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sunlightandsuffering · 3 years

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I LEAVE FOR A WHILE AND I HAVE SO MANY UNREAD BESTIES TO LOVERS ANONS!!! Imma answer them when I get back from boating but Jfc y’all want this AU bad so here, theres no smut per se but this is the first part of the first chapter from Mikasa’s POV I hope I characterized her okay, I’m trying to stay true to the collective vision 😂

So without further ado Besties to Lovers 💕💕

Her and Eren have always been friends, but she wants the benefits, God does she want the benefits. She’s nineteen, in her second year of university and she’s still a virgin and has done absolutely nothing outside of kiss a boy, and that boy was Eren, in the eighth grade. Meanwhile the very object of her affections has a new girl in his room every fucking night. She doesn’t understand where he gets his stamina from or where he finds all of these girls.

They’ve been best friends since the third grade when he forced her to eat a mudpie because he told poor sweet naïve Mikasa it was chocolate cake. When she’d cried after having her face shoved into the mud, he’d told her to suck it up before giving her the lollipop from his lunchbox as penance. She’s loved him ever since.

And unfortunately, his selfish antics have only gotten worse over time.

Mikasa is aware she’s unbelievably sheltered, it’s not something new to her, that’s what happens when you live with three ex-cops for most of your life and the only friend, you’re permitted to hang out with on a continual basis is Eren. As a result, she’s spoiled rotten and she loves every moment of it, especially when it’s Eren doing the spoiling, but she’s trying her best to be less sheltered! She even finally got a job recently and Eren had told her how proud of her he was.

The job might also be part-time at Levi’s mechanic shop but well a job is a job it doesn’t matter if she got it through nepotism.

She’s excited about it, it means she gets to see Eren even more than usual because he works there part time as a mechanic while he puts himself through medical school.

She knows logically she should be fed up of the boy she’s spent almost every waking moment with since she was seven, but she’s not, she loves living with Eren.

He spoils her almost more than Levi, Hanji and Kenny do, which is impressive because they’re all a little crazy.

She’s also a little in love with Eren if she’s being entirely honest with herself, she lives for when he calls her ‘baby’ and his fingers trail up her thighs and he pinches the curve of her ass, telling her the gym is paying off. He’s always touch, touch, touching every part of her he can get his hands on and she loves it.

Once, Jean had tried to have her sit on his lap too when Eren hadn’t been around and although she’d felt a little weird about it, she’d complied because well he was her friend and it was okay when Eren did it, so why not Jean?

Eren had not been pleased.

Mikasa hadn’t liked it either if she was being honest, it wasn’t the same, he didn’t hold her the same way Eren did and she didn’t have the same pleasant little flutter in her tummy the way she did with Eren when his hands would dip between her thighs and along the seams of her underwear beneath her flowy dresses.

She always felt happy and warm whenever Eren touched her and if she ever felt uncomfortable he’d stop, but he was also more than happy to soothe her back to happiness, he’d kiss her neck or tell her how good she was being for him and she’d be content once again.

Sometimes she’d wriggle around in his lap and he’d hold her tight, and give her a little nibble to her ear as warning. Sometimes she’d heed his warning and sometimes she wouldn’t but when she didn’t that’s usually when Eren would take her home and she loved being alone with him much more than at a boring party while he flirted with a bunch of girls.

When she had him entirely to herself, that was when she was most happy. But these days it wasn’t often, it seemed somehow her best friend had become even more of a man whore since she’d moved in. It’d been a year and still he hadn’t cooled down, he had more sexual partners than an emperor with a harem, it was ridiculous.

The revolving door of girls was getting old for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that she was fed up of having to explain where the coffee was as the girls pranced around their kitchen in underwear and Eren’s t-shirts. It was irritating, they didn’t understand that she would be the one to make Eren coffee or tea in the morning and that she had exclusive access to his wardrobe. The pretty blonde bitch she was glaring at right now should NOT be wearing her favourite t-shirt.

She sullenly continues to steep Eren’s tea for him, knowing he’ll need the caffeine when he wakes up while she watches the pretty little blonde march around their kitchen like she owns the place. She grabs all of Mikasa’s iced coffee ingredients from the fridge, drowning two cups of scalding hot coffee in sugary sweet. Syrup, whip cream, sprinkles, everything Eren buys Mikasa because he understands her ice coffee obsession. Meanwhile Mikasa knows for a fact Eren loathes the stuff, he tells her it’s too sweet all the time, making faces every time he steals a sip, as if it will taste different than the last time he drank it. He always gives her little cheek kisses after, awfully close to her lips or on her nose, tells her she’s sweet enough for him, that he doesn’t need anything else.

And without fail she’ll squirm and blush under his praise just like she always does and he’ll get that look in his eye, the one that’s dark and hungry that she knows usually precedes some manhandling. A slap to the ass, a pinch to her waist, something that allows him the excuse to touch her and she lives for it, sometimes if she’s really lucky he’ll tuck her into his lap and let her drink the rest of her coffee from her favourite seat there.

She’s startled out of her thoughts as the blonde girl drops two spoons onto the counter and they clatter against the marble with an angry noise, leaving spills of coffee in their wake.

“Can you be a doll and clean that up for me?” Platinum blonde asks her before she picks up both mugs and starts towards Eren’s room.

Mikasa frowns but wanders towards the sink to grab a washcloth for the mess.

Platinum blonde doesn’t make it two steps out of the kitchen before Eren’s bedroom door opens and shuts and he’s wandering into the open expanse of their kitchen wearing nothing more than a pair of plaid pyjama pants and rubbing his eyes.

Mikasa smirks at the sink, now is her favourite time of the morning, when Eren will kick out the little blonde rather brutally.

“Eren, hi!” The girl tells him breathlessly, and Mikasa turns to watch her hold out a coffee, “I made you a coffee, wasn’t sure what you liked.”

Shit, Eren’s tea! Mikasa drops her wash cloth and quickly removes the tea bag from Eren’s typical Earl Grey, thankfully it’s not too oversteeped. She wanders to the fridge to grab the cream, pretending not to be gleefully listening to the conversation next to her.

Eren takes the coffee from the girl, looking down at it as if it’s going to explode, sprinkles and chocolate shavings floating around the milky brown mixture. He raises an eyebrow up at the girl before placing the coffee on the counter, “Thanks, but I don’t like coffee.”

The girl’s eyes go a little wide and she places her mug on the counter as well, “Oh I didn’t know, tell me what you do like and I’ll make it for you, I wanted you to have a little pick me up, you know after last night,” She sends him a little smirk as she finishes her sentence but Eren remains looking unimpressed.

“I like tea, but don’t worry about it, I already have some being made right now, isn’t that right Miki?”

His eyes finally slide to hers and as usual her heart skips a beat as those intent viridians watch her so intensely, all of his attention is on her, he pays absolutely no mind to the blonde girl as he makes it to her side in a few steps.

She nods softly, she doesn’t want to reply, not in front of this girl, she’s too shy, it’s why she’s barely said three words to her yet. She hands Eren his cup of tea and he grins mischievously at her, before taking it from her hands. He winks at her before leaning in to kiss her cheek, murmuring into her ear softly, “Thanks Miki.”

Shivers erupt all over as his breath hits just under her ear, where he knows she’s most sensitive.

He pulls away and she’s left wide-eyed as he steals his tea and turns back to the blonde girl.

“Sorry what was your name again?”

The blonde’s face scrunches up in irritation, “It’s Katrina.”

“Great, Katrina I’ll walk you out.”

He takes a sip of his tea before leaving it on the counter and grabbing Katrina by the arm and dragging her towards his bedroom. They stop briefly to grab Katrina’s things before making their way to the door, Eren likely hoping to avoid her impending meltdown.

Mikasa doesn’t see it but she hears the irritated whines that turn into pleads as Eren tells the girl not so gently, to leave. The door slams and she hears footsteps as Eren follows the girl outside. Mikasa may or may not scoot a little closer to the main hallway and press her ear to the door to listen.

“But we had such an amazing night—”

“It was okay.” Eren throws in his two cents and Mikasa fights to keep in her giggle, this is her favourite part of the mornings, it’s almost worth all the pain of the night before just for this.

“What do you mean, it was amazing, Eren I think we really have something, it was so amazing—”

“Listen, I don’t do relationships, I do one-night stands and that’s it.” Eren tells Katrina firmly and Mikasa gives a little fist pump, damn right, she never sees the same girl twice and she’ll never admit how happy that small tidbit of information brings her. If he’s going to have someone else, at least she knows he has no feelings attached to it. The day he gets a serious girlfriend is the day her heart really breaks.

“What about the girl in there, Miki you called her, don’t tell me you’re not fucking her.”

Mikasa is shocked, her cheeks turning red at the assumption, how vulgar.

But also a small part of her wishes Eren was, ‘fucking’ her that is. She’s a virgin, completely innocent in every conceivable way, she’s never even touched herself, nineteen and still totally clueless with all things sex. It’s not like she hasn’t considered it or wanted to try before, she’s not a prude, she just has no idea where to even start.

Not to mention, ANY male love interests are squashed like bugs the second Eren gets wind of them, and if it’s not him it’s Levi, Kenny or Hanji.

But lately she’s considering at least buying a vibrator or something, maybe taking her own virginity, Sasha and Annie never shut up about it, she’s curious about what all the fuss is about. Every time she moves her fingers down her stomach, she heats up a little, blushing bright red and wondering if it’s wrong, if its weird.

She usually makes it to the line of her panties, concentrated on trying to figure out what she should do and imagining what she thinks will turn her on, and of course it’s always Eren. Always, always him. Unfortunately, that’s usually where her fingers stop because she feels awful, dirty for imagining her best friend touching her, thinking about his large frame looming over hers and laying kisses on her lips instead of her cheeks. Eren would never want her like that, she’s not his type, small blonde, perky and experienced. No bad Mikasa! She cuts her thoughts off before they can descend into negative territory, she’ll never have Eren romantically but at least he loves her platonically and she’ll take what she can get.

“Leave.” Eren tells Katrina in a tone that brokers no argument, the one he reserves specifically for people who insult her, and it happens often when his one night stands see a girl in Eren’s apartment that’s not them, the jealousy is real. However, what they fail to realize is that she is the one girl he actually gives a shit about, she has a special place reserved in his heart as his best friend, and all the sex in the world has nothing on that.

She continues to listen, waiting for more, but this one surprisingly kicks up little fuss and the next thing Mikasa knows she’s scrambling to move away from the door as Eren opens it, falling swiftly onto her ass in the foyer.

Eren raises his eyebrow at her as he shuts the door, leaning back against it, arms crossed and still delightfully shirtless. Looking up at him, he truly is an attractive figure, arms corded with muscle from working with cars all day, handsome chiselled face with a slit in his right eyebrow and a few tattoos placed randomly along his arms. Mikasa, understands better than anyone why girls flock to Eren like moths to a flame.

“Watcha doing down there love?” He asks, his tone deceptively sweet, she knows he won’t be happy she was listening in, especially since the other girl sort of insulted her. She plays dumb, or attempts to at least.

“Just cleaning up,” she grabs a shoe from the shoe rack next to the door, “Wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“Uhuh,” he says doubtfully, crouching down to her level where she’s splayed out, legs askew and leaning back on her hands.

“So you were’t eavesdropping on me outside?”

She looks away, she can’t lie to him, she’s terrible at it, he knows all her ticks, and she always inevitably caves and tells him anyway.

“Miki,” His voice is chiding, a hand coming up to grab her chin and turn her in his direction. Her full bottom lip sticks out in a pout as she confesses, “I just wanted to know what you’d tell her, she wasn’t very nice to me.”

He leans in closer, edging his way into her personal space and she’s forced to lean back further on her hands as Eren kneels over her, placing his own hands on her thighs, his face getting closer and closer to hers. Her breathing comes quick as his face finds her neck, “You’re not being a very good girl today Miki. My tea was a little oversteeped and now this,”

She gasps a little, her heart thundering in her chest, theres that phrase, ‘good girl’, every so often Eren slips it into conversation and she doesn’t know why but she absolutely loves it, she adores it when he praises her. She wants to hear him say it all the time, wants to be his everything, wants to be the best.

And sometimes she’ll hear him whisper it to the girls he’s fucking, their bedrooms are right next to each other and the walls are paper thin, how could she not? And those are the times she wants to touch herself the most, when Eren tells the girl he’s with she’s being a good girl in that deep raspy voice of his, in the tone he only uses when he’s at the height of his pleasure, gravelly and filled with desire as he fucks some girl so hard the wall of their shared bedroom shakes.

Her face heats anymore at her train or thought, doing her damndest not to let her eyes follow the V of his abs down to the waist band of his pants.

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I’ll be better,” she responds quickly, she doesn’t want him to be mad at her, not about this, she didn’t mean to eavesdrop, she’ll never do it again as long as he’s not mad at her.

It’s the worst when he’s mad at her, he wont talk to her for a while, won’t touch her and that’s the worst part, no little touches. She’d never realized how totally attached and needy for him she was until they were watching a movie and he wouldn’t let her sit in his lap, wouldn’t lay his head on her chest and hum into her sternum while she fought back shivers because her breasts are so fucking sensitive.

“Eren please, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me.”

His face is stern for a moment, dark strong eyebrows scrunched up and lips set into a line, tears prick her eyes at the thought of him giving her the silent treatment for a week again. She can’t do it.

As a tear escapes one eye, tracing a path down her cheekbones, Eren’s large calloused hand comes up to cup her face, moving from her chin, his thumb darting out to catch the tear before he brings his thumb to his mouth, licking the meagre drop from his finger.

His face settles back into a neutral expression before he buries it into her neck, leaning his whole body weight on her, and pushing her to the ground, lying across her front.

“Oh fuck Miki, what am I going to do with you?” He sighs into her neck, before leaving a little bite there that makes her squeak. Then another, and another and she knows this is her punishment but it feels so nice, bites interspersed with little kisses along the column of her throat, they’ll probably leave marks later if she’s lucky.

He pulls back when she makes a little whimpering sound as he hits a particularly sensitive area of her skin, breaking the quiet atmosphere and they both come back to themselves. She’s immediately sad because she loves it when he gets carried away like that, almost feels like she has a chance.

Eren moves away, leaving her cold and bereft on the floor as he stands up.

She stares up at him, quicksilver eyes wide and needy, she needs something, she doesn’t know what, zings shoot through her core and she’s unbearably hot, she needs something. It’s the weird feeling again, the one she only gets when he’s around and being touchy, he must see it in her eyes because a pained looks crosses his face and he almost moves to grab her again but he bites his lip and settles on holding a hand to help her up, “Come on Miki, I’ll make you breakfast love.”

She pouts but takes his hand, following him to the kitchen and sitting herself on the bar stool while he makes her favourite waffles.

It’s always like this, he’s always taking care of her, he can’t help himself and sure sometimes he’s a little mean, well most of the time, and more often than not he’s teasing her, but he takes care of her so well, she trusts him implicitly.

They’re on the cusp of something, she doesn’t know what but she can feel it building, ever since she first moved in, the tension has gotten worse. Eren is like a caged panther waiting, watching, restraining himself, his eyes are always hungry when she walks around in her pyjamas, which consist of only his old shirts and panties, but she can’t quite figure out for what.

He gives her a little wink as he slides her waffles onto a plate and cutting them up for her, before he feeds her delicately, little bites of chocolate chip and syrup. He catches little dribbles of the sickly sweet mixture that stain her lips, bringing his finger to his mouth, just for a taste. He pulls a face at the overly sweet treat, and she laughs which makes Eren smile her favourite smile, the genuine one with all his teeth only she can pull from him.

The next dribble of syrup she loses, Eren feeds it right back to her, holding out his thumb for her to lick but she does him one better and takes the whole digit in her mouth with ease, sucking the syrupy chocolate up happily. She watches him the whole time and his reaction is everything, his eyes glow greener, he leans in just a little closer and there is that intent hungry look again. It’s beginning to be her favourite look on him, something about it is just attractive.

She releases his finger with a pop, smiling at him before she sticks her tongue out, “All clean!”

Eren’s gaze is so intense she wants to look away as he moves his hand to tuck a few stray locks of hair behind her ear. He exhales before he speaks, his voice quiet, like he doesn’t mean to say it at all, “You’re such a good girl aren’t you Miki?”

“What did you say?” She asks because she wants to hear it again and again, but Eren doesn’t oblige.

“Nothing baby, finish your waffles, you haven’t been eating well lately, I don’t want anything left on your plate.”

He takes care of her so so well. How could she ever need anyone else?

But evidently Eren does, to satiate his more carnal needs, the ones she’s clueless about and the one’s she longs for him to use her for. He gets a call halfway through her breakfast and he departs from alternately stealing bites of her waffle and letting her eat by herself. It’s a call from a regular girl, Selena, she’s pretty sure her name is, a beautiful Brazilian exchange student with blue eyes and a perfect olive hue. He kisses Mikasa goodbye, a swift peck to the cheek, before he tells her not to wait up, he’s going to work this afternoon shift and afterwards he’s going ‘out’.

She’s may be naïve but she’s not stupid, she knows what ‘out’ means, he’s going to spend the night at Selena’s and tomorrow he’ll come home with mussed hair and hickeys, he won’t need anyone to make his morning tea, won’t be home to make her breakfast.

She’ll be all alone in the apartment once again and not for the first time, she wonders if maybe she should be doing the same. Just what is she missing out on that’s so good that Eren can’t go two days without it, what is so great about sex that Sasha and Annie will spend hours discussing it over dinner?

She drops her breakfast dish in the sink, scowling as she watches the water run over the remains of her breakfast, filling the sink with bubbles, maybe she should try it too. Maybe sex is what she needs from her life, maybe Eren is onto something.

#btl💕#besties to lovers ♥️#eremika

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thepeakyfckingblinders · 5 years

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White Lies || Thomas Shelby x reader

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested: “ Can you do 10&13 with tommy please? I obsessed with your writing” (Thank you honey, hope this won’t let you down ♡ )

Summary: n.10 & 13 from prompt list: “I swear to God, I’ll blind you” + “Don’t leave” Warnings: swearing, May Carleton insert, basically jealous reader, Tommy being the absolute cocky bastard he always is, me loving him even more

Author’s notes:

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

So, May appears in this piece too, even if she’s never been his lover. Is Tommy Shelby going to generate a mass murder with his cock? Maybe.

I’m sorry for being this late, but I’ve been really busy in the past days and writing is never just easy, it demands concentration and effort, plus I don’t want you to be disappointed, so I’m always extra accurate while working. I hope this is worth the wait!

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

Your sugar paper dress in lace and tulle gracefully fluttered in the wind, as you walked towards the Garrison, head up, a kind smile on your face and your right arm firmly placed on John’s left one. That same morning, Tommy’s new horse had won his third race in a row, for which reason the Shelbys had decided to have a little party at their pub, so that they could celebrate those amazing successes with their friends and closest fellows from Birmingham, seizing, at the same time, the opportunity to show to the whole town how the family was getting more and more powerful. Therefore, Finn, Michael and John were now escorting you and Polly to the tavern, where the rest of the Peaky Blinders had already got the festivities started. “If you ever get tired of Tommy, keep in mind that I’m here waiting for you, darling” The middle brother playfully whispered those flirty words into your ear, even though he was truly enchanted by the way you looked that night; you immediately glimpsed in his direction, seeing him keep an alluring smirk on his wonderful face and a toothpick held between his rose lips, just like always. A genuine chuckle spilled from your mouth because of his joke, a slight blush instantly covering your sweet face, while your lips promptly left a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry about him, Johnny, we can keep it as our little secret” You blinked at him, still giggling out loud, as you entered the Garrison arm in arm, finding a whole crowd of half-drunk people joyfully cheering for the increasing greatness and fortune of the Shelby Brothers Limited. “And that’s Thomas’s definition of small refreshment?” Polly’s usual sarcastic tone prickly referred to the massive amount of guests your fiancé had apparently invited; she lit a cigarette, carelessly throwing the used match on the floor, before her free forearm fondly stretched out to Michael, in a silent invitation to accompany her towards the table where Arthur had already made himself comfortable. Finn, on the other hand, immediately spotted Isaiah amidst the throng, for it took him a scant moment to literally run in his direction, eager as he was to finally spend a night out with his best mate, forgetting about work for a while. “Would you mind helping me find your perennially busy brother, mh?” You asked John, since you were now alone, standing at the entrance like two complete idiots, withouth a clue about what to do next. “Why don’t you come home with me instead?” His eyebrows quickly raised and lowered several times, in an intentionally droll attempt to make that indecent proposal sound tempting, his usual cocky smile never leaving his face. “Oh, shut up now!” you heartily laughed, jokingly punching his shoulder in the process “Let’s just find him, and then you’ll look for a pretty girl to dance with”

“No need to look for girls, love, they throw themselves at me” Your almost-brother-in-law defiantly stated that, while adjusting his houndstooth suit in one swift move, his large shoulders lifted along with his lower lip, giving life to an expression of pure smugness, which esponentially boosted when he found his way to the middle of the pub, performing his usual, cheeky, extremely bold walk. John’s lean and solid body shielded yours as you passed through that enormous amount of people, until you eventually reached for the cluttered counter; your watchful eye immediately caught Tommy’s figure standing with his back turned, a loving grin inadvertently springing upon your red lips, for he had left early that morning without waking you up, and, although it may seem corny, you had shamelessly missed him. Nevertheless, your jaw nearly dropped when, taking a few more steps in his direction, a beautiful woman entered your line of sight: she was talking to him, her clearly infatuated stare burning with desire, one of her palms randily caressing his bony cheek, but the worst part was that Thomas didn’t make a single move to stop her, he just stood there, listening to what she was saying, letting her pet his face. “Oh, fucking hell” John muttered, foreseeing a catastrophic epilogue to that risky situation, indeed, he was perfectly aware that you had no idea of who May was, moreover he could plainly tell she was without a doubt attracted to his brother, which meant no good, considering that you were in the same country as her. Still, before he had the chance to stop you from doing anything, you had already covered the gap between you and them, approaching your fiancé and heavily tapping on his shoulder covered by an elegant black jacket.

