that.”

“I--I don’t know what else to do, Madame Mayor.” Dumping her clothes on a chair, she got on her knees in front of the desk. “You’re right, I do need what you can give me. I need it now, and I’ll do anything to get it!”

She smiled. A light shone in her black eyes. “Anything?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Hmm.” The mayor stood. She began to walk around Lacey in a slow circle. “Well, my point still stands. I simply can’t do anything worthwhile to you while you’re married to Mr. Gold.”

Lacey opened her mouth to beg again, but Mayor Mills lifted a finger and she fell silent.

“And, as we’ve established, a divorce might take a while to finalize. Especially with your husband’s thorough approach to contracts. So I suppose I’m forced to meet you halfway. I’ll just need some proof that your marriage is dead.”

Lacey licked her lips. “Proof?”

“Yes.” When her circle was complete, Mayor Mills was in front of her desk again. The golden ring was still on the surface. She picked it up and handed it out to Lacey.

It was a bizarre reverse-proposal. Lacey was the one on her knees. The mayor was giving her her own ring back to her, in exchange for a promise to end a marriage.

“This is part of a matched set, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s useless on its own. Your husband wears the other one?”

Lacey nodded.

“Alright,” Mayor Mills said. “So in order for me to have you, I’ll need both of them.”

“What?” Lacey felt her eyes going wide. “You want me to take Mr. Gold’s wedding ring?”

The mayor shrugged. “If your marriage is as dead as you say, he won’t miss it. If it isn’t, then, well, I have no power over you.”

“No.” Scrambling to her feet, Lacey took the ring from the mayor’s hand. “No, I want you to have power over me. I really do!”

A knowing, full-lipped smile. “There’s not much that would make me happier than having absolute power over you, dear. And it will happen, just as soon as I have both of your wedding rings.”

“It will,” Lacey nodded. “I’ll make it happen. I won’t disappoint you, Madame Mayor!”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic

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heroacademiasstuff · 5 years

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Also posted on my ao3 account: dolphins

Five times Yagi Toshinori and Shota Aizawa have been uncomfortably close and the one time it was just fine.

One thing that Shota Aizawa prided himself on was a keen attention to detail. He rarely missed errors when grading the student's essays, or forget to put out a dish of food for his cats, and especially never believed a badly told lie. How he had miscalculated something so mundane was utterly bizarre.

They were heading on a field trip with the students and All Might was tagging along to assist him with supervision. Aizawa had organised transport and surprisingly when everyone was seated on the stuffy, far-too-small bus, he had looked around at the brightly lit up faces and came to the realisation that there was nowhere for himself to sit.

A sigh pushed from his throat. His head twinged with the beginnings of a headache. Hopes of getting a good nap on the journey there fading away.

"You can have my seat, Aizawa-sensei," Midoriya blinked up at him, all shiny eyes as he swung his legs back and forth on the seat he had keenly chose beside All Might. Yes please, he wanted to say, but it was a health and safety risk and he was a teacher. "No, I can stand," he held on to one of the railings near the front, close to where the pair were sitting.

The bus took off and he was fine for maybe the first... fifteen minutes. But then he began to jolt at every bump, every pothole, every sharp turn. Teeth gritted, he damn well wanted to wrap his restraints around that stupid bus driver's throat when All Might pulled his sleeve.

"You can sit on my lap," he uttered, unusually quiet for the large, sunny, boisterous man. "I'm fine," Aizawa gritted out. Eyes averted towards the back of the driver's exposed neck. The kids were messing about loudly. Bakugo and Kirishima trading loud and very crude insults from across the cramped back seat. Ochaco and Ashido singing awful, out of tune pop songs. Midoriya turned in his seat to chat at a rapid pace to a solemn Todoroki. Probably no one would notice... plus the journey would last another three hours. "I do not bite," All Might chuckled out, "I swear."

Aizawa scoffed, glaring anywhere but at him. "I can stand," he reaffirmed, however he hadn't prepared for the rickety bus going over a rather large bump and having to catch himself on All Might's shoulder. His entire body felt enraged as he seen the other man smirk smugly. "Fine," he ground out and All Might tapped Midoriya on the thigh and they swapped seats so All Might had the window seat. Uncomfortably, Aizawa moved through the small space and sat unceremoniously on the man's knees. Perched as far as possible away from him and glaring out the window, trying to block out All Might and Midoriya's gazes.