Tom’s icy eyes imperceptibly widened as he turned to you and realized how misunderstandable that scene could look; however, within a fraction of a second, he composed himself and regained all of his customary confidence, curving his mouth into an impertinent smirk and placing a hand behind your back, so to guide you in front of the mysterious lady. “Oh, you must be y/n, Tommy’s told me a lot about you! I’m May, May Carleton” Her falsely excited voice brusted out, preceding both of you, and that alone could’ve been enough to set you off, you were aching to ruthlessly punch her in the face, right there and then, yet your strong common sense led you to simply send her a long, eloquent death glare. “Well, he didn’t tell me anything about you, not a word” Perceptible hostility towards that woman infected your tone, still, while you spat that rancorous reply, your killer attention was utterly focused on Thomas, who, for his part, kept looking at you with amusement, blatantly revelling in your jealous little scene. “I didn’t have a chance to” His husky voice nonchalantly spilled from his full lips, whereon he was unchastely sliding a cigarette filter, his piercing black pupils continued to defiantly nail yours as he aimed to provoke you with that silly, senseless remark. Teeth sinking into the warm flesh of your inner cheek, while you tried your best to avoid a beastly outburst in front of everyone; sadly, hardly any moment later, May unwisely decided to throw more salt on your already stinging wounds. “How funny, I’ve been training your horses for three months now” a galling laugh of mockery eurpted from her throat and, once she was sure she had your attention, you noticed raw mischief twinkling in her brown irises “With excellent results, I might add”

She raised the glass of champagne she was holding, along with a hint of her head in Tommy’s direction, inviting him to make a toast to their incredible series of victories; a shrill tinkle filled your ears when his crystal cup joined hers, almost making your skin crawl, you watched speechless and powerless as a seductive expression deliberately contaminated his stunning features. “Obviously. Nothing but the best for my horses”

You just couldn’t believe your eyes, nor your ears; an alarming amount of emotions assaulting your defenseless mind, as you eventually figured out how many lies he had been feeding you during those past months. Soon after he had brought his first mare at the auction, Tommy specifically talked to you about how many expectations and resources he had placed on that brand new project, to the point of actually enlisting an expensive horse trainer, one of their comrades from France, a man they could trust, he did say. Your brain franticly reviewed all of the episodes in which he had called you to inform that he would’ve been late, for he had to stop by the stables in order to check on his beasts; a grievous boulder growing inside your chest, brutally crushing your heart, at the very thought of what could’ve effectively happened in those evenings, your breathing sharply stopped for endless instants, until you regained control of your body, blinking a few times to stop the world from spinning around you. Not a single world escaped your mouth, you only looked at them for one last time, before you hastened to turn tail and run away from that obnoxious situation. Only then, Thomas factually realized he’d gone too far with you, his vigilant stare followed your silhouette quickly moving amidst that mob of drunken yokels, while he briefly took leave of May, without even glimpsing at her once. Pushing and kicking his way through the crowd, he reached for you when you were practically one step away from the main door.

“C’mon, y/n, wait! Hey, don’t leave” Tom delicately grabbed your forearm in an attempt to hold you back, but, as soon as you saw him touching you, a calamitous rage exploded in your belly, leading you to violently yank your arm away. “Take your hands off me, or I swear to God, I’ll bind you with your own fucking cap!” Eyelids squeezing with autentic ire as you snarled in his face, fiercely smacking his hand several times and managing to get out of his grasp; yet, when you tried to leave the pub afresh, his imposing frame promptly interposed between you and the exit, his left palm firmly leaning against the jamb, so to cover the whole open space and preclude you every possibility to find your way out. “Get out of the fucking way, I said!” Frustration filled your yells, you had recourse to all your strength in a restless effort to shove him off, continuing to insult him and punch his chest, still your blows felt like nothing more than tickling to him. Thomas rolled his orbs and, at the same time, raised both his eyebrows, in a plan expression of his nuisance. “I think you’re being a bit overdramatic, love” Thomas was perfectly aware that he was being a total asshole, afterall, he had never even thought of May in such a way, but, for some strange reason, he wanted to tease you that night, he wanted to see you detonate. His imperturbable tone, together with his absurd words, totally made you lose your temper, you sensed your knuckles itching to crash with his perfect jaw, again and again and again. “Overdramatic?!” your voice raising of a couple octaves “You bloody bastard! You lied to me, God only knows what the hell’s been going on between you and that bitch. What’s more, you let her fucking flirt with you, in front of me!” Hot tears were now forming in your eyes while you kept shouting till you felt your throat hurt, Tommy simply kept watching you, not daring to pronounce a single syllable, but never changing his stoic countenance, nor moving from the doorway. “You were flirting back, letting her touch you that way, you fucking humiliated me, Thomas! In my place, you would’ve killed any man, without even thinking ‘bout it!” Tom’s look somehow softened as he observed your features contract with anger and sorrow, he knew he had unnecessarily and foolishly hurt you, he only was too proud to say it out loud; so, he kept his mouth shut and just came closer to you, carefully attempting to stroke your shoulders with tenderness. Nevertheless, you were too full of wrath and delusion to let him make it up to you that easily: actually, you desperately needed to cry, your cheeks were flushing with resentment, blind choler streaming in your veins. And, suddenly, a dull smack resounded in your and his ears. You slapped him so hard, that his head automatically tilted in the opposite direction, leaving both you and him speechless for a full minute; Thomas remained in that forced position, frozen, without going back to face you, consequently giving you the opportunity to finally pull him aside. “You don’t fuck with me, Mr. Shelby” That was all that you hissed, then leaving the Garrison and not looking back.

tag list: @spidey-pal, @shadow-of-wonder, @mclfoybaby, @peachlle, @livvtheangel, @myjbphase, @namelesslosers, @crazyonesarethebest

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give-me-back-my-rhodey · 4 years

Text

Law vs Morals - AUgust Day 19

Title: Law vs Morals

Author: Purple_ducky00

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Violence, slight mentions of period homophobia, major character death (of old age)

Pair: Pepper/Tony, eventual Pepper/Rhodey/Tony

Link: Read on AO3

Summary: Police Chief James Rhodes is adamant on taking down the Stark mob. When he gets kidnapped by the Starks, he starts to see all they do. Can there be some gray in the world of black and white?

Written for @endrega23 I hope you enjoy it!

+++++++++

The Stark family has ruled New York City for the better part of the 1800s, growing stronger as each successor took their place as the head. Howard followed Montgomery, strengthening their hold by marrying Maria Carbonell and taking over the Carbonell family business as well. Anthony, or Tony, now sits on the seat. Rumors of his cunning and ruthlessness precede him. No one steps onto his territory without him knowing. Anyone who tries to go against his rule is taken care of immediately.

The problem with this is, no one can pin anything on Stark. Any mobster caught is more afraid of their boss than the police and will not say a word. Police Chief Rhodes devotes his life to taking down the Stark family. The only problem is that most of his cops have been bought by the mobster. It’s up to him alone to find evidence on the man.

Stark himself is a bit of a recluse. He doesn’t go out much, and when he does, he goes big. All eyes are on him, and everyone knows where he is and what he’s doing. It’s very hard to accuse him of any wrongdoing when the public loves him. Rhodes has met him several times. Stark greets him happily, even giving him the nickname of ‘Rhodey’. Rhodes can admit that if he did not know that Stark was a criminal, they’d probably be good friends.

Rhodes once got a tip-off telling him to keep an eye out for Stark’s wife. A high-society woman, Mrs. Stark is seen at all the social events wearing the latest gowns in fashion. Graceful and beautiful, she is always the star of the show. Rhodes often wonders if she knows her husband deals in criminal affairs. Rhodes tails her for a few days, but nothing she does seems out of the ordinary. He finally gives up and goes back to his normal routine.

Another tip-off leads him to bring down Tiberius Stone, Stark’s competitor. Stone himself cannot tie Stark to anything either, but he feeds Rhodes with a lot of rumors and information. “Potts, well Mrs. Stark now, is not as genteel as she seems. She is deadly, officer, deadly. She runs more of the operation than Stark himself. They say that he told everyone who works for him that whatever she says goes. She’s the real kingpin here.” He also rattles off places that he assumes Stark uses as fronts for his real business.

Chief Rhodes goes by foot as there are no available carriages and he’d prefer to be inconspicuous. Taking it upon himself to search the buildings, Rhodes stumbles across a dead body, brutally beaten and mangled. He’s ready to call it in when something hits the back of his head, and he falls, unconscious.

He wakes up in a nicely furnished room, handcuffed to the headboard of a bed. Struggling to get free, he doesn’t notice the person sitting next to him until they clear their throat. Rhodes yells. “Let me go, you bastard!” Until he realizes that the person sitting next to him is a woman, that woman being Mrs. Stark. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

The woman frowns down at him. “Don’t patronize me,” She says. “I wanted to kill you immediately. You had better be thankful that my husband likes you. Now that you’re awake, I’ll get him.” She pushes down a button and calls. “Send Mr. Stark to the hold, please.”

A few minutes later, Stark rushes in the door. “Rhodey!” He smiles, face beaming. “It’s so nice to see you again!”

Mrs. Stark rolls her eyes, muttering, and Rhodes pulls against his cuffs. “What do you want from me? Why am I here?”

“I don’t really want you to be here, but it was either keep you here or kill you, and I don’t want to see you killed.” Stark’s eyes get sad.

“Don’t go playing the victim here, Stark.” He growls. “Everyone knows you’re a criminal. I am going to get out of here and take you down.”

“Tony, I told you he’s not going to cooperate,” Mrs. Stark sighs.

Tony holds out his hand to her. “Pepper, I don’t want to kill him, please.”

This comes off weird to Rhodes. Tony Stark, the invincible head of the Stark gang, is pleading to his wife to spare the life of the only cop who’s been trying to bring him down for the past decade? What is going on here? He watches as the couple share a conversation with their eyes. Mrs. Stark sighs again and shrugs. Tony turns back to Rhodes. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to stay here. Collateral damage and all – I’m sure you understand. Please know that you may ask for whatever you want, and it shall be given to you. You’ll be treated like a special guest. But you'll have a guard with you at all times so that you can’t escape.”

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Rhodes sinks back on the bed.

Tony sits beside him. “Because, Rhodey, I like you. And I never want to see you dead.”

“What are you going to do if my men start looking for me?”

“Rhodey, be serious. First off, I have all your men on my payroll. Secondly, did you tell anyone where you were going?” Stark tilts his head. Rhodes has to admit that he has a point.

The Starks assign two guards to Rhodes, a thin teenager who is exceptionally strong and a stony faced man with a prosthetic arm. The teenager likes to talk. He tells Rhodes how Mr. Stark saved him and his aunt from being thrown out on the street because they couldn’t pay rent. He goes on about his friends, his boyfriends, and the food he had for breakfast until the other guard, Barnes, asks him to shut it.

“What about you?” Rhodes asks snidely. “Did Mr. Stark save your life as well?”

“No, but he saved my wife's. I was already working for him when she was caught by the police. She smuggled her way over here from Russia, and they didn’t like that very much. Mr. Stark paid them off before they did anything vile to her. I am forever grateful for that.”

What is this, the time for sob stories? Rhodes scoffs. It wouldn’t surprise him that Stark would pay them to tell him these things. For some reason, Stark always wanted to be on his good side. Maybe he wants to win Rhodes over, too. It won’t happen.

The Starks find out not too long after that Pepper is pregnant. Tony removes her from any field work until she comes to term. He doesn’t want her, or his unborn child injured in any way. The redhead works behind the scenes a lot more now. As Stark is very busy, she spends a lot of time sitting with Rhodes. They play chess and checkers while Pepper puts her feet up. She usually wins, but there are a few times Rhodes is able to eek in a victory.

As he resides at the Stark mansion, he starts to notice things. Tony spends most of his time in his workshop, either developing new weapons for his men, or more often than not, manufacturing things to help people in their daily lives. He overhears one of Stark’s men asking what to do with the Keener family. “She’s late on her payments once again, sir.”

“It’s not her fault they won’t hire a single mother. Let her live there for free. It’s not costing me anything. Besides, Harley comes here a lot of times after school. I appreciate his help. Leave them alone and work over the rich assholes who won’t pay their workers,” Tony replies.

Pepper funds many orphanages and homes for the poor. Between the two of them, the Starks are building a respectable neighborhood around them, something they wouldn’t have been able to do without their drug and crime money.

One day, when Tony comes in from a stroll, Rhodes mentions this to him. Tony smiles. “Now you’re getting it. Tell me, Rhodey, which is better? Me, robbing the extremely wealthy of the funds they’ll never use to help build up the city or having men in power who only strive for their own greatness? Who hire police officers who will imprison the misfortunate because they have no home and take advantage of the unarmed women? I hope you realize that just because something is legal, it’s not always moral. And vice versus.”

“Is that how you sleep at night?” Rhodes scoffs.

Tony sighs. “No, how I sleep at night is with my darling wife in a very comfortable bed. You’d be welcome to join if you’d like.”

Rhodes is taken aback. Stark just said that so… casually. Doesn’t he know he could get killed for that kind of comment? Homosexuality is a taboo, and those who have those feelings didn’t dare speak in public about it. Rhodes knows; he is one of those persons. In any other case, he would have brushed it off as a joke, but… he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s not sure if it’s Stockholm Syndrome or not, but his feelings towards Mr. and Mrs. Stark have definitely changed.

Thinking of them as friends and not enemies, he often seeks out their company now. Pepper and he have long conversations about art, strategies, and even fashion. He accompanies Tony to his workshop every now and again. He learns about simple mechanics and the newest technologies. They have settled into a very easy camaraderie.

Now, Tony makes that comment. Rhodes can’t deny that he finds both husband and wife very attractive. He decides, after a long night of debate, to leave the comment as it was said and not think of it again until…

One night, he knocks on Pepper’s parlor door for their usually book reading. Like most times, she doesn’t answer. He slips in the door only to find her and Tony getting it on. They don’t pull away when they see him, and he backs up, stammering. “I-I’m sorry. I’ll just come back later.”

“Join us?” Pepper asks, head thrown back in pleasure.

They must have been serious. Rhodes thinks. “Are you sure?”

“Would we have asked were we not sure?” Tony queries. “We want you here, Rhodey, but we understand if you would prefer to leave.”

“No, I will stay.”

++++++++ When little Morgan is born seven months later, Pepper introduces her to both of her fathers. Rhodey becomes part of the business. When Pepper stays in the background tending to Morgan, he takes control of the next moves. He and Pepper band together when Tony takes care of the baby, which is more often than not. She has him wrapped around her finger.

Rhodey loves Morgan. She’s not his child by blood, but she’s his child. No one dares to tell him or her otherwise. He teaches her how to defend herself at a very young age. It is not a secret that she will be even more powerful than her predecessors.

The trio stick together as laws change, as Morgan grows, as they grow old. Pepper is the first to pass, falling sick with the flu. Rhodey is next at the age of eighty-five. Tony passes not long after, handing the reins of the business to his daughter. Although she grows more powerful than her parents, tales are still told about the trio that ran New York.

#pepperony #eventual pepperhony #james rhodes #Tony stark #pepper potts #19th century au #tw violence #tw major character death #major character death but of old age #tw: period homophobia #au_gust_2020 #i write!

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Best Part of Me -Chapter 59

Warnings: Profanity

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @ocfairygodmother

A hot shower and a three hour nap -aided by a mixture of antidepressants, anxiety meds, and pain killers washed down by three shots of tequila- has done Tyler a world of good. Waking up feeling energized; still riding the high of the morning’s adrenaline rush and relatively pain free. Nothing more than a dull throb in the deepest part of the shoulder; some discomfort and audible cracking and popping when he stretches and manipulates it. But it’s bearable, unlike the agony that’s been a near constant fixture in his life for the past couple of years. While the initial replacement surgery and rehab had both been complete successes, a full recovery had eluded him. It had been his own fault, of course; the surgeon’s orders had been to alter his lifestyle and to avoid the very ‘activity’ that had caused so much damage in the first place. That ‘advice’ had lasted all of four months, until Nik had called, desperately needing his help and he’d been unable to resist both the lure of the game and the promise of damn good money.

He’d attempted to walk away several times in as many years, fully intending to commit himself to being a family man with his own little side business. Content with the motions of being the one to stay home with the kids while his wife either went back to school or found a new career she’d be happy with. But sometimes the best laid plans don’t work out. Not long after an early term miscarriage when the twins were two and a half, she’d gotten pregnant with Declan DESPITE being on birth control and coming to a mutual decision to wait until both Millie and the twins were in school full time before once again trying to add to their family. It had been completely unexpected, and off of their previous plans regarding their home life quickly went by the wayside. The job was easy money; he was confident in his skills and his abilities and Nik had promised to offer only the easiest of gigs.

That changed quickly. What should have been an ‘in and out’ assassination of a key political figure in El Salvador turning into a four day shit show that had him falling into dangerous enemy territory and almost needing to be extracted himself. After that, he’d said ‘fuck it’ and began taking whatever Nik brought to the table. And his physical health began to pay the price.

He orders a meal from room service and cracks open the bottle of whisky in the mini bar. He’s stuck to his word; staying sober while actually ON the job and not ever indulging during his downtime. Unlike the old days, he’s able to both pace himself AND stop after just a couple. A far cry from the guy who’d polish off an entire bottle and would be either too hung over to get up with his kids in the morning, or already passed out in the early evening; missing school events and extra curricular activities that he’d promised he’d attend. He refuses to be that guy again; the one who’d almost single handedly ruined his marriage because he put the bottle and the pain meds at the top of his priority list; allowing his addictions to take precedence over his family. The one who’d rightfully had his ass kicked out and then spent the next six months in a drunken stupor.

Never again. Never again will he be ‘that guy’. The absolute failure as a husband and a father. He can control it now; no longer needing to silence the inner demons or lessen the emotional suffering by getting. The want not nearly as powerful. Before it had been a way of life; no day complete without at least the smallest buzz. Now it’s a matter of convenience. Even enjoyment. A feeling of satisfaction and relief when the whisky finally hits the tongue and he experiences the initial burn in the back of his throat. After that, one drink doesn’t make him crave more. Instead satisfying his palate with bottle water and Gatorade and terrible coffee made in the hotel provided maker.

He’s lounging in the middle of the bed in a pair of boxer briefs when Koen finally returns. Back resting against the headboard and his legs stretched out; laptop resting on his thighs and a plate of food in his hands. And he only gives a brief glance towards the door when Koen stomps in and allows it to slam shut behind him. Offering no greeting, calmly and casually eating from the enormous serving of goat curry and naan bread, eyes never leaving the video playing on the computer; his three oldest on the plane, reading HIM a story and every so often having mispronounced words gently and lovingly corrected by their mother. And the grin that plays on his lips is double fold; pride and love for those beautiful and intelligent little human beings he’d had a hand in creating, and amusement at Koen’s mutters and complaints and strings of profanity.

“Look at you,” his friend grumbles. “All fucking relaxed and shit. Cocky, shit eating grin on your face.”

Tyler’s attention never leaves the laptop. A different video this time; Addie giving a real, genuine smile when she has her chin tickled. That one brings the prick of tears to his eyes. She’s still so tiny and so fragile, but she is...in fact...growing up.

“Why do you swear all the time?” He finally asks. “Makes you sound stupid. Find another fucking adjective.”

Koen smirks. “Well aren’t you just the clever one. Leave it to your brain damaged ass to remember THAT.”

“It’s my short term memory that’s fucked. Although I do remember threatening to throw your ass off the balcony. Keep calling me stupid or brain damaged, and it’ll happen.”

“Don’t be so goddamn sensitive. What’cha watching?”

“Just some videos Esme sent me. Of the kids. I’ve got two five year olds and a six year old that can read better than I can. How’d the fuck that ever happen?”

“Well their momma’s pretty damn smart. Maybe just be thankful their brains at least took after her.”

Tyler frowns, then flips Koen the middle finger. “I meant that they’re practically babies still and they can read like they’re a lot older. They’re so smart. So fucking smart.”

“Definitely gonna be trouble makers when they’re older. Imagine them as teenagers? Especially Millie? With that mouth of hers?”

“That mouth of hers is going to keep trouble AWAY from her. She says what she wants; fuck anyone’s feelings. Someone gets mouthy with her when she’s older, she’ll put them in their place. And if her own mouth doesn’t do it, her right hook will. She's a savage that kid.”

“Best of both mom and dad if you ask me. And look at you just kicking back. Acting like you didn’t just butcher two people this morning.”

Tyler shrugs. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for them?”

“Just thought maybe you’d be a little more...I don’t know...grumpy.”

“Why would I? They got what was coming to them. And they deserved a lot worse. You think that was brutal? Wait until I have more time and more space.”

“You’re starting to scare me a bit, mate. You’re enjoying this a little too much, I reckon.”

“Well if it was your family being threatened, you’d enjoy it too. You know what kind of things they would have done to my wife and kids? What I did is tame compared to what they had planned. I’ve heard the threats; you haven’t. It’s nightmare inducing shit. Let’s leave it at that.”

“That why you been freaking out in your sleep? Waking up barely able to breathe and shit? Scared the crap out of me the first couple of times.”

“It’s fucking with my head a bit,” Tyler admits. “Kind of hard not to let it mess with you. Trust me when I say that what I read? What was said about Esme? About the kids? I don’t wish any of it on my worst enemy.” It makes bile rise in his throat just thinking about it and he places the laptop on the bed and reaches for the bottle of Gatorade sitting on the nightstand. Downing half in order to rid himself of the bitterness and the burn. “Heard you guys had a bit of trouble.”

Koen scowls, pausing in the middle of taking off his gear. “Don’t get all cocky again, young man.”

“Not getting cocky. Just repeating what I heard. Didn’t you guys leave the same time I did?”

“Your point?”

“No point.” A slow, sly grin spreads across his face. “Just making an observation. I mean, I was alone and had to take out two people. By myself. Took me twenty minutes. And that includes me getting there AND back. You know all the shit I’ve done since then?”

“Nope. But I bet you’re gonna tell me, aren’t ya.”

“Took a shower, ate, slept for three hours. Now I’m eating again. And you’re getting back. Just now. It’s almost six. In the evening.”

“You’ve kept yourself busy. You jerk off sometime in there too?”

“Twice, actually.”

“Your lazy ass could have handled some more work. Instead you’ve been here slacking.”

“I’d done my bit for the day. Next time be faster.”

“Easy for you to say,” Koen scoffs. “Mister ‘I have all the experience’. You now, we could have used your help out there.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t hear that. Can you repeat it?”

“Don’t be a little prick."

“I swear you just said that you could have used MY help. I swear you just said that.”

“You’re asking for an ass kicking, you know that?”

“Funny how you wanted my help when this morning you were acting I like I didn’t know what the fuck In was doing. It’s almost like...I don’t know...like you’re actually admitting you were wrong.”

“I ain’t admitting shit. Just saying we could have used your help.”

“Why? Apparently I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I am five seconds away from punching you in the face,” Koen growls. “And your wife won’t be too happy if I mess that face up. So…”

“Just swallow your pride and admit you’re wrong, mate. That you shouldn’t have underestimated me. Get it off your chest. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Make you feel better, you mean. I’d rather stroke your cock than your ego.”

“Well you’re definitely never getting anywhere near my cock so it’s my ego or nothing.”

“Fine,” Koen sighs heavily. “I underestimated you. I will never again second guess your skills or your abilities. But I still think you’re a brain damaged fuck.”

“I’ll take it,” Tyler says, then sits the now empty plate and Gatorade bottle on the nightstand and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “How did it go in the end?” he asks, groaning and grimacing as he stands. Forty starting to feel like it’s closer to death, never mind middle age.

“They’re dead. So it ended on a good note. Put up a hell of a fight. Rata took an elbow to the face and went crazy. Beat the guy to death. You would have been impressed. I think he’s a natural.”

“And you?”

“I prefer the simple things in life. Pull a trigger and it’s done. I’ll leave the more hands on, gruesome shit for you two. Gotta date or something?”

“Going to the airport.” He slips into a pair of jeans and a simple black t-shirt. “Going to see my wife and kids.”

“Think that’s a good idea?”

Tyler sighs in exasperation. “Don’t fucking start this shit again.”

“Just if anyone is following you and you lead them right to your family…”

“Anil gave me the okay. Said he’s got tons of guys keeping their eyes on things. Yaz is sending a couple of people with me. So fuck off with this overprotective bullshit.”

“Now you know how your wife feels.”

“I have a reason to worry about her. A LOT of reasons. Damn good ones too. If you’re going to ride my ass so hard, at least pull my fucking hair.”

Koen smirks. “You’re into that kinda shit, aren’t ya. I knew it. Always knew you were a freak.”

“As much as I’d like to stay here and discuss my sex life with you, I’ve got better things to do.” He attaches his holster to his right hip, gathers up his wallet and hotel key card and both phones.

“You better not come back here with that ‘’just got fucked’ grin on your face,” Koen warns. “Because I will beat your ass.”

“You’ll be too busy beating something else.” Tyler retorts, right hand mimicking jerking off. Chuckling when Koen throws a shoe at him when he steps out the door.

****

It’s only a fifteen minute drive to the airport and he already knows everything there is to know about the young tech that Yaz has recruited to ‘escort’ him. It’s annoying enough not to be able to something as simple as driving, but to have to stuck with someone that is overly chatty and friendly is nothing short of torture. He’s never been a social creature; unlike his wife who makes friends easily and never shies away from making conversation with just about anyone, including strangers in the grocery store or out on the street. She’d been the first...and only...chatty person that hasn’t gotten on his nerves.

Her name is Riya and she’s twenty one; last of eight kids, her mother and father both extremely successful and wealthy business people in Dubai. The so-called ‘black sheep’ of the family; all but disowned when she’d decided to attend an American university -Georgetown- and make her home there. Even if he HAD have been talker, he wouldn’t have had the chance to offer up much commentary; her mouth running a mile a minute as she nervously and awkwardly spills even the smallest details of her life.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her to stop her. The old Tyler...the one that existed only six short years ago...would have already snapped and told her to shut the fuck up. But who he is now...the man he is...is different in so many ways. Far more patient. Considerate. Empathetic, even. And the father of a little girl that is the very definition of a chatterbox. Who’s bright eyed and bubbly and talkative from the time she opens her eyes in the morning until the moment she closes them at night. And he wouldn’t want some asshole speaking to his own daughter like that, so why would he?

“How long HAVE you been married for?” Riya asks, and he can hear Esme’s voice in his head; reminding him that not everyone is out to get him. That their curiosity is often just that. They’re genuinely interested in him and want to be his friend.

“Six and a half years.” Sometimes it doesn’t feel nearly that long. Other times, considering all of the bad shit they’ve been through and the time they didn’t think they’d make it. It seems a hell of a lot longer.

“And five kids, right? In only six and a half years?”

“We’ve really been together for seven. Well, almost seven. But yeah. Five kids.”

“They must be really close together.”

“First three are. My daughter is six, the boys are five.”

“Twins? Identical or…?”

“Fraternal. Millie...my daughter...was only two months when we found out they were on their way. They were kind of a surprise, needless to say. We have another boy after them; he’ll be two in a few months. And we have a baby girl. Almost eight weeks.”

“Just a little one.”

Tyler nods. “Very little. Very tiny. My wife is, too, Small. But feisty as hell. And tough. Toughest and strongest person I know.”

“Yaz said you met on the job.”

“Yeah, we got sent out on the same gig, To Bangladesh. Actually had to pretend we were married.”

Riya laughs. “Really?”

“First time I ever got mixed up in something like THAT. It’s a long story, but in the end, my fake wife ended up becoming my real wife.” He doesn’t feel the need to fill in the gaps between beginning and end; Dhaka and what happened there has never been kept off the radar. Word travels fast in the dame, and every single details has been made available; everything from Mahajan fucking him over to Gaspar’s betrayal to his near death experience.

“Probably the best ending to a job you’ve ever had,” Riya comments.

“Took me nearly dying and her sticking her fingers in my neck to keep me alive, but yeah, in the end things turned out pretty damn good. What about you? You got a family? Other than the ones that don’t speak to you?”

“Nope. It’s just me. It’s hard finding someone that understands this kind of life. Who won’t judge you for it. And the people you meet through this life aren’t exactly the settling down types. As much as I want to believe I’ll meet someone, I probably should just prepare myself to be alone for the long haul.”

“There’s gotta be someone out there. Either in the game or someone who won’t be bothered by it.”

Fuck. He’s starting to sound like his wife. Years spent listening to her reason with her little sister over the phone that there has to be a guy -or girl- out there that would be into her; a full time student with five cats and a host of mental health issues and an extremely toxic family. Or hearing her talk Ovi through his personal issues; always chasing the wrong girl and left brokenhearted in the end. Normally he just stays out if; offering shrugs of the shoulders or a simple nod or a head shake when Esme attempts to get him involved.

“Maybe there is,” Riya sighs. “Do you have any single friends?”

“My single friends are single for a reason. And I’m a lot older than you and they would be too. So…”

“What about Ovi? He’s your friend. He’s young. Is he single?”

“He’s actually more my son than my friend”

“Son?” Her brow furrows in confusion. “How…?”

“Another long story. We ended up taking in him, giving him a proper home, a family. But yeah. He’s single.”

“Do you think maybe you could…?”

Tyler laughs. “Yeah...no. Just no. I’m not trying to be a dick about it, but I don’t get involved with this kind of thing. That, and I’ve got some pretty serious shit I’m dealing with and it’s definitely NOT the time even if I WAS the kind that would help. I mean, my wife likes to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. You could always ask her to talk to him or whatever. I’m not who you want. Trust me.”

“Do you think she would? Put in a good word for me?”

“I guess,” he shrugs. “I don’t know. Look, I’m not the sociable type. So I don’t mean to come across as an asshole, but…”

“You’re honest,” she says. “I heard that about you. That you don’t say much, but you mean what you say and don’t pull any punches.”

“I can be a little harsh,” Tyler admits. “So I’ve been told, anyway. I’ve bet you heard a lot of things about me.”

She nods.

“Probably not a lot of good things.”

“More good than bad. But the bad is pretty...well...bad. I don’t know; you don’t seem that awful to me. I mean, how awful can someone be when they have a wife and five kids? No woman would stick around long enough to have one kid, never mind that many.”

“Never thought of it that way. I’m not an easy person to live with. I’ve put her through a lot. But maybe I’m not as terrible as I think I am.”

“I don’t think she’d still be around if you were. If she’s as tough and strong as you say she is, she would have hauled ass a long time ago.”

****

He’s still thinking of those words when they arrive at the airport; pulling right onto the tarmac behind the smaller hangar he’d flowed into only two days before. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then. Since he’s stood in front of his home, kissing and hugging his wife and kids goodbye and wondering if he’d ever see them again. With how successful the morning had been, he wants to be more confident in regards to the eventual outcome. But he knows how things work; each kill will get harder and messier and more complicated. Mahajan will clue into his involvement and up the stakes even more. One good day doesn’t mean you can let your guard down. Not in the slightest.

Riya waits in the car, but both drivers and passengers of the three vehicles that had followed them climb out. Staggering themselves along the tarmac, eyes surveying the surroundings; bullet proof vests under their clothing, weapons at the ready. The jet’s already arrived and the stairs being placed in front of the open door when he crosses the distances between it and the car; less than ten feet away when the first little body appears. Millie with her ever present messy hair and those Spiderman sandals; an Incredible Hulk t-shirt paired with a frilly -and glittery- pink and purple tutu over a pair of camo leggings. Her head down at first and a slight frown on her face; shrugging a unicorn and sloth themed backpack onto her shoulders and one foot tentatively checking the strength and support of the stairs in front of her. And when she finally does glance up, the look is one of shock at first. Her brow furrowed and those huge blue eyes wide and disbelieving. Then quickly widening and sparkling when realization sets in; a brilliant smile spreading across her face.

“Daddy!” She shrieks, and immediately forgets about her discomfort on the stairs, rushing down them and leaping from the second last one; not even stumbling or missing a single stride. “Daddy!”

Tyler catches her as she throws herself at him, effortlessly scooping her up into his arms. Feeling those little arms immediately circle his neck, squeezing as tight as they can and how soft her cheeks and her forehead are against his lips and how impossibly light she seems.

“You said we wouldn’t see you for a few days!” Her tone has a slight scolding quality to it.

“I thought I’d surprise you guys. I got things finished nice and early so I could come and say hi. I missed you,” he lays a hand on the back of her head and presses a kiss to her temple and then her brow. “I missed you so much.”

“I miss you too. This is the best surprise EVER.”

“Even better than getting Saju as a late birthday gift?”

"I love Saju, but I love you more. You’re my daddy. And I was worried about you. About the bad guys getting a hold of you.”

“The bad guys don’t stand against me. You know that.”

“Daddy!” TJ hollers, and soon both he and his brother -and two dogs- are racing towards him. And with Millie still on his hip, he drops down to one knee, laughing when the force of those of those small bodies - and all of the power and excitement and love inside of them- knock him off balance and he finds himself on his ass on the damp, cold tarmac. Gathering all three kids into his arms and pulling them tightly into him.

“I knew you could do it,” Tanner’s face is buried in the side of his neck, tears hot against his skin. “I knew you could beat up the bad guys and still come and see us! I missed you. I missed you so much.”

“I’ve only been gone two days, mate.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s only two hours. I still missed you.”

“I missed you too. I missed ALL of you.”

He presses his lips to each forehead, returns each tight, fierce hug. Still sitting on the ground as he listens to all three speak at once’ excited tales about what they’d done on the plane and the movies they’d watched and the naps they’d taken and the food they’d eaten, Millie showing off her matching bracelet. And she moves out of the way when Delcan arrives; a beaming smile on his face and a ‘miss daddy’ in his tiny voice before throwing his arms around Tyler’s neck. And he runs his fingers through his son’s silky red hair and showers his cheeks with kisses and holds him as tight as Declan will let him. And even now he’s not sure he deserves all of this. The adoration and the unconditional love and their blind faith and trust in him.

“Good to see ya,” Kyle says in greeting, placing Addie -in her car seat carrier- on the ground beside him, then offering a hand to help Tyler to his feet and giving him a one armed hug. “Especially in one piece. Heard today was the day. Must have went okay. You’re standing here.”

“Went better than I thought it would. I’ll take a good start over a bad one any day.” He drops to a knee once more, smiling at his baby girl as he unfastens the straps of the carrier. “Hey sweet pea...hey little peanut…” he scoops that tiny body into his arms, settling her against his chest; a forearm under her bum, hand on the back of her head. “Daddy missed you. He missed you so much.”

“What are you even doing here?” Esme inquires as she joins them, a playful scolding tone to her voice and a look of pure relief on her face.

He grins down at her. “I guess crossing your fingers worked.”

“I guess it did,” she says, and he’s able to keep Addie pressed securely against him with one arm as he wraps the other around his wife; pulling her tightly into him, lips meeting her temple. “I know it’s only been two days,” her voice is muffled against his chest, both arms around his waist. “But I have missed you so much.”

“I missed you too. It’s felt longer than two days.”

She nods, pulling away slightly to look up at him, tears sparking in her eyes. “I was so worried about you. Everything went okay?”

“Better than I thought it would. I’ll call you later and tell you all about it. Fill you in on all the gory details.”

“Yes, because I just love your stories of mutilation and homicide. You’re okay?” Her hands rub at his sides. “You look okay.”

“I’m fine. Not a scratch on me.”

“Guess you haven’t lost your touch after all. And to think you were worried about that.” Her face turns serious, the amount of tears in her eyes increasing. “I was so fucking worried about you, Tyler.”

“I know you were.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “It’s okay, baby. Don’t cry. Everything’s fine.”

“I’m just relieved. That I didn’t just have to take your for it and I got to see it...you...with my own eyes. I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you.”

“Now you’re going to make ME cry.”

“Did you get the videos? Did you watch them?”

“I did. And I’m slightly concerned that my six year and five year olds are already smarter than I am.”

“I don’t think they’re anywhere near being that smart yet, but they are crazy intelligent. Almost scary HOW intelligent. We are going to have our work cut out for us, I think. Having three brainiacs in the house?”

“Four if you count their mom. Where do you think they get it from? My looks, your brain. We’ve been through this.”

“Is that some sneaky, backhanded way of calling me ugly?” she teases.

“Baby, you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, you know that. And I love you,” he places a soft kiss to her lips. “So much.”

“I love you too. And did you see Addie? Her smile? Her REAL smile? She smiles exactly like you. Her eyes crinkle and everything. So there. She DID get something from you, after all. Are you okay?” She reaches up and lays a hand on the side of her face, running her thumb over his lips. “With what happened? You’re alright?”

“I’m okay. I just missed you guys. It’s been harder than I thought it would.”

“It’s been six months. You had a whole different life for half a year. I’d be worried if going back to this WASN’T hard.”

“It’s not just that. It’s...I don’t know….” Tyler shrugs. “I can’t talk about it right now. Not with the kids around.”

“Is it about what you did?”

He nods. “About what I did. How I felt about it. How I DIDN’T feel. We’ll talk later. I can’t stay long; just in case someone is keeping an eye on me. You guys will be safer at the house than you will be standing out here talking to me.”

“Thank you. For making the effort to get here. The kids needed that; to see you. I needed that. I really needed to see you. I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“I needed to see you, too. I was worried I’d never get the chance again. And I wish I could stay longer. Or go to the house with you guys. I’d give anything to be able to do that. Anything.”

She gives a small, understanding smile. “I know you would.”

“I gotta go.” He holds Addie out in front of him, kissing her forehead. “I love you, little peanut. Stop growing up so fast. You might be the last one.”

“We’ll talk about that later too,” Esme says, and he leans down to press a kiss to her temple before placing Addie in her arms. “I love you. We’ll see you in a few days, right?”

“Yep.” He attempts a reassuring smile, then kisses her; long and soft and sweet. “I love you. Call me when the kids are asleep. We’ll talk about stuff.”

“Okay,” she agrees, squeezing him tightly and burying her face in her chest once more when he gives her one last hug. Holding onto him longer and tighter than before. Unable to control the tears that trickle down her face.

****

“You should see this place,” Esme says four hours later, after all the kids have finally settled in their rooms and have managed to fall asleep. “Remember when we stayed at Mahajan’s? What that place was like? Well this Mahajan’s on steroids. I am serious. Ten bedrooms. TEN! And eleven bathrooms! Who cleans all those bathrooms? We have three and we can’t keep up half the time. And the master ensuite is bigger than our entire bedroom. And our room at home is what I consider huge.”

He can’t hold but smile at the youthful exuberance in her voice. He knows she’s exhausted; physically and emotionally. Not just from a twelve hour flight with five kids, but with everything that’s gone down within the past month and a half. But he can hear the difference; being in Mumbai and closer to him has lifted some of the stress and worry, replacing it with relief and at least some peace of mind.

“And you should the shit this guy has,” she continues. “I’ve never seen anything like it. An underground garage full of insanely expensive exotic cars. A home theatre, indoor and outdoor pools and jacuzzis, his own tennis and basketball courts. Who needs all this stuff? I thought we had a lot of stuff. This? This is our stuff times a thousand.”

“We have a lot of stuff...normal stuff...because we have five kids. He has a lot of stuff because he doesn't have anyone or anything else to spend his money on.”

“”I mean, we have money too. We’re not exactly poor. Not anymore, anyway.”

“We don’t have his kind of money, babe. What we have in the bank is like a month’s salary to him.”

“We also don’t buy stuff just to buy and have stuff. This is just insane to me. And the animals. It’s not one or two, Tyler. It’s its own goddamn zoo. He’s got tigers and monkeys and peacocks and a sloth. And snakes. So many snakes. Don’t even get me started in the snakes. All I have to say is thank god they’re far enough away from the house and securely contained. Because you know my fear of snakes.”

“I don’t know where this fear comes from. We’ve only had one snake in the house so far”

“In my shoe!” She reminds him. “Which I tried to stick my foot into, thank you very much.”

“What was one of the first things I told you when we first moved back to Australia? Especially where we moved TO. Check your shoes before you put them on. If you listened to me more often…”

“What if it bit me?”

“You would have lived because it wasn’t poisonous. And it was a baby. The way you fucking screamed, you would have though it was an anaconda trying to eat one or two of the kids.”

“I don’t like snakes. I told this when we first lived there. That I’m scared of them but I loved you enough to live somewhere where there’s tons of them. And you promised you’d be the one to handle them. And the spiders.”

“Which I have. And the dingoes. Have I let a dingo get you?”

“You’re probably waiting for the opportunity to feed me to one.”

“Baby, if I wanted to get rid of you, there’s about a hundred different ways I could do it. And feeding you to a dingo is NOT one of them. And I don’t want to get rid of you, so…” He stretches his legs out in front of him, resting his bare feet on the top railing of the balcony. “...you’re safe.”

“What I don’t understand is our children’s fascination and love of snakes and spiders. If you didn’t encourage them to pick the damn things up and let them crawl all over them…”

“They’re not dangerous. They can’t hurt the kids. Let’s not raise pussies, okay? They have to learn about stuff, yeah? Let them learn. As long as they’re not in danger, what’s the worst that could happen? What are they going to do? Want a Huntsman as a pet?”

“I will refuse to step foot in the house again,” she declares. “I will move out. I will live with Ovi in the guest house. If you EVER let the kids do anything like that, I swear…”

“I’d miss you too much. I know what lines I can’t cross.”

“Speaking of lines you shouldn’t cross. Who’s the girl you were with tonight?”

“Are you serious right now?”

“What? You thought I wouldn’t notice you left with her?”

Tyler grins. “Esme, are you jealous?”

“Do I have a reason to be?”

“I kind of like this. You getting all jealous. You getting all worked up. It’s kinda hot, actually. And no, you don’t have a reason to be jealous. She’s young enough to be my kid.”

“Maybe she likes older men.”

“Good for her. But I like you, so…”

“So who is she?”

“Riya. She works for Nik. She’s from Dubai. Apparently her folks are loaded and basically disowned her for going to school in the States and picking the job she did. Sound familiar?”

“That DOES seem a little too close to home for my liking.”

“She actually wants to talk to you.”

“Oh how cute,” Esme scoffs. “She wants my permission before she bangs my husband. Well at least this is asking before she tries.”

“Only person I want to bang is you. And she wants to talk to you about Ovi.”

“Ovi? What about him?”

“You’re the one who can’t stay out of other peoples’ business, right? You like meddling in relationships.”

“Pardon me? It’s advising. Not meddling. Advising.”

“She wants you to hook her up.”

“With Ovi?”

“Are you following along at all or have I been talking to myself?”

“I mean, it’s Ovi. He’s like my kid. No. Scratch that. He IS my kid. I can’t set him up./”

“Why not?”

“Do you want me setting Millie up? Or TJ? Or Tanner?”

“First off, Millie is six. The boys are five. It’s not the same thing. Just do it. Put in a good word for her.”

“So now you’re encouraging me to meddle? That’s a first for you.”

“I’m encouraging you to help a poor, desperate girl out. And Ovi too. He’s been acting like a little bitch since Chloe took off and I can’t can’t take much more. So do me a solid and save what’s left of my sanity and help Ovi get laid.”

“Okay, wow. THAT’S a little disturbing. Isn’t that supposed to be your thing? Anything sex related? You’re a guy. You find him a piece of ass. Call one of your hoes from your old little black book.”

“Actually, I didn’t have anyone in India,” Tyler admits.

“You poor baby,” she scoffs. “My heart bleeds for you. And find. I will put in a good word for this girl. But if you want him to get laid, you figure out how to make it happen. And don’t sample the goods, either.”

“Only goods I want to sample are yours. So why don’t you come over here and let me.”

“You’re hurting, aren’t you,” Esme laughs.

“A little. It’s been forever.”

“It’s been two days, Tyler.”

“Feels like it’s been forever. What are you wearing?”

“Are you serious right now? You want to have phone sex?”

“You can’t come here and I can’t go there, so…”

“I’m wearing a lovely combination of premenstrual syndrome, baby puke, and dog hair.”

“Now THAT’S sexy. PMS, huh? So things are going back to normal that way.”

“It was going to happen eventually,” Esme sighs. “After the next one, they can take everything out. I’m done. I won’t need any of it anymore. They can have it. If I never have a period again, that’s fine by me, I’d say it’s good for you too because you won’t have to put up with my extreme bitchiness once a month, but you have two daughter who will go through this one day.”

He frowns “Can Addie at least get to her first birthday before we talk about this shit?”

“It’s going to happen, Tyler. I mean it could happen to Millie in a few years. I was ten.”

“Esme, for fuck sakes. I don’t…”

“Sorry, honey. I hate to break your heart like this. But one day it’s going to happen. And one day she’s even going to want to have sex and need to go on birth control and…”

“Do you want a divorce? Because bringing this shit up is how you get a divorce.”

“I love you, Tyler James. You’re my favorite human And I love how you can impale someone with a garden rake but you can’t handle the thought of your daughter maturing. You’re so fucking cute. You’re so cute, I’d have phone sex with you right now if my cramps weren’t so bad. I am telling you, after the next one? My body is done. That’s it. Take it all out. It’s not needed anymore.”

“Next one? I thought we weren’t going to talk about that until I got home.”

“I made the decision. Without you.”

He smirks. “Oh, so you mean like you usually do about everything.”

“Pretty much. If you really want another one…”

“You gotta want it too. Not just me. I don’t want you doing it just because I want it.”