Thankfully none of the other students seemed to notice and continued arguing and chatting loudly. All Might's thick thighs were hard and very, very warm. Like sitting on hot rocks, and he tried to keep most of his weight on his own legs, avoiding properly sitting on the man. Still, with each bump he jostled and All Might rolled his eyes and grabbed Aizawa from under his arm pits, pulling him until he was resting back, chest against his back. Aizawa let out a tiny yelp in surprise.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, face beginning to heat but All Might simply chuckled. "We are going to be here for another while, you may as well get comfortable," he shrugged and Aizawa could feel the movement behind his back, could feel the heat seeping through his clothes and the soft scent of soap floating up his nose. It had to have been years since he had been so close to another person. The thought itself unnerved him.

In attempt to distract himself and the few pairs of eyes that had grown toward him, he focused himself on his lesson plan for the trip and jotted down the occasional note. It felt like his face was boiling red. He stuffed his chin into his scarf.

"What are you doing?" All Might rested his chin on Aizawa's shoulder, breath tickling the hot skin on his cheek. "Nothing, move away," he demanded in frustration as the older man seemed to find annoying him all very amusing. "Come on," he poked at Aizawa's side and Midoriya was looking at them with a strange expression. He should have just stayed standing, but getting up now would only draw more attention and he couldn't be bothered dishing out extra homework to everyone who angered him.

He kicked All Might in the skin with just a bit of force and that seemed to shut him up. Chuckling he settled back in the chair, looking out the window and pointing out animals he spotted to a bright-eyed Midoriya. "Bird," he explained in English. Todoroki had joined in too, his face poking through the gap behind and he asked what various words meant in English. Both probably happy to have their idol so close by.

Finally, Aizawa returned to his lesson plans for the week and scribbled down light notes on the crinkling paper against his thigh. All of his class were going to need much more training if they wanted to gain their provisional licenses.

Late afternoon light filtered through the water-mark stained windows, flies sending buzzing shadows through the bus. Noise and chatter had faded to a low murmur after a while and Aizawa could actually hear the quiet sounds of the shitty radio filtering through. It smelled like dust and humidity. Everyone probably couldn't wait to get out and soak up some fresh air. "One and a half hours until arrival," the driver called over his shoulder.

Midoriya had gone quiet for the last ten minutes or so, and when Aizawa looked down from his papers, the boy was dozing with his head resting on All Might's large arm. Positively at peace with his surroundings, drool creeping from the corner of his mouth, he was sleeping soundly.

Aizawa put his papers away and chose to look out the window himself. Finally starting to let go of his previous irritation and embarrassment, he relaxed his tense muscles. All for nothing, however, as All Might seemingly growing bored without a release for his never-ending energy, began bouncing his thighs up and down, jostling him as though to settle an unruly child.

"What are you doing?" he gritted out, a wave of new humiliation coming over him. Never again was he organising class trips. "My legs are growing tired," All Might said, stretching his arms across Aizawa's waist. Goosebumps pricked up all of his body.

"Stop that," Aizawa hissed, kicking him much harder in the shins with both feet, only making All Might laugh deep and hearty in his chest. "Would you stop squirming and just relax?" Relax? How could he relax when he was being bounced up and down like a kid? "If you need to stretch go for a walk up and down the bus!" he bit out.

"I don't want to wake young Midoriya," he said simply, like it was obvious. Aizawa huffed, still kicking his leg with force, and the older man held him gently, still rocking him slightly with his jolting thighs and humming along obnoxiously to the quiet music.

Oh boy, he was going to regret this when they were alone. As soon as the kids were off the bus, he was going to erase his quirk and kick his ass, number-one hero or not. Aizawa wasn't exactly weak himself. Perhaps the old man had forgotten that when his huge ego inflated like a balloon.

In his furious thoughts, the kicking had unconsciously stopped, dry eyes growing heavy. Ugly patterns of the chair in front blurring slightly. Damn, he really had needed that fucking nap.

All Might looked down at the withdrawal of abuse to his rock-hard shins and Aizawa had drifted off to sleep. Such like a cat, All Might thought. Despite complaining about the light movements, it had worked and his friend had gotten a much needed rest.

Waking up, the kids smiling around him, Aizawa nearly had a heart attack. "Aizawa-sensei, you look so cute!" Ashido practically squealed and the girls chittered in agreement. "What the-" he rubbed his eyes, then blinked around. Uh oh. Pushing himself to stand abruptly, he glared around at them while ignoring the growing blush on his face. "What are you all waiting for?" he coughed out roughly, firmly ignoring the man behind him and his probably awful, smug face. Bastard. "Do you all need to hold my hand to get off the bus or something? Get moving! Or do you all want double homework for the rest of the semester?"