“I do want to. One more. An even number. And if something happens like it did with the one that should have been between the twins and Declan…”

Tyler sighs. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“We stop if something goes wrong. Because once was bad enough. Well twice, if I count the one with Mark. I can’t keep having my heart broken like that. And if we can’t successfully carry another one, we just stop. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees. “And it wasn’t fun for me, either. Going through that. It was my baby too.”

“I know. But you were amazing and so good with me and it made me love you even more. I’m worried about you, Tyler. There was something in your eyes tonight. When you talked about what you did today. I can’t put my finger on it. I just know what I saw and that I’ve never seen it before. It wasn’t old Tyler OR new Tyler. I don’t know who it was.”

“Before I tell you what’s going on, I need to tell you what I did. And I know you hate hearing the gory details. But I need to tell you.”

“Okay…” There’s a slight rustle of the phone as she shifts positions in bed. “...I’m not going to sleep for a couple days after this, am I.” While she accepts and supports what he does, she draws the line at hearing the details. She’d seen enough in Dhaka, and once that was over, so was her desire to ever see -or think about- another drop of blood again. “Did you shoot them?”

“No. I didn’t shoot them. I was more...hands on.”

“Like your bare hands, or…?”

“Sort of. I kinda slit a guy’s throat and gutted another one. Literally.”

“Okay…”

“And I liked it. I liked doing it. And I’ve never liked doing it before. I killed because I had to. Because I had to keep myself alive. Now I’m doing it because I WANT to. Because I enjoy it. That’s fucked, yeah? Tell me that’s fucked. That I’M fucked.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s fucked. And I definitely won’t say you’re fucked. And I can’t say I’m totally shocked. Or shocked at all, to be honest.”

“Maybe we’re both fucked,” he says. “And not in the good, fun way either.”

“Well before you question our levels of depravity and insanity, let’s look at this for what it is. This isn’t a normal job. This isn’t what you’re used to. You’re used to not having any emotional ties to what you do. You go in, you do what you have to do, you get out. That’s it. You don’t know these people, you don’t know the people they’re hurting, none of that. You’re not connected to any of them, right?”

“Right.”

“Well this time you DO have a connection. A very personal one. These people threatened your family. And I don’t know exactly what the threats are, but they must be pretty bad if you won’t tell me. I mean, people are saying horrible, twisted things about people you love. About me and your kids. It doesn’t get more fucked up than that; threatening children. Addie’s one of them and she’s just a baby. What kind of fucked person says shit like that about a baby?”

“Evil people,” Tyler concludes. “Really fucking evil.”

“And you’re pissed. To your very core. I see if in your eyes, Tyler. I hear it in your voice. How angry you actually are. How disgusted you are. And you have every right to feel those things. This is as personal as it gets. And you wonder why you enjoyed it? I’d enjoy it too if someone threatened you and I got to kill them. I’d enjoy every fucking second.”

“It just makes me feel like such a dick,” he admits. “Like I’m a horrible fucking person. I made the one guy look at me. Made him watch me while I slit his throat. And he recognized me. He knew who I was. And I liked that he did. That my face was the last thing he saw.”

“And that doesn’t make you a bad person,” Esme says. “A bad person wouldn’t be worried that it makes him a bad person. You’re a good person, Tyler. I know you struggle to see that. But I see it. And I know it. I know who you are away from all of this. I know how loving you are. How gentle you are. What you did today...what you felt or didn’t feel...that doesn’t erase who you are or what you’re like away from all of this.”

He blinks back tears “This is fucked. This all so fucked.”

“You’re doing what you have to do. You’re stopping them before they can do the same thing to us. Or worse.”

“Definitely worse. Much, much worse.”

“Do you want to tell me what the threats were or…”

“No. You don’t need to hear that. You don’t need that shit in your head. It’s bad enough it’s in mine. That it’s probably never going to leave.”

“We’ll work on that,” Esme promises. “Your brain. When we get home. We’ll work on it TOGETHER. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Tyler. So much. And I wish I could be right there with you. I know this isn’t easy for you. That you’re struggling with so many things. But I love you and I’m so proud of you.”

He swallows around the lump of emotion sitting in this throat and using a forearm to wipe the tears from his face. “I love you. And this sucks. Being away from you. You’re so close but it’s like you’re so fucking far.”

“If you need me there, I can find a way. And I will. You know me. I’m pretty sneaky and tenacious on a good day.”

He gives a small chuckle. “Yeah, you are.”

“And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. So if you need me there….”

“I’m okay. For now anyway. Stay with the kids. They need you.”

“So do you. Even if you won’t admit it.”

“I do. Need you. But they need you more.”

“Promise me you’ll call if it gets worse. If you change your mind. Because I’ll figure it out. How to get to you and stay with you. Promise me.”

“I promise. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Get some sleep, okay? It’s been a long day. Call me in the morning. Just so I know how you’re doing.”

“I will.”

“And thank you. For showing up tonight. Seeing you did a world of good for the kids. Especially Tanner. He’s finally smiling again. And he has such a beautiful smile. YOUR smile. And it did me a world of good too. To see you. I miss you, And your arms. It was really nice to be in those arms again,”

“It felt good to have you in them. Hopefully in a few days…”

“It’ll happen. I know it will. You’re doing fine. Just keep doing what you have to do. That’s it. We’ll talk in the morning, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Get some sleep,” she gently orders, and then disconnects the call.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #extraction #best part of me #chris hemsworth character

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dyinglightroleplay · 5 years

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𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒.

NAME : Arabella Petra Figg RELATIONSHIP TO THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX : Member ( active - duty ), On-call Non - Magical Physician AGE / BIRTHDATE : 37 Years Old / born 16 July 1942 at 10:02pm EST ZODIAC SIGN : Cancer ( sun ), Virgo ( moon ), Aquarius ( rising ) EDUCATION : Université de Paris / Université Pierre-et-Marie-Curie ( MD ) BLOOD STATUS : Pureblood Squib

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

✧ Benjy Fenwick ( platonic ) ✧ Peter Pettigrew ( antagonistic ) ✧ Gabriel McKinnon ( player’s choice )

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍.

Directing the makeshift infirmary created at Order Headquarters following the Battle of Hogwarts. She’s yet to hear a full report of the battle’s events.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 : 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍.

PLAYER : Mod Rivka FACECLAIM : Rachelle Lefevre URL : @aerabella

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: BLOOD SUPREMACY, GASLIGHTING, ALLUSIONS TO THE SHOAH, WAR

ZERO / RISING. * How is your character perceived by others? What mask do they wear, and is there more than one?

The biggest current conflict in Arabella's life is, frankly, that she's essentially leading two of them --- --- she's spending her days ( and three nights a week on call ) at Charing Cross Hospital, working as a general surgeon, and her nights ( and nearly every waking hour she isn't working ) making herself available for Order business. These two worlds hardly dovetail in any convenient, meaningful way, and often, Arabella feels more like she's being slowly - pulled apart between them than she is bridging any sort of gap. And, as the War progresses this feeling only intensifies for her, bringing a new companion in doubt. Albus' move to the Ministry saw one of her major remaining ties to the Magical world frayed, and she can't help but feel lost ; the disintegration of her relationship with Alastor, no matter how necessary or mutual, hasn't helped that. Arabella has always relied on her uncanny ability to seek strongholds in people, rather than places, in friends rather than family, to keep herself tethered to the life she's chosen. But even that is called into question as the Order steadily begins to turn inward, as bonds strain, as the stakes raise in ways she's not even certain herself she can withstand.

Something I'd really like to investigate with Arabella is how much of her literal existence is affected by continual, subtle gaslighting --- --- even unconsciously, bias lives so intertwined with Magical politics that not a single day goes by where she doesn't question her place in this world, or her ability to participate in it. Losing Albus’ influence only fuels this, leaves her unsteady enough to begin to doubt her own competence, her own power ; while she may not have Magic, she's never felt its lack as keenly as she has in the days since the news of the Battle of Hogwarts broke. And of course, she's grown used to fighting this, she's grown used to proving herself time and again at tests that never would have been presented to her if she could wield a wand. But the weight of displacement wears, a quiet wound she doesn't dare mention for fear of seeming too needy, too weak, too much. Arabella has spent her life taught, continually, that who she is, who she was born to be, is something of an accident, a problem, a tragedy, something to be hidden or forgotten, something to be ashamed of. And the fear in that self - fulfilling prophecy --- that by asking for help, that by speaking about her insecurity or her fear, that by appearing anything but self - possessed and certain she's somehow proving them right --- keeps her from growing past it.Additionally, I'd really like to explore the shape Arabella's role in the Order takes, as a non-magical person. We know that she spends her life as this 'double agent', continuing undercover and keeping an eye on Harry as he grows up on Privet Drive --- --- how does she get to that point? What about her training, her personality drew Dumbledore to that conclusion, fostered that trust? And what is she doing now, in his absence? She's a woman with military training, an accomplished physician, but these are not valuable skills to Magical eyes ; how does Arabella translate her accomplishments for Magical colleagues in order to establish her competence and earn their regard? And what does she do with it, once she's finally managed to earn it? What inspires her to carry on even after the fall of You Know Who, even after Lily and James' deaths? Why does she continue to devote her life to a world that has, from the moment she was born, tried so hard to forget her ?

And perhaps it's the nature of a woman brought up across two worlds, but Arabella is a woman of contradictions. She is brutally soft, she is tender in equal measure as she is tough. From a very young age, she understood that she, and she alone, was responsible for her happiness, for her safety, for her security, for her love. Coming of age the non-magical child of pureblood parents taught her early that no one would make space for her, if she did not demand it. And does that necessarily always make her the easiest to get along with? Of course not. But has it made her singleminded, driven, powerful in ways that she would not have been otherwise ? Absolutely. She exists in a space entirely of her own making, and taking that space is a purposeful, continual choice. Arabella is, above all, protective of this, and careful to only allow people into that space who will respect it, or help her maintain it.

Ruled by her emotions ( a true water sign ! ), Arabella thinks with her heart, with her gut. She's intelligent, well - spoken and well - educated, but pragmatism doesn't serve her ; she's action - oriented, stubborn, and proactive. Still, she is steady - handed, and is less about the rush of acting before thinking and more about the dominant emotion of the action --- --- while she allows her emotions to dictate her choices, time has given her the benefit of perception and self - awareness. She learnt empathy long before she decided to pursue medicine, and discovered the joy in using her perceptiveness to bring others peace early in life. Guided, always, by her heart, Arabella presents a calming, opening presence, but it is not one that she abides being used or taken for granted. And again, this is where her fundamental duality comes into play ; she can be generous, kind, and affectionate with those she trusts with those energies, but she can be equally cold, distant, or aggressive with people who've proven themselves unworthy of that emotional labor. Protecting herself --- because, truthfully, she doesn't trust others to do it --- takes precedence here.

A classic introvert, Arabella can come across as quiet or aloof, but her rich inner life --- and vibrant energy, shown to those who know her well --- fills her time and keeps her from retreating inward or closing herself off fully. However, she has a distinct confrontational side, and one that is not always to her advantage ; Arabella wears her anger, just like her heart, on her sleeve. Despite this, she is not a good arguer, preferring instead to sort through her own feelings first to address her needs, if possible. Sensitivity and intuition rule here, as well, and while Arabella is at her most obvious when angry or frustrated, she is very particular about whether or not 'fighting it out' will serve her, or simply take away her peace. This combination is interesting, especially for a woman who prioritizes herself, especially for a woman stretched between two worlds as she is --- --- Arabella is, truly, the sort of unbothered who can decide if a confrontation will not be worth it long before it comes to a head. In this way, her anger is valuable to her --- --- not as a weapon, but as a means to separate out what is and is not worth her investment.

ONE / THE SUN. * Choose one to explore : what about their personality, general preferences, sense of self / ego, or fundamental traits attracted you to them?

I have .... so quickly fallen in love with Arabella, in the same way I fell in love with Davey, as an opportunity to really dig deep and explore intersections in this universe that don't usually get much attention. With Arabella, there's a chance to delve into how Squibs interact with the magical world in a time where their very existence is questioned even more than it usually is --- --- where do Squibs fall in the hierarchy desired by blood purists ? What part of their identity is more valuable, is more important, is more easily leveraged, politically and interpersonally ? And what does it feel like to be part of a sub - group so small that you might very well be the only you you know ? But even beyond that, Arabella presents the opportunity to look into the worth of a woman's work, and how its gauged in a society that fundamentally considers her to be 'broken'. Children raised in magical homes who end up without magic don't have that Hogwarts Moment that Muggleborn children do ; at eleven years old, at ten, maybe even earlier, Arabella's entire world got infinitely smaller, rather than broader. She was raised in one culture and fundamentally turned out of it, how does she cope with the intersection ? What life does she chose ? How does a Witch who can't perform magic parse her own identity and how does she go about making space for herself to just exist ? And all of this, of course, viewed with the Dark Lord's war as the backdrop .... I can't wait to tell the rest of her story. I can't wait to hear it.

The Order is not Arabella's first time amongst soldiers, but it is undoubtedly her first time fearing for them. Albus was never a man of great explication, preferring to work as close to omnisciently as possible in what was, at least she'd believed, an attempt to protect anyone else from the pain and loss of the great labor of war. But as the recruits skewed younger, as the faces seated 'round the meeting's table grew rounder, softer, before they became fewer altogether, Arabella caught herself thinking less and less like an Officer. And the newest ones, the youngest ones, they are fierce and indomitable in ways the Order undoubtedly needs to re - invigorate their efforts, but is that worth this ? Is that worth losing them ? It seems absurd that a world of magic, armed with the fantastic and limited only imagination, could fall so easily into a pattern repeated in the wake of the waste laid to the Muggle world mere decades before. She wants to be hopeful, she wants to see that ferocity and conviction and let it reassure her, let it comfort her, let it reignite her own fire. But Wizards are so ineffably human, in this way --- --- as prone to mistakes as they are to a fervent refusal to acknowledge them. So she worries, instead.

TWO / THE MOON. * Which color would you associate most strongly with them and the emotions that dominate them? Describe however you’d like.

MUTED TONES. Lavender, clary sage, rose quartz --- --- soft but lingering, perfumed, precious, protective. Spring rain on windowpanes making watercolor, worn - in knits, velvet or silk, the thatch of an aging floral sofa run - through with unmistakable cat scratches yet beloved all the same, comfortable all the same. Multi - colored capsules and oils, blood seeping pink through the white threads of sterile gauze, the faint - orange stains of iodine left behind and the quiet yellow of sterile soap caught under cut - short fingernails. The blue - lipped hush of the operating theatre, and the lavender tinge of dawn that greets her as she leaves ; sunset - colors of desert and death, white enveloping as some believe it will always do, when life leaves this world. The sweet melt of candlelight across a familiar face, the pale gold pinch of a well - baked challah, burnished gold and the cream droplets of dried wax.

THREE / MERCURY. * What is this character’s area of expertise? Where do they excel?

Several years of Medical study and residency later, Arabella is currently practicing as a hospital - based general surgeon. She spent two tours of French Army duty as a field medic, first at eighteen ( and simply an assistant ) and again at 35 and running her own team. She's also an active participant in Médecins Sans Frontières, helping to train younger physicians in field strategies they might use abroad, and while she hasn't yet had the pleasure of taking a humanitarian trip herself --- blame this war, of course --- she very, very much wants to.

Despite being unable to accomplish any Magic on her own, Arabella takes careful consideration and great pride in finding and placing protective objects and plants in her personal spaces. Growing up so entrenched in Magical culture meant she sees the efficacy --- and the appeal --- of utilizing crystals, candles, oils or scents, and herbs for their healing, safeguarding, and enriching properties. She's also a rather adept Tarot reader --- --- the grey area between everyday magic and Magic is expansive.

#marauders rp #first wizarding war rp #hp rp #oc rp #lsrp #arabella figg #takenf #takenootp #taken #gaslighting tw #war tw #shoah tw

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veridium · 5 years

Text

happy pills

The storm is on the horizon for your favorite modern thedas college girls. It’s my honor to push my piece a step further on the board. This episode brought to you by Norah Jones’s “Happy Pills,” otherwise known as my favorite song to sing wine drunk in the shower!

Enjoy some sad, tepid burn and friends knocking sense into each other! uwu!

start from the beginning // previous episode

6:50am, Friday morning:

--dude, send me your coffee order in ten minutes or perish.

Ellinor: surprise me

--you hate when I do that

Ellinor: you always say that! you know me

--ok fine, it’s my funeral after it’s yours. I’m at the studio. Hopefully you’ve snuck back through the window from your nocturnal love nesting.

Friday morning workout at the dance studio does not rival Josephine’s pep talk as far as therapeutic outlets go, but it’s a close placebo. She’s been going once a day at least since Wednesday evening, and switched to early mornings in order to evade any possible ‘run-in.’ Now she is an even more mean, lean, dancing machine than she usually is, dressed in her black leotard, tights, and running shorts. The last thing on her to-do list while in town is to stop into the coffee shop downtown to pick up coffee for her and Ellinor -- she called dibs on the honors, edging out Cullen for once that week.

She parks her car on the curb at 7:45am and tosses her hair up in a clip. Hopping out of her mini and over the crosswalk, she walks in with ease though the memories flood. Down the way she sees the table where her and Cassandra had their disaster coffee meet-up, and butterflies yet linger in her stomach as she waits in line to place her order.

Just as it’s her turn, people come down the shop stairs from the second-floor lounge area. A set of flats with ballerina laces, the other calf-high, military style boots. The worst combination of people there could ever be. Cassandra, and the red-headed friend of Josephine’s. Lily? Leliana. Leliana.

What are they doing here? It’s the crack of fucking dawn!

They’re walking close, and it’s not due to the lack of space. Shoulder-to-shoulder, like...like how they used to. Olivia can’t bare to look at their faces and have it be made worse. She closes her eyes and turns away. Dread and its accompanying sensations flood her from nose to toe. She braces for a collision, a cringey ‘oh how do you know so-and-so?’ and sly grin for absolutely no reason. Cassandra’s awkward inability to hide her feelings of uncomfortable distaste.

But, across the floor, the secondary door entrance rings its bell, and she turns to see they are gone. Left without so much as a horrible side-eye. Well, fine, if that is how it is...

Is she that unrecognizable post-workout? God, she must be. She pulls out her phone and flips the selfie camera on. It isn’t the worst she’s ever looked -- sophomore year, second semester finals definitely takes the cake in that category. But she does look...human. Mortal. Normal, sans emo pride flag hoisted in her wake.

Her gawking is interrupted by a text from Ellinor:

Ellinor: Hey, still bringing my coffee? I have some things to do and class later…

--Yeah, I’m ordering now. Be at the dorm in 15.

Oh, so she is alive. Funny. She pays for her to-go order, a white non-fat mocha and an Oregon chai. She’s expanding Ellinor’s palate, slowly but surely, starting with the chai family. Today is a risky day to try, though -- Ellinor has been a happy nervous mess, and last night’s antics have them both on edge: another instance where she’d said she would come home in a few hours, tops, only to stay over until morning. Something’s got to give.

Heading to her car, she makes a couple more texts, but to Theia instead:

--dude, hey, do you know Leliana?

She’s buckled up by the time Theia responds. The early mechanic bird always gets first dibs at tinkering with the shop stuff, as she would say.

Theia: Leliana? Who fucking doesn’t.

--That makes me feel better. She queer?

Theia: Yeah, she’s one of us. Cool once she likes you. I swear she ran a government background check on me when I started hanging out with Josie.

--well, great, she’s hanging out with...she who shall not be named

Theia: Well, hope she says goodbye, because I’m still killing her lol

--Ha, very funny. I gotta drive, I’ll text you later. See you this weekend at the gala?

Theia: Yep!

Well, shit. What’s there to like about the situation besides their choice in shoes? Nothing. But she’s got a coffee order to deliver to her best friend, and that takes precedent. She puts the car into gear and takes off.

Once on campus she marches straight up to their rooms, where Ellinor is waiting with a boot tapping the ground and phone in both her hands.

“There you are! Fuck,” Ellinor sighs, rubbing one of her eyes. “Tell me it’s at least a double-shot.”

“Triple,” Olivia grins, handing it to her. They both sip, and Ellinor makes a face.

“Is this a boujee chai? You got me a boujee chai again.”

“I got you a nice chai. You’re welcome, Olivia, for being my coffee fairy…”

Ellinor pinches the bridge of her nose, like a reset button, and refocuses on her phone screen. Is she still grumpy from Olivia’s read last night? Maybe, it was a bit...brutal. That’s what happens when you catch her trying to sleep, noise machine on ocean sounds and late night oreos digesting.

“Thank you,” Ellinor finally spits out, pulling her headphones from her denim jacket pocket. “I’m sorry, I’m just...worried.”

“Why? What’s up? Fuck, my class starts soon, let me throw some clothes on and get my bag.”

A black spaghetti strap, black jeans, and a grey long cardigan will have to do. She runs some product through her wet hair and ties it back up, and out in no more than 3 minutes. They get down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Private enough for multitasking gossip and academia.

“So, what’s with the stick up your ass?” Olivia asks, slipping her aviators on.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not even!”

“You got ten minutes before the door closes and you gotta find another plucky blonde to be your confessor, dude. Speak now or forever hold your peace!”

“Urgh!” Ellinor chokes back an erroneous groan, pressing her to-go cup to her lips. “I need to be beamed up, Scotty. This is getting too much.”

“Too much? Dude, what?”

Ellinor takes another long chug, and their walking gets faster. Oh no, she’s not getting out of this one.

“His sister is arriving today.”

“I thought you were excited to meet her.”

“I am! It’s just...It’s…” they round a corner, a back path to the area of campus where their buildings are located. “You know in movies and shit when people get introduced to other people and the mutual friend goes “ah, shit, this is...my...friend,” like all awkward? I realized this morning that he’s gonna have to do that.”

Olivia sighs, adjusting the position of her bag shoulder strap and hooking her thumb onto it. “And you want to be introduced as an important person.”

“Yes! I--NO!”

“Aha!” Olivia finger guns. Caught red-handed...or...hearted...whatever it is.

“That is not what I am having an issue with! Look, you were right, okay. I don’t want it to be this way. I need to nix it.”

Olivia dragged her shoe heel to a halt, eyes round and mouth agape. “The fuck?! Ellinor, how am I to blame for this?”

“Your text! You...with the thing...and the ‘is this what I want’ shit!”

“Ugh! Ellinor, Jesus Christ!” she grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her off to the side. They had entered a little park-like area, with a couple trees and a cheap looking sitting bench. Guiding -- no, yanking -- Ellinor to it, she slung her onto her ass and set down her coffee.

“Alright, Ellinor, gloves coming off.”

“What?”

“Gloves, off,” Olivia rolls her shoulders. She’s still feeling bouncy and strong from workout. “You keep saying the opposite of what you feel and it shows. You obviously like him, and he obviously likes you. Why are you acting like being an adult only means saying no? The fuck?” Olivia throws her arms up.

“I’m not! I’m just being practical! I don’t even know if would want to be anything else. He seems perfectly fine as it is!”

“Who said to be friends, Ellinor? Who? I’ll give you three guesses, the first two don’t count!”

The world seemed to stop turning. Olivia stood there, hunched forward in her shoulders, looking like she was lobbying on a Congressional floor that water was a basic human right. That same ardor, all for her best friend botching her love life. But Ellinor was squirming for all the wrong reasons. She was doing exactly what she did when things got too good: finding a reason to call it good, while they were ahead.

Ellinor bunches her knees together and sits back, pouting.

“I said it,” she mumbles.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear. Who?” Olivia holds a hand to the rim of her ear.

Ellinor purses her lips and looks off to the side, evading her eye. “I did…” another low tone.

“Uh, come again?”

“I did! Dammit!” she kicks the floor and folds her arms. “Shit, fuck, dammit…”

“BINGO! Ya’ll we got a winner!” The salt in her tone’s getting excessive, even for her own internal standards. Which, clearly, are immense. Deflating her tirade and taking a breath, Olivia puts her hands to her hips. Shifting from antagonist asshole friend to helpful soccer coach mom.

“Babe,” Olivia gives in, “maybe it’s time you listen to the Disney song and say you like him, and you know what you want from him.”

“Do I?” Ellinor asks as Olivia sits down next to her, thigh-against-thigh. She lays her head on Olivia’s shoulder. “I’m so confused I can barely think straight.”

“Hey, that’s less of a problem then you think.”

“Oh. Ha-ha, nice gay joke, funky little bisexual.”

Olivia giggles, and wraps her arm around hers. “Hey, it worked. And now, we’re gonna be late for class.”

“I know.”

They both sigh, and accept the inevitable. Each of them has their reasons. Ellinor probably doesn’t want to see Cullen and have all her existential agony to show off. Olivia just...wants to stop caring. The week has gone on logistically without a hitch, and her workaholic personality has ensured everything but her love and social life has gone smooth. Everything is on fire, but it’s fine. It’s so fine.

“Well, games are fun, right? We’ll have fun.”

Olivia stills, her cheeks flushing. It suddenly gets a whole lot hotter. “Uh, hey, about that…”

Ellinor twitches and sits up, looking at her with a pointed face of ‘oh god, please don’t.’ “Olivia…”

She cringes and bunches her shoulders. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You said yesterday it’d be fine! That you were all good under the hood!”

She glares, but with a laugh in the back of her throat. “I didn’t say ‘all good under the hood.’ I have never said that in my damn life.”

“You! But you said! Ugh, unbelievable!” Ellinor let her hands fall up, then down onto her jeans, making a slapping down. “What’s going on? Did you talk to Cass?”

Cass. She calls her Cass all the time. It’s nice, but it’s not her. Cullen calls her Cass, too. They all call her Cass. Why not her? Why does she have to be extra and say ‘Cassandra’ all the damn time? For fuck’s sake.

“No, I haven’t. It’s still radio silence, but…” she teeters on whether or not to explain, but she figures it’s written all over her face anyways. Ellinor’s look of skeptical frustration says as much. “I saw her this morning.”

She pauses. Anticlimactic, so it seems. “You...saw her? Is that...a big deal?”

“No, it’s…” she rubs her hand against her scalp of tied-back hair. “It’s not that, really. It’s...how I saw her.”

Ellinor looks as if she’s about to hear a testimony of assisted homicide, as she turns to face her, criss-crossing her legs and picking her coffee up. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know that girl I told you about, the one Josie introduced me too?”

“Yeah, the creepy redhead. What about her...oh, oh no. Liv…” she scowls in sympathy, “they weren’t…”

Liv smiles with sadness and looks off to the grass in front of them. “They were at the coffee shop. What was supposed to be our coffee shop. At 7:45 in the morning, no less. You know what that means.”

“...morning after hookup coffee…” Ellinor whines a bit in secondhand misery. “Fuck. It can’t be.”

“I mean, I was wrong. I must be,” Olivia shrugs. “Or she’s having very fond friendships.” Very, very fond. 7:45 in the morning, dressed with makeup on and school bags packed fond. No one’s that fond without something that perked them up the morning before. Unless you were Ellinor Trevelyan and hated admitting feelings.

“The worst part,” she chuckles again, “the worst fucking part! Is that Leliana said she heard about me. My dumbass was like ‘oh, cool, Josie mentioned me,’ but no! It was! Her! That...that!” she stops before she gets carried away, gritting her teeth as she puts her coffee to her chin. “They must laugh about me. Goodness, why would she make a move on Cassandra, she’s clearly not interested and spoken for! Secret...CIA lesbians…”

Ellinor rolls her lips, choking on her laugh she so desperately wants to let out. They refrain from eye contact in order to save face.

“You might be jumping to conclusions, maybe? They could be friends. Josie and her seemed tight, and you don’t know if this Leliana person is even--”

“I texted Theia after I saw them. She’s ‘one of us.’ And pretty, and sophisticated, and...has leadership roles. I look like a chipmunk and Marilyn Manson had a love child on a good day.”

Ellinor gasped, and slapped her in the thigh. “Olivia Berenice, shut up! What the hell! Whatever this woman has going for her, you’re hot, okay? Hot, and brilliant, and cultured!”

“I’m a chipmunk!”

Ellinor roars and starts tickling her in the side, but she only groans and squirms like a gangling preteen without proper cognitive awareness. But, laughter does take hold, and she even snorts.

“Fine, fine! I’m not a chipmunk!” she wiggles, “I just! I’m mad. I’m mad that I’m mad. I shouldn’t be jealous of something that wasn’t mine to begin with. But here I am, sulking and pouting, going ‘but that’s MY spare bike helmet she’s probably wearing, riding on the back of her motorcycle.’ I want to bury myself alive. This shit blows.” She sips more of her mocha, but the sweetness is no longer satisfying. The taste of resentment and unresolved bisexuality overtakes the white chocolate.

“It...it does blow,” Ellinor admits, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Damn.”

“So, forgive me, but I don’t think me showing up tonight will be good. Or necessary. I’m just gonna be that awkward friend that Cullen wants to be nice to but also respect his roommate’s choices. And from what I gather of Leliana, she’ll probably just go Avril Lavigne and kick me into the mini-golf lagoon.”

That evokes a laugh, but a sorry one. Pity. Ellinor downs the rest of her chai and slides her feet over the edge of the bench, boots barely touching down on the dirt. “That means I’ll be on my own with Rosalie, probably. Fuck.”

“Hey, that’s not a bad thing. You’re cute, and funny. From what I’ve heard of her, she’ll probably look at you like the sun shines out your ass. A grunge babe, out in the world and getting educated. Yeah…” she teases, a crooked and charming smile.

Ellinor groans. “I’m a mess, is what I am. She’ll see me twenty yards out and go ‘shit, what’s that hot mess express doing out here in public?’ and Cullen will go, ‘hey, that’s my friend! My friendly friend, who I only have friendship for. The friendliest friend to ever...friend…” she gets sadder the more she talks, as does her posture. It’s disheartening to see her spin and spin and spin, rather than just cut herself a break.

“Ell, you gotta put yourself outta your misery,” Olivia concludes, pulling her phone out. “And I don’t mean by taking a break.”

“There’s no way to know if I’ll be more miserable for indulging myself, though. I’ll just jump out into the water and fall flat on my face.”

“Or, he could catch you, like he’s been trying and offering to this whole damn time.”

“That’s not true!”

“Ughhh, Ellinooorr,” Olivia falls forward into her lap, her head hung low. “Christ alive.”

“It’s not! He doesn’t look a touch uncomfortable with being friends.”

“Yeah, because so far friends has gotten him a spooning-mate for what, three nights?”

“Two!”

“Two! My God, forget about it, nevermind!”

They roll their eyes at the same time but for contrasting reasons. Olivia, fed up a bit by the circular direction of the conversation, would rather go to class and risk being locked out for her delinquency. “Come on, to class, binch.”

Ellinor lays her head back but pushes herself up, dragging her feet but carrying on. When they’re back on the sidewalk, fresh air in their lungs, things feel a bit less useless.

“But that also means he’s probably sick of me making demands,” Ellinor speaks again after about a minute of walking. “If I try to reset the boundaries, he’ll probably think I’m too bossy or something.”

“The man likes to be bossed,” Olivia says rather mercilessly, “I’ve never seen a guy with a more apparent invisible “peg me” sign on his forehead.”

“Olivia!!”

“What?!” she shrugs, “there’s a nobility in getting pegged.”

“Yeah? And what would you be, if Cassandra was involved?” a sharp, cutting response. Maybe Olivia hit a nerve too far.

She sighs. “The best peggers know when it’s their turn to get pegged,” she answered, “I do not possess such talents. The force is not with me.”

They come to the short concrete walkway to Olivia’s building and stop. People walk past, closer so that they have to be more secretive with their highly classified discussion.

“The force could be in you, maybe,” she giggles crassly, “uh, I mean, pour one out for your pegging skills,” side-stepping towards the path where she must walk alone. “You sure you don’t wanna go, dude? It’ll be a crowd, and you can spend all your time with Rosalie if you want to. I might need the help if she turns out hating my guts.”

Olivia slides her hands into her jean pockets and looks around. No one familiar, no one worth her attentions. Good.

“I’m sorry, Ellinor. I’m recovering, and I’m a hell of a lot better than I was last weekend, but...I don’t think I can see her. See them...at least, not like that.” The sight of Cassandra playing soccer was still sacred to her. The first real sight she ever got of her in action, and the epicenter of happier times with Ellinor on the grass sipping drinks and fantasizing about their love stories.

“Okay. Text me, alright? If you change your mind I can just swing around and come get you.”

“No worries. I’m probably gonna drive home tonight, actually. I got my dress for the gala, I just need to go spend time with Mother dearest.”

“Ugh, really?”

“Yeah. I know,” she huffs, looking up at the third floor windows where her lecture is being held without her. “Time to wake up and get on with life. You, at least, are still holding out.”

“Psh! No,” Ellinor make a ‘yikes face.’ “I’m on thin ice right next to you.”

Olivia stares at her, a brow raised. “Ellinor.”

“...what?”

She shakes her head, and turns her shoulders towards the doors that await her. “I’ll put it this way: I walked out on my person after demanding space once, and she came back around. I did it again, and I lost everything good about it in fear of facing the ‘maybe’ bad stuff. Don’t be me, checking messages that are a week old, hoping that I somehow missed one. Don’t get your heart smashed into the sidewalk when you see him out with someone else because you didn’t know what you may have had. Please.”

It pains her to say it out loud, but it’s true. The week was a yellow-brick road of life lessons learned all-too-late. If she could go back, she’s unsure of what she’d do. Maybe not kiss her, maybe still try but then ask what was wrong. Talk to her. Listen. God, listen better. But it’s too late -- or, it’s too close to being too late, and she can’t keep doing this to herself.

Ellinor frowns, as if she is about to tear up. Olivia grins and pats her on the shoulder. “Hey, go to class, kid.”

“Okay. Text me, please? Let me know when you’re on the road and when you’re home.”

“I will. Love you, bestie.”

“You too, bestie.”

And with that, they part ways, Olivia retreating into her sacred building, called Tifton Hall by everyone else. The stairs sound better than an elevator, and when she gets to the third floor, she sees that class was let out early. Great, so it was no use showing up. She climbs back to the second floor where the faculty offices are along with the TA office desk and inboxes. If she can get nothing else out of being there, she can check for any last minute notes. She’s been a horrible TA -- it’s been over a week since she checked it.

Nothing’s there, though, with the exception of a red post-it. Some Professor’s shorthanded nonsense, probably. Ripping it from the box and sticking it on her finger, though, the truth is revealed:

“Stopped by to drop off things for a Professor. Hope you’re having a good day. -C”

Her throat nearly closes, or so it feels. It must have been old. She looks on the back, and true to Cassandra’s erudite character, it’s dated. The day before last Friday. The day they hadn’t seen each other, or text, really. Turns out her distance wasn’t so far.

She looks down either end of the hallway -- no one’s there to make fun of her for what she is about to do. She pulls out her favorite notebook and presses it to the inside cover. The last thing she’ll ever have, for when she starts to forget it was ever real.

God, Ellinor, don’t fuck up like I have.

Time to put headphones in and marathon King Princess, St. Vincent, and Halsey, her sapphic patroness Saints, until she feels too heartless to care. A playlist on her Spotify made by Sera for her last fallout with a girl, titled “Girl Troubles, Dedicated to Baby Liv.”

#college au #college au update #adventures of ellinor and olivia #ellinor trevelyan #olivia sinclair #modern!olivia #UPDATE WOOOOOO #BRING ON THE CRINGE AND SUSPENCE #AND SAPPHIC DRAMA

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whatscallion · 5 years

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best friend au that definitely think they're best friend until someone mistakenly says "you two make a cute couple, reminds me of my husband and i when we were young" and ofc trying to deny it but all of the guy-bro friends point it out too 'you two dig each other' and now the guy realizes that he has feelings and oh no its awkward now becAUSE SINCE WHEN WAS SHE THAT PRETTY

//- i tweaked this a tad because of TWO YEARS worth of shipping, brainstorming, writing, and friendship demanded it so. you’re my best friend, so it only made sense to write this for you.

-romanogers, 2.6k word count, medieval au.

Times had been tumultuous to say the least, the earth quaking in seemingly endless wars. It seeped with the blood of friend and foe alike, all for the sake of words spoken and beliefs upheld. In a land bound by tradition, change often came in the bloodiest of manner, paying with the lives of those who believed or were forced to. The mentalities of kings and queens all generally ran in the same greedy course of river, wanting more land, more people, more gold - all for the sake of carrying the bigger stick.

Even Avalon didn’t escape the sticky tendrils of materialistic gluttony. Its toxin fed through the peasants scraping by in the mud, crawling its way through the ranks to stain the pristine armor the knights wore. Even the most noble fell prey to the darker thoughts laying an overcast to their shining kingdom.

But much like the weather, there were rays of the purest light to shine down on those deemed worth enough to behold.

Through the storms that plagued the minds of opposition and the clashing of metal on metal, bonds were forged through the fires of violent trust, and in doing so, walls long ago erected began to crumble despite every effort otherwise.

A glance lasting a heartbeat longer than necessary.

The subtle curl of a smile.

A seemingly unbiased nature becoming the opposite.

Despite the mystery shrouding that of the noblewoman Natalia ( though it was safely assumed she’d endured the worst childhoods at that table ), things were coming to light only to those who were clever enough to see. Beneath the fabric stained crimson and obsidian, a beating heart grew warm despite everything it’d been through, despite the cracks created, despite the lack of recognition it received. Every beat since seeing baby blues and valor brought a hue of warmth normally disregarded as weakness.

No, this wasn’t weakness. Yet the revelation only continued in stoicism, particularly in the company of others. Should it not pertain to her duties in serving Avalon, then the information would fester away within the folds of a mind long ago groomed for efficient violence. At first, there’d been an almost petulant way in which she ignored the creeping sensation prickling at the center of her chest when he came around.

He. Him. This Knight and his Shield.

Forcibly, she’d pinpoint the exact ways in which to end his life, ranging from the poisons she’d used on those undeserving of grizzly ends to the brutality of war overcoming him like a tide. Rather than find something pleasant in an imagined demise, the Widow was greeted only with the faintest of scowls. The Order would’ve been most displeased had they ever been privy to this growth as it was far too human for an Instrument, thus hindering what was created to be marred perfection.

It made sense for there to be distance at first, but the results had been the opposite of what was intended - she had missed him, to put it plainly.

It was peculiar, for there was nothing particularly profound between them. Perhaps that had been the trick. Most allowed her preceded reputation to speak for her, often veiling words in the barest fear that she may appear before them with less than pure intentions. But with him - this Knight - he had treated her minutely different. There was a brightness in his eyes despite being worn from conflict, and he spoke to her not as a woman nor a threat - but an equal. It was jarring at first, and comforting at last. Slowly, others of the Table had followed his example, albeit cautiously so. That would be for the best. The Widow had long ago accepted her role in this world, in this kingdom, at this Table, so the severe lack of surprise had been the only thing she could take solace in.

But now, solace moved to that of a bond she couldn’t quite ignore. It was almost frustrating at times, the unseen voices of her past telling her this would be her untimely demise. That his hand would sever the thread of her life. And yet, she couldn’t quite pay attention to the damning warnings heading her way, her thought process laiden with honesty and softness - both unheard of in the legacy of her wake.

Geneviere had been the first to touch upon what others only spoke of in hushed tones outside of shared presences.

“The way you look at one another, it reminds me so much of what I’ve endured in my younger days.” It was a statement that drew the taciturn to face the fairest presiding over the kingdom. It was unprompted, yet somehow, unsurprising. She was slipping in her indifference.

“I know not what you mean, my Queen.” It was an expected answer, it’d seem, as the low hum of a chuckle came from royalty, eyes averting as if the weight of the world rested in her gaze.

“Please,” Geneviere spoke in a candidly hushed tone. “You may fool the others at the Table, but you do not fool me, Widow. A coldness exudes from you, but only those who have felt the warmth of love can feel it as well.”

The Queen was met only with silence as her answer, and in that silence came an acceptance - an admission that the woman was right in her assumptions. And in doing so, the Queen continued.

“I’m not in a position to control your thoughts, Natalia, but I can offer a piece of … hardfought knowledge. This is not a kind world, of that I’m sure you’re aware of, but when we find the things that make it a little bit better, we mustn’t let the opportunity slip by, no matter how selfish it may seem.” Truth lingered in every syllable spoken, and there was no denying it. Thus, silence reigned supreme as a simple nod of acknowledgement was given to her Highness before the noblewoman slipped from the presence she’d not deserved.

It’d been frustration at the obviousness of the situation that had compelled her to leave the grounds in which she inhabited, venturing out on her own for time with her thoughts and nothing else.

And she remained a ghost for an entire fortnight.

During such time, no one held a concern towards the disappearance of their most prolific of duty-bound.

No one, save for one.

“The Widow always disappears for reasons we don’t know,” a friend spoke, taking his time in peeling the skin off a roasted turkey leg. “What makes it any different now? It’s not as if she’s reverting back to the old ways - she knows the consequences of those actions.”

Around the table they sat, three knights from differing corners of this untamed world. Two ate without hesitation while one merely poked at the food presented before him. His head was held within his hand, boredom mixed with concern to paint a scowl along angular features. Sir Steven was unamused at his company, and further unamused at the food he held no appetite for.

“It’s not as if she’ll die out there. She’s cheated death what - three times?” The good Knight Wilson spoke with nonchalance, a bit more concerned than that of the third, Sir James.

“No, only the one time with the mage,” corrected Sir James, still taking his time with the fowl skin. He’d argued before that it was where all the nutrients were, hence why it was so tasty. “If you count the Burning of Rifthelm, then sure. Twice, but I don’t think there’s a third time.”

“The cliff,” Sir Steven finally said. “The one at the river’s birth in the Northlands. The Dead King nearly had her join his ranks there.”

“And she came back just fine,” Sir Wilson added, as if that alone would wipe the woes away from the knight’s disposition, but it only seemed to solidify it. This forced both the lounging knights to lean forward, a seriousness veiling them to simmer the humor away into nonexistence.

“Steven-”

“Sir Steven,” the blonde knight corrected.

“Shut up, we grew up together. I can call you a whore without fear of getting beheaded,” Sir James spoke with unheard of liberties taken.

“Not publicly, no,” Steven said with a sigh. This had Sir Wilson rolling his eyes to the heavens above, as if the angels he prayed to would deliver him from this bickering stupidity.

“Anyways, Sir Steven-”

“Continue.”

“-You’re making this affliction very obvious.” James gestured frivolously at Steven sitting there, forlorn like a wife with a husband in battle.

“Affliction?” The blonde spoke as if he had no idea what was being implied. This furthered Sir Wilson’s eye roll, suddenly wishing for something - anything - to take him away from these two. Instead, it was he who would shed light on what was already discussed between he and James.

“Your feelings for the Widow, Sir Steven. Don’t play dumb. Sir James and I have definitely witnessed this thing between you, and I’d bet my last gold piece that she feels the same about you.” The confidence in Sam’s tone would leave his words as unshakable truth - irrefutable in every standard possible.

And the worst part of all of this was that they’d seen it so plainly, so easily, that Steven could not deny them their bragging rights. Rather than fully admit to it, he merely sank in his chair somewhat, his broad shoulders slumping in dismal defeat before calloused hands came up to cover his face, hiding away the warmth in his cheeks.

“What am I to do? This is inconvenient and impossible,” he lamented into his palms, bringing James and Sam to exchange looks, as if appointing the other repeatedly to console their friend. In the end, it was James ( perhaps the least capable of this ) who would lead his friend down this awful road that was lined with an awkward and sweaty love. Sam merely wandered away, casual in the fact that this was no longer his ordeal to handle.

“Impossible? She’s a woman and not a half bad looking one. It’s very possible,” James tried.

“She’s more than that, James.”

“How come I have to call you Sir, but you don’t have to call me Sir? I’m a knight,” James pouted.

“You’re beneath me in ranks,” Steven spoke, still hiding behind his hands. James couldn’t argue with that logic, so he let it go.

“But continue. How is she more and how is this impossible?” With Steven hiding away behind his hands, James went back to gnawing on the drumstick, but remaining attentive to his friend.

“She has conviction. Lethal. Deadly. Beautiful. Have you seen her fight? It’s as if she’s dancing. As if it’s the most graceful way one could hope to be killed - by her hand.”

“That’s her training, honestly.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s a natural aptitude.” Steven had dropped his hands, coming to the defense of a woman he couldn’t quite ignore, no matter how many times he told himself it was the worst idea imaginable. “Music flows through her-”

“So, you like her because she’s pretty and she can kill with ease? I know at least five women like that.” That earned James a harsh glare from Steven, but it was to be expected. James wasn’t necessarily the best when it came to alleviating the weight of a situation.

“That’s not it, James. There’s so much more, but I can’t even begin to put it into words. Is it obvious?”

“Yes,” James answered too quickly, bringing Steven to hide behind his hands once more.

“Do you think she knows?”

“Yes,” he answered once more, once again too quickly. Steven made a noise akin to that of a horse falling into a well, which only made James chuckle at his supposedly awful situation.