With a shot, they all clambered off and seemingly forgot about seeing their teacher curled up on All Might's lap having a sleep, except Midoriya, of course, who hung back to attach himself like glue to All Might and a trailing Todorki who looked exceptionally bored with his classmates.

God, Aizawa rubbed the back of his stiff neck. He needed a drink... or ten, and perhaps a lobotomy to forget this awful experience. Shuffling to collect all his belongings, Aizawa noted he would have to avoid All Might for perhaps the rest of his existence.

#erasermight fic #erasermight #eraserhead #dad might #all might #aizawa shouta #toshinori yagi #bnha #bnha fic #mha fic

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bluepenguinstories · 5 years

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Intention Headaches Chapter Three

Hung atop aside, hinged off a chiseled face of a cliff rest a vestige some know as home – a domed structure, bolted on by nails and years of structuring and reconstructing. Inside lie bodies, torsos and limbs, abreast a bereft vestibule. Bodies moving, some stationary. Animated, alive, lively for all the motions and immobile actions.

Without the use of movement, chromatic machinery lit up a main hall, where piles of ancient manuscripts lie among magazines of a bygone era (beside a pile of magazines ready to be loaded into weaponry).

“We have been assigned a new mission,” One such figurehead, poised in such a figurative manner, walked in with a voice of a sultry honey badger in heat.

“Out with it, Virgil!” Roared an uproarious uproar amongst munches of an ultra rare steak. One human poised seated, having counted her losses and after counting her winnings had decided she had earned an ultra rare steak, but therein lies the problem – one should never count winnings amongst their losses.

“Very well,” veracious Virgil henceforth found footing. “Underway, we have been requested to assassinate Hemingway.” Overhead, stiff air in a stuffy room supported a cough. “Should we...?”

“Accept it, dammit!” Growled and howled a huff from a mouth stuffed.

“Now Adeline, I know you have a personal vendetta against the Hemingways, but we must remember those words we read on the side of the mechanic caterpillar, written through the use of an aerosol can. 'Love comes close, but it eludes me'. Do you remember what that means?”

“As our leader has said, 'love is a labor and we are indentured servants'. But I've always hated how she said that! Tryin' to pretty up her words!”

“Yes, and as such, if we deny this mission, we may lose funds for the month. However, if we accept it and fail, we may lose lives in the process as well as our funds. Is such a high risk worth the reward?”

Adeline, fulfilling a carnal desire, tore into the pieces of meat, ravaging and pillaging what once belonged to a cow. Deep down, remnants of cow burrowed within the conscious and melded the mindset, a just cause for such a lass to be on the prowl.

“I know you have been voted best girl in the wake of Virginia's illness, however, she still makes the final decision.”

“She better say yes is all I'm sayin'! After our loss against the Plaths the other night, we gotta show this town our fangs!”

“I will pass that message along and inform you of her decision.”

Virgil walked over to the console just two footprints away, where Adeline could still see. Silent hums from the machine greeted the two. Displayed in the air were options, in which Virgil knew just which combination created the recipe to speak with the ill.

“Dear leader, mission request to assassinate Hemingway. Should we accept it?”

On the other end, crisp and clear as less than apple and closer to day, yet still miles apart, enshrined the vocal choral reef of an undersea beauty. Or, that of a tenor.

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to brew potions. Some drink glitter, I find porcelain dolphins in my lobotomies; vases taped shut to suitcases, some know of my return, but only upon your graves shall I utter the names of all the best breads for those to eat. Under each table are necessary supplies. Glue to hold us all in times where we can feel the cracks from the Earth. Ground beneath our little toesies. We know of the days spent, shrouded in cement, unbearable societies, yet we chisel away. If we are to work as a union, we must commune in each room, rooms of our own.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“I know you all will betray me!”

Adeline was slurping on fat. Loud and clear; queer findings, she heard it all.

“So in other words, yes,” Adeline concluded.

“Indeed,” Virgil was somewhere nearby, having made a reply.

“Excellent!” Added a line, aggressive in the grin department. Teeth spread, some sharpened on the ironing block. Forged ahead was a stomp across the base hall.