“Love is an awful thing, Sir Steven. Worse than any war you could fight, but it is exquisite when it’s perfect.” As if this man knew a thing or two about love. “I suggest you do something before she disappears and doesn’t come back. She may be of Nevihe descent, but even they die.”

Again, that noise came forth from Steven, capping the conversation with a pat on his back. It was in that time alone in the Great Hall that Sir Steven mulled over the choices he had before him, all of which he was certain would end in despair, pain, anger - all of it giving him more than enough reason to cower away from what others were, undoubtedly, eager to behold.

But Sir Steven was never one to shy away from a challenge, even if it was one unto himself. Rather, he patiently waited for her to appear, or even the Raven often announced her arrival. For days on end, distraction found him, festering knowledge away to hollow out his own commitment to the task at hand. It made for sloppy training, sloppier penmanship, and sloppiest mannerisms. He’d even been dismissed from the Table one evening because his lack of focus was bothersome to the Queen.

Little did he know that she knew exactly what wavered his sight so much, and it was her intent to do something about it - a guiding hand to remove whatever imaginary obstacles resided between the two.

It was as he traversed the long halls to get back to his chambers that he was greeted with an instinctual urge to glance to his side as halls intersected. The shade of crimson drew him to a slow stop - the Widow was back, yet she’d not been at the Table. How long had she been back in the kingdom? Was she okay? Questions plagued him as his course of trajectory changed, and legs carried him closer and closer towards a confrontation he wished he could avoid.

“Natalia,” he had started, unsure in the slightest of what to say afterwards as she turned to him. Emerald met cerulean and in the depths of an oasis created between them, they drowned in sublime admiration, affection, love.

“Steven,” she replied, but it was all she spoke before actions too precedence over their meeting. Never had she been one for words, often claiming there were far more understanding ways of relaying a message, and this moment was no different than the rest.

A step forward was taken.

Steven’s eyes widened the slightest, yet baby blues darkened in the slightest.

Natalia’s hands fell upon the broadness of his chest, the same hands that had taken the lives of countless - both innocent and guilty.

On her toes’ tips, she stood, and his hands found the curve of her waist beneath the leather adorning her.

Seamless were these movements, culminating to bring their lips together in a kiss almost too innocent for either to fall victim to. Both, coated in the blood of battles and wars fought, and yet in one another, a peace was created.

A peace that would only reside between them in an intimacy unmatched.

#romanogers #mine #prompt #happy two years of friendship!!#medieval au #babyhenbitch

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kaoruyogi · 6 years

Text

How to Win Wars and Influence Nobles (Ch. 30)

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content!

Check it out on AO3!

You’d think a video game lawyer could just drop into a pseudo-medieval universe filled with magic and demons and be totally okay with it, right?

Nah.

In the wake of her brother, Spencer’s, disappearance, Belle dropped into Thedas with luggage, but without a clue. After a brief but memorable panic attack, she resolved to be the best goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. Even if she was the only goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. And even if that obstinate asshole, Cullen, wouldn’t stop giving her the side-eye every time she walked into a room…Or every time he walked into a room with her in it…Or every time they walked into a room together…Or–Fuck it. You get it.

**WARNING** Scene involving childbirth below! It's not at all graphic, but it's there. I separated it from the rest of the chapter with my usual divider line of asterisks, anyway, just in case. Also, please see my notes at the end of the chapter! ^_^

Chapter 30: The Reality of Miracles

Cullen had always held some ambivalence for the term “miracle.” He heard the word overused in recent memory, but a true miracle always bore an eerie duality in its happening. It was duplicitous. On one side of the coin, miracles were wonderful. They seemed to prove the existence of the Maker, of something greater than one man, of something that could choose the righteous to survive above all others.

But the other side of the coin was darker. Black and wretched. The reality of miracles was that they must always be preceded by deep misfortune and calamity. The very nature of miracles required that their subject avoid death or disaster by only the narrowest margin through immeasurable strength of will or divine luck. The subject of a miracle would, therefore, be unlikely to consider what happened to them to be a miracle.

Cullen had been the subject of and borne witness to several miracles. His survival at Kinloch Hold was a miracle only because everyone around him died. His siblings’ survival during the Fifth Blight was a miracle only because their parents and hundreds of others died. Max’s survival at Haven was a miracle only because he avoided a crushing death under a mountain of snow by his chance position near an abandoned mineshaft after dozens of people died.

Thus, when Cullen first heard the phrase, “the miracle of childbirth,” he was dubious about its use. After all, how could the coming of life into the world result from the narrow avoidance of death? He remained dubious about the phrase for most of his life, never having been present to bear witness to such a miracle. His father had chased him out of the house during the birth of his siblings. The Circle healers had chased him out when the occasional pregnant mage gave birth. He chased himself out under all other birthing circumstances he had almost seen.

It was only upon the birth of his own daughter that he understood “the miracle of childbirth.” The entire ordeal was a brutal exercise in unending terror. A concerto of the unceasing screams of the Void. A whiff of the hot and rancid exhalations of ever hovering death.

At first, it all seemed manageable. Late morning wound into late afternoon, and Belle’s pain came in waves. She sat up in their bed, propped up by half a dozen pillows. The elven midwife called into the palace from outside the gates ducked in and out of the room to work minor magic over Belle’s stomach. She said all was well. But after shrinking periods of minutes, all did not appear well. Belle’s body would contract, twisting her neck and fisting her hands into the sheets so hard her knuckles turned the color of sun-bleached bone. Occasionally, she grabbed onto him instead. She inhaled through her nose, and her lip quivered as she blew the held breath out through her mouth. Sometimes she vomited. Sometimes she cursed. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she did all three.

Cullen was helpless. He hated it. He would have taken the pain from her without a second thought if someone gave him the chance. Instead, he did what little he could to bring her comfort. He held her hair back when she vomited into the ornate porcelain basin the midwife called silly. He measured tiny sips of water for her. He tied her curls up and away when she asked, though he regarded his efforts as slapdash at best. He let her crush his hands with every wave of her pain, his own negligible by any comparison. He held her up when the midwife suggested she walk about the room to speed the process.

Their mabari seemed to feel equally helpless. Charles paced around the bed, laying his heavy head on Belle’s hand in the quiet moments between contractions. Cullen began to signal him to move away, but she said she liked him there. She stroked the dog’s short fur with her eyes closed in the dwindling absences of pain.

The sun dipped away beneath the palace walls, and late afternoon gave way to late evening. Her spasming agony worsened by the hour. The midwife massaged magic into the small of Belle’s back, though it did little to alleviate the pain. She showed Cullen where and how to touch his wife to keep her blood flowing in the right direction and coax the child out of the womb. He ignored the dark scars on Belle’s bent knees caused by his temporary death all those years ago.

When the midwife stepped out, Belle turned to him, sweaty and severe and scared. “If I die—” she said.

“No.”

“Don’t fucking ‘no’ me, goddamnit. If I die, you have to let Mia and my parents help you. I don’t want you alone when you raise our little girl.” A fat tear sliced through the perspiration on her pink cheek. “You need your family, and she needs hers.”

His vision blurred, clearing with the streak of moisture down his face. “You will not die. You can’t. I can’t…” The notion choked off his voice.

She gave him a wavering smile and wiped away his tear with her thumb. “I promise. I’m doing everything I can not to die. But if I do, you can make it, okay? You and her. You can make it. And you better, or I’ll turn into a spirit thing and cross the Veil to whoop your ass.”

Cullen laughed. It came out thick and stunted. He nodded and kissed the back of her hand. He held it to his forehead to conceal the two additional tears that loosed themselves in an attempt to betray him. His mouth began to move in silent prayer, begging the Maker not to take her away, not to leave him with the biting memory of another death, not to compel him to mourn every time he looked in their daughter’s eyes.

“Do not take her,” he whispered through trembling lips. “Maker, I beg you, please do not take her from me.”

Late evening succumbed to the murky blackness of early morning. The part of morning which could hardly be called morning. Belle was exhausted. She laid back and closed her eyes and stopped breathing more than once. The midwife tasked Cullen with keeping her awake, and Belle might have spurned him had her contractions not been all but constant.

When the time finally came for her to push, she made a valiant effort. Her moon face turned red, eclipsed by excruciation. She laid sloppy hands on his cheeks, and she pulled him to her, and she wept that she couldn’t do it. He promised her that she could. He asked the Maker not to let him be a liar. She pushed and screamed for so long he had trouble remembering a time before pushing and screaming. He would swear he never heard her take a breath, though she wailed and grunted with all the force of a torrent.

“I can see the head. Just a little longer. A few more hard pushes.”

Cullen’s heart crammed itself into the back of his throat. It beat there, loud and fast, obscuring his words and dizzying him. Belle pushed for a little longer. She pushed a few more hard pushes. The midwife gasped and made a sound like she discovered a lost and ancient treasure. A baby cried. Belle’s body went a little slack.

She was still alive. Still conscious. She made a delirious sound he realized was laughter as she sobbed and panted. He began to breathe again.

Belle held out her arms and wiggled her fingers for the source of the piercing and squeaky little shrieks. “Give me my Sadie,” she said, hoarse and happy. “Give me my little Sadie Jo.”

They had agreed on the name not long after discovering their child would be a daughter. She was named for Belle’s mother. Her middle name, Josephine, was meant to honor a dear friend they thought they might never see again. Even after returning to Thedas, they decided to keep the name. It had grown on them both, and they could not imagine a raising child called anything else.

The midwife wrapped up squealing little Sadie in linens much too fine for such a use, and she set the baby on Belle’s chest. Belle laughed and cried and grinned, and Cullen kissed her damp forehead. He kissed his daughter. Their miracle.

When all was said and done, the midwife excused herself for a moment. Cullen thanked her and watched her leave, and he caught a glimpse of the world outside their room before the door closed behind her. More aptly, he caught a glimpse of Sera slumped over Rainier’s shoulder, both of them half asleep. He also caught a glimpse of the glimmer of Dorian’s outfit and the tip of Iron Bull’s horn. He tilted his ear to the door and listened.

The midwife’s voice said, “They’ve had a healthy baby girl. Mother’s doing well,” and a flurry of relieved noises followed. He had no idea how many of their friends had been waiting there, nor how long they had waited, but he felt a sudden pang of gratitude for their presence. No one had any need of their gracious worry now, however. There had been a miracle.

*****

It was a gray day that morning. Belle would be happy when she woke. She loved gray days. She loved gray days, and she loved their new daughter. He had little doubt she would want to see the two together, but she was asleep. And Cullen would not wake her just yet.

Although his primary reason for not rousing his wife was that she needed rest more than anyone he had ever known, he had to admit some selfishness in his ulterior motive. He had read, in at least one of the half dozen books he purchased upon finding out Belle was pregnant, that it was crucial to the bonding process for babies to have skin to skin contact with their parents. He did not recall when the book or books recommended he start that skin to skin contact, so he opted to try it just then. In his view, he could not hold her soon enough.

He doffed his tunic and snuck over to Belle’s side of the bed where Sadie lay in a small padded basket atop a sturdy table. He almost tripped over Charles, who had curled up just beneath the makeshift bassinette. The mabari lifted his head at the sound of Cullen’s bare footsteps, and he eyed the man before him for a moment. Despite being the object of his own hound’s suspicion, Cullen felt certain that his choice to rescue the dog from his Orlesian fate was the right one. True to Cullen’s word, Charles would make the perfect protector for Sadie.

The mabari continued to watch as Cullen reached into the basket to lift out his daughter. Charles’s ears perked up higher at Sadie’s little snorts and squeaks, but they returned to their tentative position when she calmed against Cullen’s chest.

She was so very small in his large hands. Tiny and amazing. Her birth-swollen features were still muddled, her eyes still gray at never having seen the sun, but she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was hot against his skin, and he looked down at her and hoped her cheeks would always be this round. He closed his eyes and put his nose to the fine tuft of near colorless hair atop her head. Her scent was otherworldly. She smelled of softness and newness, and he breathed her into himself.

Then Sadie began to fuss, and Cullen began to panic. The realization that all the books he read had not prepared him to be a real father poured over him. They were all theory. They told him only what to do if a fictional baby fussed. Not one of them told him what to do when his newborn daughter, his Sadie, started to fuss.

Out of this sudden and crushing sensation of inadequacy and terror, he began to pace and sway. His daughter began to settle. He breathed out a slow sigh of dizzied relief, and soon he found himself humming a soft tune he had enjoyed in Washington. It reminded him of what he felt with this fragile new life in his arms, this overwhelming urge to protect. He would lay down his life for this tiny girl. The odd word or two of the song slipped through his lips as he hummed.

“May no man’s touch ever chain you,” he sang, and then he hummed again. “And as for the clouds, just let them roll.”

Sadie, his beautiful and perfect Sadie, huffed and snored against his chest. All the world melted away. All the politics and the Orlesians and the Inquisition sloughed off of his shoulders, and it was just him with his daughter and his sleeping wife, and it was just them and the gray day outside the window.

An unsubtle knock and the opening of their door whipped his head around. His grip on his daughter tightened, and he heard Charles stir and stand at attention. Cullen tried to recall where he put his sword.

Josephine stepped into the room, a world-worn and weary look marking her. She blanched when her eyes landed on him, and he remembered his shirtlessness. Then she saw his daughter in his arms, and it was as if every practice of courtly decorum she had ever learned evaporated in an instant.

She cooed a bit too loud and said, “Blessed Andraste, she is so beautiful!”

Cullen put a finger over his lips before pointing to his sleeping wife, and Josephine grimaced her apology. She crossed the room to speak in whispers and to see the child.

“Oh Maker,” she said, holding a hand on her chest, “just look at her. Congratulations, Commander. She is perfect.”

“She is,” said Cullen, proud as anything that someone else saw what he saw. He turned to allow Josephine a better view of his little girl’s tiny face. “I would like to formally introduce you to my daughter, Sadie Josephine Rutherford.”

Josephine clapped the hand not on her chest over her awestruck mouth. Her hazel eyes welled up, and she shook her head. “Me? You’ve named her—I—” It was the first time he had ever seen her at a loss for words, and it brought a wide smile to his face. She swiped away the tears that tumbled free and beamed. “I am truly honored. Truly.”

“I am glad. Belle picked her name, and I quite liked the sound of it.”

Josephine let out a soft giggle. “As do I.” She cast an appreciative look toward the bed.

Cullen watched Josephine watching Sadie for a few long seconds. He began to feel slightly uncomfortable at his state of undress and the nearness of her head to his right nipple. “I can only assume you needed us for something?”

“Oh, of course. Apologies. Just moments ago I could think of nothing else, and now I’ve become so distracted I did not even remember why I came here.” Her dourness returned by a half measure. “Just a few moments ago, Maxim met with the Exalted Council. He declared that the Inquisition will remain active as an honor guard and investigative force for the Divine. Then he left the chamber.”

“Can he do that?”

Josephine shrugged. “He just did. And he has strongly suggested that the Inquisition take its leave tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? I don’t know if Belle can walk, much less travel. It’s too soon.”

“I know. I have arranged for a healer and a wet nurse to meet with you this afternoon and to travel back to Skyhold with us if need be.”

“She won’t want the wet nurse. She has been quite adamant about feeding Sadie herself.” Cullen glanced at his wife. Her eyes remained closed where she lay.

“It is merely a precaution,” said Josephine, placating him with a gentle gesture of her hand. “There can be a great many difficulties involved with feeding a newborn, I am told. If anything, the wet nurse will simply be available to provide assistance and instruction for Belle.”

“She and I will discuss it when she wakes. But please make certain the healer arrives first.”

“Of course.” Josephine looked from him to his daughter and smiled again. “I will leave you all to rest.”

“Thank you.”

Belle stirred in their bed just as the door clicked shut behind Josephine. She gave him a bleary grin when he approached. The left side of her mouth tilted up more than the right. She was a beautiful mess. A few loose curls embedded themselves in pillow-shaped dents on her cheek, while the mass of her hair remained tied in Cullen’s helter-skelter knot. He leaned over, keeping a careful grip on the baby, and pressed a lingering kiss to his wife’s forehead.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

She motioned to him in a vague and lilting wave. “Well, all this is so cute I think my ovaries might just explode. Which would just about match the rest of the décor down there. It feels like someone shoved a nuke up my pee hole and let ‘er rip.” She winced as she adjusted herself to sit up a little. “Jesus.”

Cullen said, “I’m sorry,” because what else could he say? He felt more than a touch responsible for her pain.

“It is what it is,” she said with a slight lift of a shoulder. “So Max decided fuck diplomacy and just declared the Inquisition would continue, huh?”

“You heard all of that?”

“Kinda tough to sleep through one of Josie’s more purposeful knocks. She cried at Sadie’s name, didn’t she? It sounded like she was crying. She totally cried.”

He puffed out a laugh, trying so desperately to keep Sadie from waking. “She did.”

“Yeah,” said Belle with a long and self-satisfied nod. “Called it.”

Without warning, a molten hot liquid trickled down Cullen’s stomach. He flinched and stepped back on instinct, and his wife snorted. It did not take him long to realize what that molten hot liquid was or its point of origin.

“You’ve officially been indoctrinated,” said Belle. “I was wondering whether piss, shit, or puke would get you first.” She held out her hands and flexed her fingers. “Gimme my girl. You can get cleaned up and put your shirt back on. Or don’t put your shirt back on. Do you.”

The world was a vastly different place when she held their daughter. Belle had somehow remained the same woman he loved and metamorphosed into a doting mother all at once, and all in the blink of an eye. She glowed with that child in her arms. He watched her look down at Sadie, and he saw a future stretch out and yawn open before him. He saw lazy mornings and smiling faces. He saw scraped knees and round tear-streaked cheeks. He saw his family huddled together and overflowing with love.

“I love you,” he said to his wife as he sat on the bed beside her, his bare skin wiped clean of newborn urine.

“I love you, too,” she said. She chuffed. “You’d better love me after all this, damn. I hope that healer can magic my vagina back together. That’d be nice. I would genuinely appreciate not worrying if my fucking uterus is going to fall out when I pee.”

Cullen shook his head. Belle had never been anything but straightforward. It was a blessing, really, strange as it was. He had no stomach for insincerity or frivolity in matters of communication. “I’m certain there is something they can do.”

“Let’s hope so. Incidentally…” She paused as a coy look overtook her. “Sorry our daughter’s accidentally Orlesian.”

“No.”

*****

The journey home to Skyhold was a trial of faith and patience. The healer Josephine enlisted was very skilled, and had done wonders for Belle in the time allowed. But she still suffered a great deal of pain while traversing the roads of Orlais. Cullen rode beside the carriage at all times, listening to the anguished whimpers seeping out of his wife and child with every bump and stone beneath the spoked wheels.

He wanted to stop the caravan. He wanted to stay put long enough for his wife to heal. Neither option was available to him. The Inquisition needed to beat a hasty return to Skyhold while leads on Solas’s spies and plans were plentiful, and while the members of the Exalted Council were stunned enough to accept Max’s decree as fact.

The trip was made much more arduous by the hardship of learning to be parents in transit. For over a day, Sadie refused to latch to Belle’s breast to nurse. Belle sobbed into Cullen’s chest each time the wet nurse took their daughter away to feed. It would not have been so bad in Washington, he had to admit. They would have had formula and breast pumps, and Belle could have nourished the child herself instead of passing her to a stranger.

Even after the latching problem was solved, neither Belle nor Cullen slept during the night. Sadie’s shrill cries woke half the camp on an hourly basis. She needed to be fed or changed or burped or rocked. He had never heard a newborn quite so loud. Belle told him it was a family curse. He might have liked to know about such a thing before maintaining the misapprehension that he might ever sleep again.

Cullen had grown accustomed to being awake at all hours of the day and night. His withdrawal symptoms and perpetual nightmares saw to that. But even he was slouching in his saddle by the time they rode through Skyhold’s portcullis. Through the shaded window of the carriage, he saw Belle’s eyes rolling around, lids fluttering in an attempt not to drift into the blissful abyss of sleep. Sadie nursed with gusto, much as she had done on a constant basis throughout their journey home. He wondered if she had been possessed by a demon of gluttony at the moment of her birth.

Dov, Ilana, Spencer, and, to Cullen’s surprise, Rosalie were waiting in the courtyard when the Inquisition retinue returned. They all beamed, and Rosalie fidgeted. Cullen helped Belle and Sadie onto solid ground—Belle still had some trouble closing the distance between the carriage floor and the earth, up or down. She did her level best to smile at their family, though her sagging eyes belied her exhaustion. Cullen suspected his did the same.

Dov looked spryer and more excited than Cullen had ever seen him. Eudora’s magic had clearly done him some good. Spencer’s attention was wrapped up in Charles, who bounded up to the man as if they had known each other their entire lives. Ilana asked in her most gentle and understanding tone if she could hold little Sadie, and after some hesitance, Belle handed the baby to her. Ilana took her with all the care of a woman that had just remembered what it was like to hold an infant of her own, and she smiled down at her granddaughter. Dov hung his head over his wife’s shoulder to join in the outpouring of love.

Cullen wished his parents could have met his little girl. They would have been proud, he thought. They would have loved her fiercely, and they would have adored Belle. His father liked a woman who spoke her mind. His mother had been proof of that. She would have seen Belle as kindred right away, and frankly, she would have harassed him about why it had taken him so long to make his move.

As Rosalie hugged Belle too hard, and Belle warned her about the dangers of milk stains on everknit wool, he thought about the first time he met his wife. She called him all manner of names he did not yet understand. She threatened him. Her knee very nearly met with his testicles. If someone had approached him after she fell unconscious and told him that soon he would love her, that soon he would marry her, that soon she would give him a perfectly round and squirmy daughter, he would have had them shackled and thrown in the dungeon for their obvious insanity. It would not have stopped it from being true. He loved her desperately, and he married her because he knew he could never be parted from her, and she gave him a perfectly round and squirmy daughter he would die to protect.

Dov told them he made some modifications to their tower, and Belle gave him a wary look. He bade them follow him up, and Ilana carried Sadie along. Belle seemed almost relieved to be divested of their daughter for the walk. Cullen helped her up the stairs while she laughed and griped about their plenitude.

The tower was dark when Dov opened the door. No fire in the lower fireplace. No candles flickering on tables. No sunlight streaming through the shuttered windows.

“Let there be light!” said Dov.

A dull and metallic flick echoed through the space, and all at once, there was, in fact, light. An assortment of rounded glass fixtures was strung up about the room, dangling from the ceiling and jutting out from the walls. Each random bowl or glass held a series of glowing strands that reminded Cullen of the expensive light bulbs in Washington. Together, they cast a warm and welcoming glow throughout the lower half of the tower.

“Holy shit, Dad,” said Belle, mouth and eyes agape. “You really did it.”

“Yeah.” Dov walked into the center of the room as he looked around and crossed his arms. He had a proud look to him that tugged at the corners of Cullen’s mouth. “Braided up the wires with leather so no one’ll get shocked.” He pointed to said wires. “Had to get kind of random with the bulbs since we didn’t want to pay a glass blower if this didn’t work. The whole thing’s powered by one rune. Dagna was already on the right track when I went to see her the first time. She was just having trouble with the alternating current.”

“Wait. How was she already on the right track?”

“Cullen never told you? He gave her a bunch of your chargers and asked her to try to make them work.”

Cullen’s hand found the back of his neck. His wife contorted to look at him. “What?”

“Maker’s breath, that was so long ago. I had forgotten. It was meant to be a surprise. I wanted you to be able to listen to your music whenever you liked.”

Belle’s mien shifted in the way it always did when she was about to tell him he was adorable or sweet. “That was really sweet of you,” she said, exactly as he thought she might, and she took his hand. He gave hers a little squeeze. “Thank you.”

“We rigged up the upstairs, too,” said Dov, plainly more enthusiastic about his work than the small displays of affection going on around him. “And the undercroft. Doing our place next, and Dagna said she was going to talk to your friend, Max, and see if he wanted it in his room, too. We’re talking about trying to put a generator wheel into the waterfall under this place.”

“This is really awesome, Dad. Seriously. Really fucking awesome.” Belle stepped into the center of the room to embrace her father. He patted her on the back. “Thank you,” she said into his neck.

“You’re welcome, Cutie.”

Sadie seemed to realize something was happening that did not involve her. She began to wriggle and whine in Ilana’s arms. Cullen was standing close enough to sniff out the reason. Belle moved to take up the child, but he stepped in before she could. He was determined to be a good father and a good husband, and that meant he would change his fair share of soiled diapers and calm his fair share of tantrums.

Belle told her parents she and Cullen were going to change Sadie and maybe, just maybe, try to take a short nap. Ilana said they could always send someone to get her if they needed a break. She truly was a kind woman, and Cullen was glad for her presence as their daughter’s grandmother. Belle thanked her before following him up the stairs.

He was grateful for Belle’s foresight in preparing their quarters for Sadie’s arrival. She had a portion of the large room cordoned off with wooden screens to create a separate space for the nursery, and she filled it with a soothing blend of charm and necessity. She had a fine changing table, crib, waste bin, and chest of drawers crafted of cherry wood, and she littered the space with pillows and cushions and stuffed animals. He had not the slightest inkling where she got it all. He knew only that the haphazardly sewn stuffed bee with a tiny bloodstain on it came from Sera’s unskilled hand.

Belle had been painting a mural in the room she picked for a nursery in their home in Washington. One wall was beginning to look like a misty and wooded mountain range in the haze of morning. She bought a dozen shades of green paint to make certain it turned out as she hoped. It was more than halfway finished when they were pulled back to Thedas.

She let out a long groan when she laid in their bed, and Cullen smiled. He opened the diaper. He tried not to gag at the sight of the mess before him, and for the most part was successful. Charles followed him in, and even the mabari balked at the brown-green horror. Cullen had helped change Rosalie’s diapers in his boyhood, but one never truly acclimated to the particular color and texture of infant waste. Nor did one ever truly acclimate to the odor.

The flesh of Sadie’s face had calmed since her birth, and he began to see little hallmarks in her features. She had Belle’s ears and chin. Her hair was fine and soft as spiderwebs, making it impossible to discern its future color. It felt too early to know with any certainty, but he believed she had his nose. “The Rutherford Snoot,” as Belle once called it. He gave Sadie a delicate tap on her Rutherford Snoot, watching her blink in her infant shock and return to squirming.

“You are every wonder, my sweet,” he said to her. “Every wonder in every world.”

Belle was already asleep when he brought Sadie out of her nursery. He set the baby in the ruffled bassinette Josephine gave them, and her namesake wriggled in her swaddle at the newness of it all. He sat down in the ornate chair Belle positioned at her bedside for nursing, and he took in the splendor of his family, and his heart felt full. Sadie battled against her closing eyes in a final attempt to take in the strange world around her. Belle lay still, save for her slow breaths. She was crystal in that moment, fragile and cutting and glowing in the mellow golden sunlight, and she was magnificent. Oh but she was magnificent.

Despite his awareness of Solas’s new threat to Thedas, and despite all the work he knew to be piling upon his desk as he sat there, Cullen was at peace. His life had not gone at all as he had planned, yet somehow it was so much better than he ever dared to dream. Not only had he survived his life as a Templar and as Commander of the Inquisition, but he had managed to build life anew out of the rubble of a man he had become. He had seen horrors. He had seen worlds. He loved, and he was privy to love. He became a husband. He became a father. He would never be satisfied with his atonement for the wrongdoings of his past, never feel worthy of his new life, but in that moment he found a kind of serenity in himself. In that moment he knew. All was well. All would be well. His eyes drifted shut.

Those who were joined together would never be put asunder.

*****

Notes: Finally, a little peace for our beleaguered Commander and his beleaguered Belle...

Side note: I know there's a whole lot of stuff about being new parents in this chapter that you might find...off-putting? But my sister and my best friend recently had babies, and I thought it was really important to represent what that's like. It's exhausting and frustrating, and sometimes it's super gross. I wanted to be real about it because I'm a little, teeny, itty bitty little bit tired of seeing the trials of new parenthood glossed over, or even out and out lied about. So there you go.

We're almost to the finish line!!! I'm so grateful to you for being with me through this massive journey, but I'll be gushing about that way more in the end notes of the next (last!) chapter. <3<3<3

#cullen #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen x belle #belle dolan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #fanfic #mgit #modern girl in thedas #self indulgence au #htwwain #tw: childbirth

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ladyfogg · 7 years

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Sick Like Me - Part 3/20

Sick Like Me - Part 3

Fic Summary: With unfinished business hanging over your head, being locked up in Arkham is holding you back. However, you have your eye on a certain red-haired maniac, who may be just the person to help you escape and realize your true potential. Fic Song. Fic Playlist. Fic Masterpost.

Fic Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Jerome Valeska/Female Reader

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, for a complete list of warnings, visit AO3.

A/N: I'm still blown away by all the positive feedback! Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting. Your comments always make me smile.

The guards sedate you right after they get you away from Jerome. It's not enough to knock you out, but it definitely takes away the strength to fight them. Instead of your normal cell, they bring you to one with walls and a small window on the door. It's what they do to those who are particularly violent. You’re placed on the bed and locked in, forgotten about for the rest of the day. Except for that evening when someone shoves in a tray of disgusting goop that’s meant to be food.

Too drugged to care, you eat it and then succumb to the darkness of the cell, passing out for the rest of the night. It's another twenty-four hours before they let you out. After being allowed to shower, you're brought back to your regular cell, clean and ready to get back to it. Unfortunately, you're confined until the next day per procedure. Considering you've been the epitome of compliant, you don't foresee any long term consequences for what you did. Though, you suspect you’re going to get an earful at your next therapy session.

The guards don't really care at least. As far as they’re concerned, they followed procedures by keeping you away from everyone else. That was that. Their asses are covered and they can go about their business. No, it's not the guards you have to worry about. It's Sionis. These types of situations are handled among yourselves. You can expect retaliation from the rich bastard. It’s just a matter of when and where.

However, you find yourself hopelessly distracted from the problem at hand by the scheme you've been brewing.

Your escape from Arkham has been in the works since your incarceration. Since, legally, there’s really not much hope for you leaving anytime soon, you’ve had to be a bit more creative. Just like Richard uses his influence, you use yours. It seems that while you still live, your father’s estate rests in your hands. Apparently his will never covered patricide. That, and the board of directors at his firm don't trust your stepmom.

It only took a few well written letters for them to be on your side. Spinning the tale of how sheltered you were. How your father used to visit your room at night. How you feared what he would do. It helped that it was true. Not the last part though. You weren’t scared of your father, because you knew if he tried anything you’d take care of it. The head of your dad’s law firm, Chuck, is a greedy man. You know as long as you have him running the company, you’re set. You pay him more than enough and he won’t jeopardize his stake.

The sound of footsteps walk past your cell and a small package is tossed in without a word. Getting off your bed, you scoop down to pick up the thick envelope, glancing out of the bars just in time to see Lawrence slipping around the corner. The package turns out to be from Chuck: a letter updating you on the status of your recent instructions, along with some cash, and a few cartons of cigarettes. Good. You ran out of both days ago and you’d like to not have to pay everyone with hand jobs and blow jobs. Too time consuming.

The suns sets as you’re burning the letter, with the lighter it included. You throw the flaming paper into the trash bin, watching the fire die down until all that’s left is ash. Playing with the lighter, you lay on your bed, looking up at the ceiling.

The more you think about Jerome working with Richard, the more the arrangement bothers you. Richard truly wasted an amazing opportunity. Jerome is ambitious. He's smart. He's itching to get out and make something of himself. Yet Richard had him running errands like some lap dog. Pathetic. Cruel.

These hours in solitary have given you plenty of time to think. You want to take Jerome with you when you leave. Someone so obviously special shouldn't be locked up in a place like this. But you need to make sure you can trust him first.

It’s hours later before anyone comes by your cell again. Technically they’re not supposed to, but your money takes precedence over rules. Most of the time. The sound of the key unlocking your cell wakes you up and you glance over in time to see another one of your guard friends, Dallas. Carefully you sit up and stretch, wincing as your sore joints crack. You can’t wait to walk around for a bit and stretch your legs.

On your way out of your cell, you pass Dallas some of the money Chuck sent you. He frowns as he looks at the bills in his hand.

“Is there a problem?” you question with a raised eyebrow.

“Last time I got a hand job,” Dallas grumbled.

Ugh, this again.

“Really? You're going to sneer at cash? Look, you want payment then this is the payment you're getting tonight,” you snap. “I got a lot of stops to make and no time for ungrateful assholes. Got it?”

Dallas makes disgruntled noise and shoves the money into his pocket. The hallways are dark, but you’ve walked them so many times before you know exactly where you’re going. While you don’t know specifically where Jerome’s cell is, you have idea and after not seeing him for nearly two days, you’re starting to have withdraw. Dallas follows behind for some time, just in case. If anyone sees you, they don’t question why you’re out.

Jerome is on his bed when you silently walk up to his cell. He’s laying on his back with his hand behind his head, eyes closed. You’re sure he’s asleep, but as soon as you step into view he sits up. Dallas hangs back, unsure if you need him to open the door. Not tonight. You nod for him to leave you and he does, disappearing into the darkness. The only source of light is the nearby exit sign, which casts the area in a red glow. Perfect. Mood lighting.

“Hiya, handsome,” you coo, crossing your arms.

Jerome grins, slowly getting to his feet. “Hello yourself, doll,” he says. He comes to stand a few inches away from you. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, they had me in solitary for taking a chunk out of that guy’s arm,” you say, shrugging. “Totally worth it.”

“You were spectacular,” Jerome gushes. “I’ve never seen such brutality from a woman before. It was arousing to say the least.”

“Happy to be of assistance,” you chuckle.

Jerome takes a couple more steps in your direction, “How do you get to skip around this place at night, Queenie?”

“Connections,” you say. “Ones I would like to extend to you.”

Jerome looks positively giddy and grabs the bars, the red light making him look demonic. Your own personal demon, from the very depths of hell. “Alright! Open this baby up and let's have some fun!”

Unfolding your arms, you reach out to place your hands over his as you lean in close and say, “Not yet.”

Jerome gives a heavy sigh of frustration. “Ugh, why?!” he whines, stomping his foot childishly.

“Listen, Jerome,” you say. “We're friends now. And friends need to trust each other. I had a lot of time to think when I was locked up the last day or so. Have a lot of questions that need answering. For starters, how do I know the whole thing with Richard wasn't just for show?”

“That is a good point,” Jerome chuckles. “This whole back and forth could just be a big set up so Sionis can get in your pants and have complete reins of this place without you in the way!”

“Honestly, once my plans are set he can keep this place,” you say. “I have more important things to worry about than that douche.”

“Such as?” Jerome asks. “Come on, Queenie, you’re killing me here! What’s a guy gotta do to see what’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

“You have to earn my trust, sweets,” you say, letting go of his hands.You reach through and trail your fingers down his cheek. “You want me to trust you, right?”

Jerome leans his forehead against the bars, grinning. “Yes,” he hisses. “I knew from the moment I saw you that you were hiding all sorts of naughty things. And I want to discover every last one of them.”

“Then you need to prove to me that you’re worth my time and my trust,” you say. “Until then, no skipping around at night with me.”

Jerome growls low in his throat. “What I wouldn't give to just have you right now,” he huffs.

“Oh yeah?” you grin, brushing your mouth against his. “What would you do to me?”

“Make you scream,” Jerome’s voice is low and dangerous. “Slam you against the nearest wall and fuck you until you couldn’t take it anymore.” He pushes off the bars excitedly, body twitching and moving as if he’s trying to prevent himself from doing everything he’s saying. “And then I’d still keep going, until you’ve forgotten every last one of those worthless shits who touched you before me.”

The possessiveness intrigues you greatly. While mentally you’ve already laid claim to him, it seems he’s done the same. You may have underestimated his desire for you. Usually when you play this game with someone they’re after quick release and then that’s it. Jerome's seems much deeper than that. He wants to own you, but not the way Sionis does. Sionis wants you as a trophy piece. Jerome looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.

You cock your head to the side. “You sound jealous, puddin’.”

Jerome doesn’t even seem angry that you called him out. “I’m only jealous when it comes to things that are mine,” he says. He’s pacing like a caged animal, eyes still trained on you.

Pure desire and arousal takes control and you want nothing more than to open the cell and tackle him to the bed. What you wouldn’t give to physically claim him, not just mentally. Mark him. Make him bleed so he knows that he’s yours just as much as you’re his. Because you know yourself and you know you’re already his. He doesn’t need to know that. Not yet anyways. The only thing that’s stopping you from just going for it is the bigger picture. If you’re going to escape, you’re going to need him. Not just to help create the distraction, but afterwards. If anyone is going to be able to help you destroy your father’s legacy and kill your stepmother, it’s going to be Jerome. And he’ll laugh as he does it.

“I could be yours,” you say with a casual shrug, making Jerome halt his pacing. “You could have all of me, even all the tasty bits I keep away from my other friends. Bits I play with alone in my cell, picturing your head between my thighs…”

Jerome charges at bars separating you, grinning like the mad man he is. He goes in for a kiss, but you put your finger on his lips, stopping him. His grin drops and with a shrug, he pushes off the bars. “Fine, I'll prove it to you someway.” He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “Pft, women and their trust issues.”

You roll your eyes. With a grin, you stretch your body along the bars, arms reaching above your head. “Now that that’s out of the way,” you say. “Come here.”

Jerome raises an eyebrow and saunters over to you slowly. When it’s clear you’re not going to stop him this time, he reaches through the bars to grab at you.

This kiss is no less rough than the ones from the other day. Though it is difficult to get as into it with the bars between you. The redhead is nearly crushing you against the metal, trying to pull you as close as he possibly can. His teeth nip at your bottom lip as he briefly draws back for air, only to attack your mouth once more. A hand slides down to grab your ass, while another snakes under your shirt, finding your breast and squeezing hard enough to draw a moan out of you. That’s when you take a step back, breaking all physical contact.

You want him to touch all of you. You want those long fingers digging into your skin as that mouth bites down on your neck. But you can’t do what you have to do if you give in. There’s an order to this. You get what you want, then he gets what he wants. No exceptions.

“No, no, no,” you tease, wagging your finger at him. “Trust before bust.”

Jerome lets out an angry growl of frustration, gripping the bars tightly. “I can’t even touch you?! Oh, Queenie, you sure know how to drive a man absolutely insane,” he laughs.

Stepping in close, you whisper. “You can touch yourself and I’d be more than happy to watch.”

Jerome’s eyes shine with excitement and his hand is shoving down his pants before you even finish your sentence. The realization that he’s going to stand there and jerk off right in front of you is so deliciously naughty it makes you shudder with anticipation. You rest one hand on the bar in front of you, and Jerome takes the opportunity to seize your wrist, keeping you there.

“I’ll touch myself,” he tells you. “But there’s no escaping this time. I want you to see exactly what you do to me.” His pants drop to his ankles, but you’re too focused on his intense stare to look down. “You get under my skin, Queenie. Since I laid eyes on you, I knew I had to have you. When Sionis said you were off limits, well that just made me want you even more.” You hear more rustling fabric he pulls himself out of his underwear. “See, you’re just like me. You’re special. You and I are destined for so much more than this. We’re going to do great things together, doll. I know it.”

Reaching through the bars with your free hand, you grab his wrist and pull his hand towards you so you can spit in his palm. His mouth attacks yours immediately after, wrenching his hand out of your grasp. Biting at his lips, you listen to the sound of skin on skin as he starts to tug on himself. His tongue is relentlessly plunging into your mouth, the fingers of his other hand digging into your wrist. He’s going to leave bruises, you know he will. Fuck, you hope he will.

Jerome jerks his head back and moans loudly, leaving you free to finally glance down. And you’re not disappointed by the sight. His cock is longer than you imagined it to be, and seems to be growing thicker with each pump of his own unforgiving hand. You wish the light was brighter so you could see the show in all its glory. It’s still a good enough sight to make your mouth water, and though you would love nothing more than to drop to your knees, that’s not what tonight is about. So instead, you slip your hand into your own pants, two fingers sliding through your folds as you watch Jerome pleasure himself.

He’s looking down now too, hungrily watching the bulge of your hand squirming under the fabric of that horrible striped uniform. You’re so unbelievably turned on that it actually hurts, forcing you to whimper at your own touch. At the noise, Jerome’s eyes shoot back up to study your face and you rise to the challenge to meet his gaze.

Forehead to forehead, you stare each other down as you pleasure yourselves. You catch yourself trying to match his speed with your own hand, imagining that it’s him touching you. While you squirm against the bars, he is eerily still, watching and daring you to look away from him. But you’re not going to this time. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

His release hits your pant leg unexpectedly, making you moan with longing. You want to feel it on your skin. You want him to straddle you and pump himself all over your chest while you writhe underneath him. He’s smiling now, panting against your lips, waiting for that moment when you find your own release. It only takes a couple more rubs of your swollen clit before you jerking into your hand, humming with satisfaction as you try to catch your breath. Not the most explosive one you've had, but definitely good.

He kisses you right when you come, stealing your breath away. Literally. You gasp for air, but he won’t let you get away, hell bent on kissing you until you’re absolutely dizzy. Your lungs are on fire, but you can’t stop, addicted to every little twitch and flick of his tongue along yours.

Head spinning, you finally jerk away and he lets you go. The wrist he was holding hurts like hell, but it’s such a sweet, wonderful pain. As you take your other hand out of your pants, he grabs it and brings it to his lips, sucking the slick from them with a low moan. The wet slide of his tongue along the digits is enough to get you ready for more. Shit that's hot. It's also not something you typically allow. However, you can’t find it in yourself to be mad. It only makes you want him more.

But unfortunately, he’s not the only stop on your rounds tonight. And as much as you’d like to stand here masturbating with him all night, business needs to be attended to. Especially if you’re going to get the both of you out of this place.

You thumb his bottom lip as you draw your hand away. “Remember,” you say in a low voice. “Show me I can trust you.”

Jerome is panting when he nods, grinning at you excitedly. “Oh I will, Queenie.”

“Good. Now, sadly, I must be off,” you say, adjusting your pants as you fully step away. The spot where he came is still very much wet and it sticks to your thigh as you move. “I have some more friends to visit tonight.”

That wipes the smile of his face. “You gonna let them touch you?” he demands.

“Of course I am,” you lie, mostly to see how he reacts. “They’ve earned it.”

Jerome hurries to pull his pants up. “One day, Queenie, we’re going to be alone and they’ll be no where for you to escape. And I’m going to take everything I want from you. Starting with that sweet cunt of yours.”

Yes. Yes he will. And you’ll let him. You’ll gladly present yourself to him any way that he wants.

“You can’t take it if I’m willing to give it,” you say in a sing-song voice as you turn to leave. “Now you have to ask yourself what you’re willing to do to make that happen?”

Jerome laughs. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got ideas. See you tomorrow, doll.”

You wave to him over your shoulder without even looking back

Later that night, when your rounds are done, people have been paid off either with money, cigarettes or your hand, you lay in bed, fingers trailing over the dry spot on your pants.

You’ve manipulated people for years. It’s your bread and butter really. You love being able to just twist people’s desires around your finger until you get them to bend to what you want. It’s actually fairly easy for you, since you’ve had your entire life to practice. The thing about Jerome is, you don’t think it’s actually working. Rather than manipulating him, you almost feel as if he’s letting you. Playing along with your game just to see where it goes.

If so, he’s even more clever than you gave him credit for.

You smile as you recall how he said you were special. No one’s ever said that to you before. At least, not anyone who you believed. And fuck, the sight of him licking your fingers clean is enough to fuel your fantasies for any and all future lonely nights.

You sit up suddenly, a thought making your heart race. Wait, was this him trying to manipulate you? Telling you that you’re special. Making you believe that you have power over him? You replay his words over and over again, suddenly recognizing the game you play yourself. You've never been on the receiving end before.

Oh he’s good. He’s really good.

“Well played, Jerome,” you say to yourself, laying back down with a grin. “We are going to have so much fun.”

The telltale signs of dawn can just be made out through your small window, and you turn on your side to get comfortable. Your eyes catch the dark bruises forming on your wrist and you smile fondly, thinking only of his rough touch as you finally drift off to sleep.

#ladyfoggdrabbles #jerome valeska x reader #jerome valeska x you #jerome valeska fanfiction #sick like me

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felicezhukov · 7 years

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:: Dear Nicolas Jaar ::

Yesterday I wrote you a letter about rape, which can wait, because it’s not fully formulated yet and I have 23% left on my laptop battery and no charger and I need to get all this out today and in a public forum. I write you quite a few letters that never see the light of day, are tucked away in journals, they’re more to process what’s been happening, then the ones online serve as statements I guess, conversations with myself in public spaces. Because I come across as articulate, confident and possibly even at points a bit brutal in my delivery, but there is much I can’t say, the words won’t form on my tongue, but they will emerge from my fingers, I have always preferred text to phone call’s, I love writing emails, the written word is a friend of mine that allows me to draw out the details and the nuances of my thought, so today I must write an open letter to my housemates, a letter inside a letter, an ever expanding maze of dialogues, not that they may ever read it, but it’s out there, in a sphere they can access and therefore makes me feel somewhat better about the situation I’m currently in.