Plump aplomb, plum bedsheets plopped a volatile, stomach first, face smushed down against down pillowcases. Middling mutterings uttered outside an open mouth, drool exiting stage right.

“I won't rest until I hear an adverb...”

From outside a room of her own, two shapes with two sets of limbs gestured to one another.

“How could you let her just accept the offer?” Gyrated gruff giving of words.

“Adeline is best girl. It has been decided,” replied other set of limbs.

“That may be so, but look at us! We've taken a shitton o' hits over here! At this rate, we're gonna need new members! Remember when one Ka wanted in? Y'know what Virginia said?”

“'Only fools Russian'?” Virgil took a guess and hit outside the target.

“Excuse, em, me?”

“Apologies. I know no enunciation.”

“Anyway, no! She said, 'we cannot allow practitioners of magic.' Yet magic ain't even a thing! Did'ya see Ka claim to be a churchgoer? Nah! Ka ain't nah churchgoer! Far from, Ka a free woman!”

“Yes, however, Ka married. As she said, 'love is a union inside a megacorporation.' Under those circumstances, suspicion becomes necessary caution.”

Vinny volunteered to vanish; Virgil followed suit. Pinstripe, tuxedo, two-piece. All there inside closets. Both made their turns down the aisles, Virgil reassured.

“I will ensure this mission is as close to success as possible.”

Plan underway, assassinate Hemingway.

Adeline had a way, then lost it. Made one again so as to meet the main hall where members conversed. Virgil, unconsumed with conversation, consumed instead in an ancient manuscript well before days of neon.

“What's that ya got?” the best girl addressed.

“Research material on the Hemingway gang.”

Within Virgil's hands rest a book titled 'The Importance of Being Earnest'.

“What's it say?” Insistence increased.

“Unsure just yet. From what I gather it is a biography on the gang's leader, Ernie.”

“That bastard oughtta gimme an adverb 'fore he bites the dust, all's Im'ma say on that!”

Added to the tension was the pace meat muncher found herself in. Add a line and Adeline followed. Two steps one way, two steps back.

Preceding preparations post-declarations, another bold statement was made:

“Remember: if he breathes, he's a thought.”

“All gang leaders are queens,” Virgil made due diligence to remind those with high steaks.

“This one's diff'rent. Doesn't use adverbs. Shorter than the rest. Merely a thought.”

Virgil nodded a virginal nod. Sole male sorely knew his place.

“I shall sit this one out.”

Fruits of labor at times may involve blue. While quiet and sulfuric as the night, certain arrangements could be made to blue gear armed to the teeth, about 26 of them, give or take a few here and there depending on how many punches had been served. Blue hats, blue vests, blue as their cold, dead hearts.

Knocked upon one door of an aromatic adornment stood a blue, awaiting the pace of a refined romantic enamored with the allure of romance in times of war.

So soon, frozen. Door opened, quiet creak. No bells and whistles. Just wood application.

“Your purpose?”

“I have a report of smuggled narcotics in the area,” blue blathered before blasting barrels of bionic explosives packed into a tangible L-shaped device, small enough to fit inside such small hands.

Swaths of graceful age, reduced to meaty chunks and disintegrated charred bits where once stood tall a perfect paragon to the finer things in life. Also gone, were parts of the door. Door hinges, unhinged.

Surrounded in response were other gentlemen, prior sharing cups of tea, now enraged at the blue at the door. Shotguns in tow, cocked and barreled past the point of reason. One blue life, no more.

“Shameful,” one bearable bear body decreed, observing in equal measure dead hired hitman in blue as well as one who understood preciousness of presentation.

“Highest esteemed gentleman breathes,” a relief voiced by one who could wrestle bears with words.

“Attack meets retaliation,” forewarned one higher up on the respectable ladder. Rungs wrung out followed a pattern, polka-dots unruly, all things considered. One atop such a ladder may have sat, whiskey in hand, whispering of days of old.

Sure, just, fair, and true to form, each and every one of the single employs and envoys met such a lament, seated on a throne of regret. Sipped and chipped away at old days, one known as a leader of Hemingway. However, one day, Hemingway knew not the way. Such a day was an older day, when blood lay in a more sporty pool where all could drink and swim from sans the sanguine anxiousness of urination.

“We fight,” Ernie avowed, having taken to declaration.

Such strutted men, taken to streets. Outside, street lights with camera lens flares and a crimson radial temperature. Men in heat, overall, such men wore overalls.

World weary childlike syntax stopped the men in their tracks before reaching too close to the liminal space between Woolf and Hemingway.

“Stop,” commanded one without subordination and to his subordinates.

On the ground rest many pairs of mittens made of leather the size of a mouse, or smaller. Such mittens small enough to fit a foot (a pair fitting feet) who had given their introduction from out of a womb. In spite of having been strewn across the grime of the ground, such leather mittens fitted for feet were in such a condition as to suggest having not having a pair of feet placed inside of them.

“Baby shoes, never worn,” observed over three feet, yet less than five feet tall a man who looked to be between 10.2 and 12.9 years of age yet bore the voice of one with at least five ten's worth or greater years lived as a breathable human.

Men looked at each other. In unison, looked toward their miniscule pioneer.

“What must be done?” Question given.

“Stand back and ready shotgun.”

Command placed upon a chess board meticulous as the one which does not exist and all men were knights in the absence of pawns or bishops. At once and arms drawn before bidding them farewell; arms raised, as if to wave goodbye. So too, baby shoes.

Explosion in response to removed baby shoes from the battlefield. Erupted choruses of men who forged ahead.

Moon above and bereft. Sky of sulfur.

Once threshold had been crossed, howls took form. Henceforth Hemingway gang on guard, arms raised, scanning their environment once more. Dense streets ought have been arid, or lucrative, yet instead, invalid. Buildings best sat where better to stand and homeowners would have fled. Better yet were those without homes who could have found temporary residence within their wits. Instead, homes of abandonment.

Cascading howls hinterland. In earnest, Ernie sent signals to extraordinary gentlemen and such gentlemen took residence searching for shadows in each home.

“Dens for wolves,” muttered breaths.

Blood sprinkled, an inverted rainbow in only one color as howls from both friend and foe sprang forth once more. Fashioned by the Woolfs were claws used for burrowing into chests of burly men. Such claws, equipped with electricity, stacked with static. Even those to stand and breathe would see immobility.

Upon noticing injury and deaths of comrades, shot into the air spiked forward, launching itself forth as a gleeful missile would.

More Hemingway sprang.

“Jolly good,” all sang.

From afar, two jars in place of binoculars, a line added in the line of danger.

“Damn,” damned the one handing out damnations. “Curses,” cursed the same person.

To top things off, to even the odds, the 1's and 3's became 2's and 4's. In other words, rugs, carpets, and mats, make for good deceptive works of art. All one has to do is lay them flat and the world gives itself a pat on the back.

Wolves got to work working carpentry just in time for bundled burlap surgery to unfold. Backed away was a way with hemming. All rest were irons struck hot and forged ahead of schedule.

One step and a splintered acorn fission created flame and flash alike. Spectacle of smoke, specifically of the destructive variety.

Vicious visage which was voted greatest seized the confusion or upstaged clarity to make leaps and bounds across building tops and plunge to the bottom with her claws spread. Observant owl watched such a display.

“Carpet bombs,” his two words said and his look of disapproval said everything else.

Stepping forward once more were the Hemingway men, unscathed.

Unable to deny, Adeline, awe, star, and dumbstruck, struck a look of disgust.

“How the fuck?”

“Shielded clothing,” sang jolly good fellows.

“Thought you fuckers 'ere against modern shit!” Feral lady gave a series of barks which translated rather well into English words and phrases albeit some creative liberties taken.

“Everything with purpose,” next verse.

“Men,” preached a prophet little more than four heads tall.

Ways of hems aimed and took potshots at wolves inside buildings. Claws could not save those without shield.

Last whimpers made by canines slain. Growled a displeased pooch, lines added were diminished by the one who adds lines via combinations of finesse, razor sharp claws, and a ducked head.

Joyous chorus became showered confetti of blood crystal droplets, which Adeline collected and lavished.

“Your gang's mostly toast! You're definitely next!” Proud roar of a wolf.

“T'is Sunday,” gave a friendly reminder from a gentlemanly gentleman. Hiding underneath Ernie's underpants rest a righteous rod which he pulled out gracefully for all the world to see. Split into two, one rod became two, smaller rods. Each rod lit up, beams of pure energy, until the energy took the shape of a blade.

Ernie on a Sunday, blades of energy in tow, sliced down upon the arms of the one always adding lines. She saw two limbs dropped, plopped, and a jetstream of ruby liquid, tasting of salty iron shot forward before fizzling out.

“Farewell,” saluted a man in earnest.

She, in response, took to knees, and/or a scream.

“Does this mean defeat?” She asked of Ernie.

“Absolutely.”

#intention headaches #writing #surreal #crime #street gangs #fiction #literary #hemingway #woolf #cyberpunk #gangs #a farewell to arms #the importance of being earnest

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beccasbigworld · 3 years

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The Mental Health Crisis in Film

Out of all of the five movies assigned to watch my two favorites were American Psycho and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I have to give credit though to the other three movies because they were brilliant. Especially Parasite, the cinematography and the way the movie flowed were exceptional. The endings of American Psycho and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest stood out to me the most because of how raw and shocking of a reaction they left on me after watching. You could say that both of these movies made me a little psycho and cuckoo… I’m gonna pretend someone laughed at my embarrassing pun. Now let's get to the topic of discussion here with discussing the endings of American Psycho and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The ending of American Psycho played tricks on my mind because it made me believe that what Patrick Bateman did was just a false reality and it never happened. Rewind towards the ending when Bateman goes on a psychotic killing spree. After things keep getting worse such as killing the old lady who interrupted him trying to shove the cat into the ATM, killing NYPD officers, and blowing up two cop cars, the spree kept going. Finally, Bateman is in his Pierce & Pierce and makes a call to his lawyer, he tells him everything, as he is hysterically sobbing through the phone what had just happened. He confesses to killing more than 40 people. The next day Bateman sits and has drinks with his business colleagues and he sees his lawyer. He walks up to him and asks him if he got his voicemail. His lawyer thought the voicemail was hysterical and Bateman had a hard time understanding why his lawyer was laughing at his confession. Bateman says again that he killed Paul Allen and before he can get another word out his lawyer, Harold says Uhm no... I was just with Paul in London a few days ago and we had dinner. Bateman’s face got stiff, his face was shiny from all the sweat and I think this is the moment in the film that was the clear image of Bateman's hallucinations, false reality, and declining mental health. I believe the purpose of this ambiguity was to portray the pain that Bateman suffers every day because of his mental illness. According to the website CinemaBlend, “The more significant takeaway is meant to be present in the satire that comes in Bateman admitting his horrific crimes and nobody taking him seriously. He not only lives in an entirely shallow existence where "inside doesn't matter," but he has been driven to the point where he has become a mystery even unto himself, and only really knows that he wants to inflict his inner pain on others. Tragic as it is to say, the number of people he may or may not have murdered is inconsequential -- like the film's existence as Bateman's confession” (Eisenberg). His lawyer doesn’t even take his confession seriously so Bateman is left alone in his world to question what reality really is. Did he kill any of those people or was that just him imagining how he wants to inflict his pain onto others? The character's motives only lead to a temporary sense of catharsis like for example one of the most brutal scenes in the film was when Bateman kills Paul in his apartment. He played music that spoke to him lyrically and he got a clean ax, covered his floor, couches, and himself in plastic, and took his jealousy and frustration out on Paul by killing him viciously with a perfectly sharpened clean ax.

youtube

After Bateman would kill any of his victims he would relax for a little but yet not too long after he would be itching for another. The ending of American Psycho tied the movie up perfectly in my opinion. It didn’t necessarily satisfy my expectations. It left me in a curious state of mind because I thought wow did he even kill these people or was this all a part of his imagination? However, I think the way it was written was purposely brilliant because it ties in perfectly with the topic of mental health we are examining because was this a figure of Bateman's deranged mind, or did this actually occur. Overall, in my personal opinion, it was a fantastic movie.

The second movie that I will be diving into detail in is One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. My Dad would watch this film when I was little. I would watch films like Indiana Jones and other older films with him however, I never watched this one so watching this film kinda reminded me of that experience I had with my Dad growing up. I enjoyed watching this film a lot, something about the aesthetic of an older film it just makes you feel so alive. The ending of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest left a permanent scar on me because of how raw and emotional the scene was. Mac's character when first introduced was a guy who was full of life and wanted to bring the same light to the men of the mental hospital. Towards the end of the film, Mac holds a party for the men and brings two girls along. Billy and the one woman end up hooking up in one of the rooms and come the next morning Nurse Ratched finds him. After the discovery of Billy, she threatens to tell his mom and this drives Billy off the edge. He takes a piece of glass and while he is sent to wait for nurse Ratched in the other room he kills himself. The discovery of Billy’s death infuriates Mac because he saw so much potential in him and because of Nurse Ratched's threats, Mac strangles her to the point where she almost dies. As an inhumane punishment Mac has a lobotomy that permanently turns him into a zombie. In the end scene, Chief which, over time becomes Mac's best friend in the mental hospital notices that Mac has become a zombie and makes the quick decision to kill him by suffocating him with a pillow. Chief does this because he knew that Mac would rather be dead than be a zombie in Nurse Ratched’s mental institution.

youtube

Similar to the ambiguous ending in the film American Psycho the ending of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest had an ambiguous ending. According to the website Shmoop,” McMurphy has become a hero to the other patients in the ward because of his ability to stand up to Nurse Ratched. The others would be devastated to see Mac wandering around with dead eyes and a scarred forehead. So Chief decides to take matters into his own hands and to give Mac back his freedom, saying "I wouldn't leave you here this way" and smothering him. Then Chief gives freedom to himself by breaking out of the hospital and running off into the forest” (Shmoop Editorial Team). Chief and Mac discussed earlier in the movie that they want to run away to Canada and live a peaceful life so Chief decides to kill him to give him his power and keep Mac’s legacy living even when he is physically gone. This is why Chief purposely takes the sink out of the floor and throws it through the window so he can escape and run free to Canada to pay tribute to Mac. As for Mac's character, strangling Nurse Ratched I believe did provide him with a sense of catharsis because he was able to get revenge on her for unintentionally killing his friend Billy. However, the relief didn’t last long because Mac gets sent to be punished by the mental institution. Punished as if sent to be lobotomized. As for Chief's character, Mac helps him by leading him to a sense of catharsis throughout the entire movie. Before Mac officially came to the mental hospital Chief was considered hard of hearing and didn’t pay any mind to anyone. However, according to the website Looper, “ McMurphy impacts Chief the most. By watching Mac refuse to take anything lying down, Chief learns how to be as "big" in his actions as he is in stature — and he feels like he owes that to McMurphy. Without the con man giving him the confidence to talk and break free from the ward's toxic environment, Chief would still be silently sweeping the hospital floors at the movie's close. Chief knows that someone like McMurphy — who is so full of life — would never want to live after being lobotomized. Being a prisoner on Ratched's ward was hard enough for Mac without being a prisoner in his own body” (Harbet). Killing Mac gave Chief the final sense of relief one needed because he knew that Mac would never want to be a prisoner in his own body and with the courage he gave Chief, he finally breaks free, keeping Mac’s legacy alive and living his life.

The ending One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was so unexpected for me that my hand was over my mouth and my eyes were peeled to the screen. At first, I didn’t fully grasp why Chief was suffocating Mac however, once he ripped the sink out of the floor It all connected. I personally don’t think the ending could have been written any other way. It was a perfect way to tie the film all together while also highlighting the harsh theme of mental illness in that time and not fully understanding the negative consequences of treatment and what it can do to a person like Mac. It saddens me that this happened to Mac because he was a regular guy at the beginning of the film and a soul in a cold body at the end however, the ending gives the audience a sense of catharsis because we all know why Chief did what he did. Mac helped Chief get his life back and Chief helped Mac preserve his life for the man he really was. Overall I believe that One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was one of the best films I have ever watched and I enjoyed watching it for this class for the first time.

#mental heath support #blog post #film #Youtube

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shell-senji · 7 years

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Gajevy Week 2017: A Surreptitious Suitor, Chapter 2

Here’s the second chapter of my Gajevy Week story (find Chapter 1 here).

Thank you so much to all who read it, reviewed it, liked it, or reblogged it! I am constantly amazed by your feedback and can’t love you enough for it.

For those of you enjoying Bicks messing with Levy, I dedicate this chapter to you. 😊

Read HERE on fanfiction.net.

Day 2 Prompt: Longing

Levy banged her head against the library table, drawing more than a few shocked gazes. Levy was normally a model volunteer librarian, exceptionally professional.

Today, however, she just couldn’t take it.

Evidently Bickslow had so enjoyed Levy’s reactions to the books he’d slipped into her stack a few weeks ago that he’d decided it was his new thing.

So she’d be at the library, in the zone, skimming books, organizing them for shelving, enjoying her work, and BAM! She’d be caught off guard by one of his so-called funny titles.

A Year of Great Sex: 365 Positions to Try

The authors had gone out of their way to be creative and as such, the illustrations had been rather…disturbing.

Jell-O Wrestling for Dummies

Seriously? Who even did that? Her skin crawled just thinking about it.

Erotic Macramé Crafts

She’d never look at certain textiles the same way ever again.

Sally’s Sexy Séance

What godsforsaken publishing company decided a ghost harem was a good idea? She’d contemplated sending the editor a letter…

The list of Bickslow’s “prank” books went on and on. She’d decided, given the number of sexually explicit or sex-themed titles, that he was either some kind of sex freak or he desperately needed to get laid. Or, worse, he’d decided she needed to get laid.

Shudder.

She did not want Bickslow involved in her—nonexistent—sex life.

What had been the breaking point for Levy today had been not one, not two, but three dinosaur erotic romance novels.

Erotic.

Dinosaurs.1

Those were mental images she’d never get out of her brain. Perhaps she could get Natsu to burn them out, or Laxus to do some version of shock therapy. At this point, she’d settle for a frontal lobotomy.

Or maybe a stiff drink.

You know what they say—I’d rather have this bottle in front of me, instead of a frontal lobotomy.2

Oh gods. Did I really just think that?

She banged her head against the table again.

“Oi, oi, what the hell are you doin’?”

Levy lifted her now-aching head. “Hey, Gajeel. Can you help me beat something out of my brain? Maybe Lily could fly me up really high and drop my on my head?”

He arched a studded brow at her, clearly confused. “Not really sure what’s goin’ on here, but something ain’t right with you today.”

Levy groaned. Understatement of the year. She started to smack her head on the table again, but instead, her forehead was stopped by cool hands, which then lifted her head gently and helped her sit up in her chair.

“C’mon, Shrimp. I’m taking you home.”

Gajeel stacked her books in a neat pile and set them on the non-sorted reshelving cart and wheeled it up to circulation. Levy saw him gesturing, then both he and the librarian looked at her, and she contemplated resuming her attempts at turning her brain into mush. Gajeel must’ve known what she was thinking, because he shook his head as he walked back over to her.

“You’re good to go, don’t have to be back till Friday.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “What? But…but…that’s—”

“Two days from now, ’cause clearly you need a break,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.

“Tell that to Bickslow,” she muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Levy sighed and took the proffered hand Gajeel had extended to help her out of the chair.

When she stood up, her vision swam, and she wobbled as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

“Whoa, what the hell?”

Not a second later, she found herself scooped up and cradled against a firm, well-muscled chest, strong arms holding her tightly.

“G-gajeel! Put me down!”

“And let you pass out or crack your skull open? Not a chance, Shrimp.” And with that, he set off toward Fairy Hills.

Levy’s embarrassment skyrocketed, and her face felt as though it had been engulfed in some of Natsu’s flames. She knew it must be tomato red, and while she had definitely been longing to be in the iron dragon slayer’s arms, this was not exactly how she’d imagined it.

Still, she couldn’t help but enjoy the feel of his warm body surrounding her, and she told herself she was merely hiding her blush when she buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent that was uniquely Gajeel.

Above her head, she heard a very faint, “Gi hi.”

Levy wanted to smack him, to tell him to put her down, that she could walk just fine, thankyouverymuch.

But for some reason—perhaps the alleviation of her longing for his touch—she couldn’t bring herself to do so, no matter how utterly embarrassing it was for him to be carrying her, bridal style, all the way from the library to her apartment.

Instead, she mumbled “thank you” into that rock-hard chest and closed her eyes. She failed to noticed his arms tightening around her more possessively, and she couldn’t see the way he glared at anyone who tried to approach them.

She’d wade through the confusing emotions and thoughts swirling around in her throbbing head later. For now, she would simply enjoy the ride.

And tomorrow, she would murder Bickslow.

Or thank him.

Nah, definitely murder.

Author's Note #2: I know this was a wee bit on the short side, and I do apologize. My muse gets pissy if I try to force something when she says it's finished. 😜

Footnotes: 1. Yes, these dinosaur books do exist. A librarian friend informed me of their existence, but I can happily say I have not read them nor even skimmed them. Unlike poor Levy. The other books are fictional. (I hope.)

2. Can’t take credit for this terrible pun (technically a spoonerism). It’s an oldie that has been attributed to numerous people, though I first encountered it in Tom “T-Bone” Stankus’s song “Existential Blues.”

#gajevyweek #gajevy week #gajeel redfox #levy mcgarden #fairy tail #gajevyweek17 #fairy tail fanfiction

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