But first and foremost, my sister is in labour right now, speeding through jagged country lanes, probably spewing obscenities as she has the mouth of a sailor without being in rivers of pain anyway, I’m with her, in that car, I hope she can feel me there, squeezing her hand and singing strange lullabies to her stomach. We call the baby the wigglytuff, its its due date today and my sisters 29th birthday, obviously the tuff is eager to share, I guess that’s a good trait?

Here goes nothing, perhaps I’ll regret this I’m not sure; perhaps it’s all poppycock garbled in my head by overthinking:

DEAR HOUSEMATES (vun and tuu of you; swee: I don’t feel the need to reach out to as you seem to be living in your own world, unfettered or affected by me),

Yesterday my laptop charger broke, on closer examination it was rotting at the root of the wires, I found it whilst sitting at my desk, my wonderful desk, my sanctuary, the place I have attempted to make mine after the fallout of a brutal, powerful relationship that I’ve spent the last 10 years in. I was texting the moon when this happened, it was point of frustration, horror, in my day, because the main bulk of the work I’m making at the moment is editing and computer based self portraits and writing, all these things are reliant on this piece of metal and plastic perched on my lap right now, without it I can’t finish my films and what’s more, yesterday, I couldn’t let it absorb me, create a distraction from the aural environment of my room.

When I first came to look at the room I was struck by the light and the breeziness, the people I met were friendly, they shared wine with me and we talked about art, it felt like a place I could make my own for a short time, escape the violence of a previous life and begin to heal. At that point I was moving through a painstaking and hollowing breakdown, all bent around the dissolution of my relationship with the moon, I needed a refuge, a place I could close the door to.

For 10 years I couldn’t close my door to the moon, I know it’s something I chose and at points was wonderful, there were many jubilant moments wrapped in each other's minds and bodies, sharing ourselves completely. But the cycles of abuse also knew no limits and at times when things were particularly difficult the only place I could lock myself away was the bathroom, and even then I could hear him through the door, if he was on one of his spirals, launching angry tirades, because when he was like that virtually nothing could knock him off course, the only way I could break it was by getting in a more emotionally volatile state, which often involved heavy crying, screaming, lashing out physically. Just before I moved out one of the worst episodes occurred in recent history, because I’d had my phone stolen drunkenly, irresponsibly, I endured over 90 mins of vitriolic rage, cunt, bitch, stupid bitch, cunt, over and over and over, admonishing me, bashings things in blind anger, seemingly on the verge of causing me injury but never quite going that far, a staple in the ongoing abuse we’d been moving through.

This time I was to drained to counter anything and just let it wash over me, but it still was absorbed into my soul, and caused a rupture inside me, something deeply painful which hurts now even after time and distance it brings sour tears to my eyes to stroke the memory.

So you can’t imagine the release I felt moving into my new room, closing the door and gently pressing my ‘everything is going to be ok’ poster to the wall behind my headboard, I felt like I’d finally escaped, like the cycle would disintegrate and I could be with myself, get to know me, no longer have to avoid my bedroom with cider and outlandish performances, I could relax and let my bones breathe. This summer was to be the summer I found myself, and sure enough the muhrmaid samurai became my icon, self care, striving for something better in myself was the goal, through determined self examination, meditation, studying and exercise.

But of course things aren’t perfect, to endure is human, is the root of existence, we err and we endure. The wall’s are paper thin in my room, this has become apparent in the last few week’s, I might be able to close my door but smells and sound can travel through walls and increasingly I’ve felt like I’m in a box, in silence or peace you can expand, your mind can travel because you can imagine malleable space outside of where you stand. But if you are surrounded by noise, by elements you can’t control, then its like you are encompassed, trapped, and currently I have no where else to go.

I have no studio, no gym membership, no job (happily that changes next week),I have friends who I do visit pretty regularly but I don’t want to have to go to them because I don’t want to be stuck in my room, I want to be able to go to them for pleasure. I understand that not having a job these past weeks has been causing me more stress and also means I’ve been in the house more frequently, I have had no money and no real freedom which of course will have a knock on effect to my psychic wellbeing. I chose to have no studio, because I wanted to get through everything I have made this year before I start on new projects and felt that being locked away with all this material would force me to pour through it, organise it and understand what I have been doing a little more. Which in truth has happened.

But last night, in front of the candle I’ve been lighting when I sit for mealtimes, over one of the most delicious meals I’ve made for myself in a long time, surrounded by a kind of screeching from all the angles of the house, I held my head in my hands and sucked up tears that threatened to fall. The moon rang and heard the break in my voice, I couldn’t speak to him and I hung up. I tried to just brush it off, endure, we all live on top of each other in this city and I’m only subletting this room, the people I share with, especially you who I’m writing to, have real home’s here and I don’t want to interrupt your ways of life or ask you to censor yourselves.

I’m not 100% sure how it started, possibly because there was a period of 4 days where every morning I was woken by banging and speaking loudly outside my room, then I casually asked by text just to be notified of any decisions made regarding the house, not protesting anything, simply saying I needed a little notice as I was destitute and waking up to a note demanding money without any prior warning felt somehow unfair. Something changed after this message, as if I had stepped outside of my allowable boundaries, despite the fact that it was not rude or aggressively delivered. The next morning I was jolted awake by shouting outside my door, about not doing anything, part of me felt like it was directed at me, possibly that’s paranoia but whatever its intended purpose it certainly caused me shock.

Ever since this I’ve felt a slow decline in our relationship, partly to do with what happened above, partly because I stopped smoking and drinking, so for a few weeks was really tense and desperately avoided the common area’s, the kitchen, the designated smoking area, especially fell out of favour with me and it’s then that I started to really enjoy my solitude.

I’m sorry, I’m not like you, maybe I’m on the autism spectrum somewhere, I’m not sure, but I don’t feel the need to be part of a group and I want the place I live to be a place of reflection. I find interactions with people quite difficult a lot of the time and often feel like I’m not being true to myself in how I behave, so my ideal place is somewhere where I don’t have to worry about this, where I can have a causal relationship with anyone that I cohabit with and not feel like I’m somehow breaking the rules by not wanting more than a light hello when we come across each other. I just want privacy and peace, I want to be alone when I’m at home.

Following from the shouting outside my door it felt like the living room next to my room started to become used more commonly, which I don’t have a problem with as such except that the sofa is adjacent to the back of my bed and I spend a lot of time in bed writing at the moment, so the walls being as they are, its as if we’re sat in the same room with our backs to each other.

During a day that preceded; shouting excited chatter resounded, which is fine but was unusual in the timeline of my stay here, it migrated to the sofa and morphed into the melody of pop song, which in its heightened volume bashed me round the back of the head and knocked me from my train of thought. I hate to complain, will avoid it at all costs, I don’t want to inhibit other people especially regarding noise as I feel like it’s a freedom we don’t get to enjoy often. But it was evening, a week day, it just seemed without necessity and wasn’t creative, I stalked into the living room, bent in anger and spat out about how I’d like you to come hear it in my room and understand how thin the walls were, it was jumbled, I didn’t want to come across that pent up, but I was, I was shaking and my heart was palpitating, conflict is not native to me, I don’t know how to handle myself in that situation. You respectfully turned it down, I hoped it would be the end of it, but the very next day it graduated to a new level of absurdity.

My bedroom is my studio, it has to be, I am too poor to afford anywhere else to create. I make films and music, so I have to record somewhere. I’d been on a roll with my film and as I’d been struggling previously it was a relief to be in sync with editing again. This portion of the trilogy is a strange sort of karaoke I was acting out in my studio in outfits from the past; to songs which have resonated during my life and symbolically described the parts of my oeuvre I used as staging throughout the piece. So I was recording music. It wasn’t an invitation, I would much prefer to have done it somewhere privately, but with nowhere else to go, beggars can’t be choosers….

For some reason it whipped you up outside the room, I don’t know if that was already on the cards before I started to sing but it was suddenly like I had a chorus, an uninvited chorus which totally detracted from what I was trying to accomplish and also made me feel invaded somehow, like it robbed me of the authenticity of the action I was involved in. Somehow this pivoted into karaoke in real time, which you jollily invited me to participate in, totally disregarding the fact that I was engaged in something else and then taking offense to the fact that I didn’t want to be your backup singer or chorus girl.

I’m glad you let me know it was going to happen, but it was unbearable when it finally kicked off, stomping and screaming to lady gaga right next door to me, it felt like you were pointing the noise in my direction somehow, there are many ways to have fun and there was something somehow aggressive about this. I was bowed over at my desk whilst you screamed, with nowhere to go, I had been so happy making my film and suddenly was brutally exposed to the lack of power I held in my own home, how easily my holy sanctum could be penetrated. Not just this but something malicious lay over this moment, and this is what was deeply upsetting, that knowingly you were being cruel, it was not an act of joyous celebration which you painted it to be, but in fact like you were holding my head and rubbing it into the dirt, to remind me of my place, to satiate your own delicate ego’s.

Now you’re not evil people, and these shocks are fairly minor really, I know I’m not a saint and do not claim to be standing above you somehow, I’m just trying to write everything down here so that a mode of communication can be established. I’m writing it down to better understand it myself and because usually in cycles like this, they are unwittingly entered into and not directly intended to be spiteful. They stem from a breakdown in communication and I’m no better than you in this regard, the longer things drag on the angrier I become and now I can barely look at the pair of you. I don’t want to come into contact with you at all though you are regularly forcing me to be aware of your existence and somehow participate in your lives.

I know from experience, from a lot of previous happenings, that this is a pattern, this is how the whole things works. The more I draw away, insulate and attempt to be detached from people, the stronger the resistance and the more relentless their behaviour becomes. Last night was the most recent example; thankfully this isn’t daily, it seems to be happening at the beginnig of the week mostly and from next week I shan’t be exposed to it as I shan’t be here, so hopefully naturally it will lessen its grip on me.

But I was upset again last night, and have started to dread the evenings Monday through to Thursday and beyond, dread having you come home and the circus begin all over again. I know this is your home and if this noise had been so prevalent from the outset perhaps it wouldn’t have affected me so much, but it is different from the first 6 weeks I was living in this house, I know we go through phases but I can’t help seeing a correlation between when I first protested and when it started to get louder and more frequent.

Yesterday I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t be perturbed from using the kitchen, that it was my common space as well and even if it was awkward I was well within my rights to cook in there, I was hungry and I had just ventured to a distant supermarket so was keen to get my goods steamy and on a plate. I didn’t want to socialise, because I feel like when I speak to you it’s inauthentic, I am not coming from a place of genuine inquiry and I just want to potter about my space and get on with my life. I hoped we could share a room without this being an issue but of course that was denial on my part somehow.

As I stated I am probably spectrum, a part of this is that I don’t like to be touched, which irrelevant of the culture you come from should be a respected thing, you could've just asked me politely to move, especially if you’d gauged that I was in a bit of a state and didn’t really want to interact at all. But you touched me and it felt like an invasion, I’m sure it’s just because you’re a tactile person but I can’t help my reaction and don’t feel ashamed of it. You could’ve just asked me to move.

Then the shouting to another fettered guest, one of the parade that seem to be trounced about the house on a weekly basis. It was as if you were using this visitor as a pawn for your agenda of diminishing me somehow, shouting at the top of your voices like you were on a busy junction and ambulances were all around you. I know you have full right to express yourselves in your own house but a modicum of respect could of been used, you had seen me in a pent up state, clearly not in the best place, a feeling and kind reaction to this would of been to temper yourselves just slightly, to understand that I needed a little space. You could still of talked, just things like not bellowing and making a fuss could’ve been levelled, it would of been the kind thing to do.

I’m not 100% sure if you now feel like you’re in a tug of war with me regarding noise, I’m not asking you to not have friends over or to stop living your lives, I’m not asking you to relinquish any of the freedoms you hold dearly, I’m just asking if you’ll consider me sometimes and try to understand things from my perspective. I don’t want a deeper relation or to become friends because I want my home to be a place of respite from the outside world where I can be alone, I don’t wish you ill and I will make an effort from now on the affect small talk, to try and build a bridge, so at least it’s not quite so awkward or angry. I guess that’s my failing and something I need to work on, I need to put my face on, because ignoring people or not engaging with them is also its own act of cruelty and probably comes across as rude. Really I lived in a shared house, I am not alone and can not expect to be left alone entirely.

The truth is there is nowhere I can really expect everything from and as an adult I must realise this, that all places in my life at this point require me to compromise somehow. A muhrmaid samurai would compromise, a muhrmaid samurai would do this without jeopardising their beliefs.

Honestly I do like coming back to the common areas being occupied and lights being on, it feel’s more homely, I just also want to be comfortable in my space, able to go to the toilet, make myself a cup of tea, and not have to feel like by not being overt and excitable I am somhow being rude. I want my home to be my safe space, increasingly its getting further and further from this and its causing me to agonise over what I can do to remedy the situation, how I can counter it with meditation, repeating mantra’s to myself about the hero, channeling the muhrmaid samurai.

Possibly I’m just a difficult over emotional and intense artist, I’m expecting to much and this is madness. But if either of you have read this and somehow recognise what I’ve written down here, please just have a little more care when I’m at home, that’s all I ask. I don’t want this to escalate any more or to feel like I can’t come home, I’m not attacking you, I just want you to understand things from my perspective a little and I know fully well I wouldn’t be able to say this as clearly as I can write it, the words would come out backwards and upside down and you’d probably just take offense.

YOURS UNEXPECTEDLY // DIMINUTIVELY // RESIGNEDLY Felice

Phew, anyway I think I’ve written my piece, I guess those that read and have somehow experienced this before, I have friends who struggle with their housemates as well for instance, might sympathise a little. By putting it all out into the world I hope it will stop fueling the feedback loop in my head….

Now back to baby alert, we’re getting updates on the family whats app group, how meta we are as a unit, the millennial equivalent of the weasleys in a world where magic is interchanged for technology.

I hope you’ve managed to bridge any communication breakdowns in your life Nicolas and I wonder what domiciles you’ve moved through.

#Nicolas Jaar #nicolasjaar

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douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years

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SO WHEN YOU GET A REJECTION, USE THE DATA THAT'S IN IT, AND B SINCE HE'S PROBABLY A FOUNDER, HE CAN PAY HIMSELF NOTHING

It sounds obvious to say that VCs are less willing to take. It comes right out of stock that could otherwise be given to them.1 Like many startup founders, I did it to get rich would all start startups. But the evidence of the last 200 years shows that it doesn't reduce economic inequality, because it contains things that could endanger children. And so most schools do such a bad job of hiring otherwise. And that means one has to commit explicitly to what the central point is. We have the potential to ensure that the US remains a technology superpower just by letting in a few thousand great programmers a year. VCs may just sell it at a low enough valuation. And such random factors will increasingly be outweighed by the pull of existing startup hubs. And unless you already have if you can't raise the full amount.

More often it was just an arbitrary series of hoops to jump through, words without content designed mainly for testability. And unlike other potential mistakes on that scale, it costs nothing to fix.2 I also knew some made a lot of freaks. As they were used then, these words all seemed to mean the same thing, and for all the effort technology companies have expended trying to make immigration easier. This essay is derived from a talk at Defcon 2005.3 Like a politician who wants to distract voters from bad times at home, for example, because no one else is likely to think of a successful startup that wasn't turned down by investors doesn't mean much.4 Startup School. Investment decisions are big decisions. Which means building the product isn't. VCs care most what other VCs think.

Philip Greenspun said in Founders at Work that Ars Digita's VCs did this to them. The goal of the investors is for the company with the addition of some new person, then they're worth n such that i 1/1-n. There is one rational reason to want multiple VCs in a deal: Any investor who co-invests with you is one less investor who could fund a competitor. The structural change in the way.5 Angels are in a different position because they're investing their own money.6 More likely the reason is that the founders of the next Google stay in grad school instead of starting a company. That VC round was a series B round; the premoney valuation was $75 million. This works better for some startups than others. One big wave and you're sunk. One reason it's so brutal is simply the brutality of markets.

I've learned about investors. I have not seen a single reference to this supposedly universal fact before the twentieth century. Let's run through an example.7 More likely, you'll just get far more people starting startups. Often the other party doesn't really think about what they want till the last moment.8 They're quite explicit about it: they like to acquire startups at just the point where they're issued, we may in some cases be able to decrease without having to go through the government.9 Silicon Valley is where it is because William Shockley wanted to move back to Palo Alto, where he grew up, and the art world was so manifestly corrupt that it snapped the leash of credulity. The real reason we started Y Combinator is neither selfish nor virtuous. 7% of American kids attend them?

The books the professors wrote about expert systems are now ignored.10 What surprised me was their reaction when I called to talk about it.11 But the evidence of the last 200 years shows that it doesn't reduce economic inequality, you get no startups. Always have some alternative plan for getting started if any given investor says no. If there were such a firm, I'd recommend it to startups in preference to any other, no matter how many good startups approach him. They shouldn't take it so much they stayed. Investors mainly contribute money, which makes software free; Moore's law, which makes software free; Moore's law, which makes promotion free if you're good; and better languages, which make development a lot cheaper.12 Not those guys are really smart or those guys are working on a great idea. It would have taken a deliberate lie to say otherwise. Startups yield faster growth at greater risk than established companies.13 But the fact is, the world.14 They'd rather lose the deal than establish a precedent of VCs competitively bidding against one another.

I tried my best to imitate them.15 Transposing into our original expression, we get: decreasing economic inequality means decreasing the risk people are willing to fund riskier projects than VCs. Startups have gotten cheaper. So if you have hot prospect, either close them now or write them off. But they weren't crazy. Most investors are looking for big hits. What they really dislike is the sort of startup that approaches them saying the train's leaving the station; are you in or out? An American teenager may work at being popular every waking hour, 365 days a year. Most of what the VCs add, acquirers don't want anyway.

Notes

A fundraising is so hard to compete directly with open source software. By all means crack down on these. That's probably true of the living.

You owe them such updates on your own.

6 in Chicago, 8 in London, 13 in New York, people who had made Lotus into the shape that matters, just the local builders built everything in it, I'm just going to use thresholds proportionate to wd m-k w-d n, where x includes math, law, you're using a dictionary to pick the former, and since technological progress aren't sharply differentiated, so presumably will the rate of change in the early years.

To a 3:59 mile as a collection of specious beliefs about how to succeed or fail.

There may be that the word wisdom in this department. Which is why, when Subject foo not to foo but to a college that limits their options?

In the original text would in 1950 something one could aspire to the home team, I've become a manager. And frankly even these companies unless your initial investors agreed in advance that you could only get in the 70s, moving to Monaco would only give you money for other people the freedom to they derive the same thing. Many people feel good.

To sheep. I use the wrong target. This phenomenon is apparently even worse, they thought at least one beneficial feature: it has to be spread out geographically. The Baumol Effect induced by startups is uninterruptability.

There are a lot of people thought of them had been transposed into your bodies. Several people I talked to a woman who, because you're throwing off your own compass. Presumably it's lower now because of some logical reason e.

I'm not saying option pools themselves will go away, and they hope this will be big successes but who are both genuinely formidable, and that modern corporate executives were, we don't have enough equity left to motivate them. One YC founder told me that if colleges want to invest more. And perhaps even worse in the sense that if the selection process looked for different things from different, simpler organisms over unimaginably long periods of time and became the Internet was as a model. I'm not saying you should prevent your beliefs about how to use an OS that doesn't lose our data.

Monroeville Mall was at the time I had no government powerful enough to answer your question. But if so, why not turn your company right now.

Common Lisp seems to me like a startup to sell, or that an investor would sell it to colleagues. When VCs asked us how long it would be in the aggregate are overpaid.

And even then your restrictions would have seemed to us that the middle class values; it is to fork off separate processes to deal with the talking paperclip. Which means if the public conversation about women consists of fighting, their voices.

We could be done at a 15 million valuation cap. One great advantage of having employers pay for stuff online, if the statistics they consider are useful, how could it have meaning? For example, probably did more drugs in his twenties than any of his professors did in salary. And then of course some uncertainty about how closely the remarks attributed to them to make people richer.

There is nothing you can skip the first question is to let yourself feel it mid-century big companies have little to bring corporate bonds; a decade of inflation that left many public companies trading below the value of their assets; and not incompatible answers: a It did not become romantically involved till afterward. Emmett Shear, and they succeeded. For a long thread are rarely seen, so the best intentions.

I talk about real income, which is a bad imitation of a problem if you'll never need to run an online service, this phenomenon is not to feel uncomfortable. Survey by Forrester Research reported in the US. One to recover data from crashed hard disks.

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ciathyzareposts · 6 years

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PTFC Challenge #3 – Red Nails

Posted by Rampant Coyote on August 30, 2018

For the final entry in the Continuing the Pre-Tolkien Fantasy Challenge, I wanted to finish with one of my favorite pre-Tolkien fantasy stories… one that I haven’t read in years. I re-read it for this challenge, and while my take on it was different from my teenaged memories, I found I was no less delighted by it. The novella is one of the quintessential Conan stories by Robert E. Howard, Red Nails. It was also, sadly, the last complete Conan story written by Howard, published posthumously after his death.

But man, what a story.

This story as much about Valeria of the Red Brotherhood as it is about Conan. The story uses the third-person omniscient view which is out-of-fashion these days, freely moving into the heads of the two main characters. At least Howard does it well. I’m going to assume you already know who Conan is, but if you haven’t read at least a couple of original Conan stories, rather than his popular modern representation, than I’d argue you really don’t know who Conan is. This novella would be a great start! Howard himself called it, “the grimmest, bloodiest, and most merciless story of the series so far,” and “the bloodiest and most sexy weird story I ever wrote.”

In this story, Conan meets up with the pirate Valeria of the Red Brotherhood as they fled pursuit. Well, she was fleeing pursuit, he killed the man who was pursuing her. They meet up on this tall bluff in the jungle, Conan explains what a great service he’s rendered for her by killing her pursuer, and is sort of expecting her to fall into his arms in gratitude. Valeria is having none of this, and draws her sword to drive the … ahem… point home. Conan recognizes her skill and backs off, but still proceeds with the trash talk, which she returns.

He stepped toward her, and she sprang back, whipping out her sword.

“Keep back, you barbarian dog! I’ll spit you like a roast pig!”

He halted, reluctantly, and demanded: “Do you want me to take that toy away from you and spank you with it?”

“Words! Nothing but words!” she mocked, lights like the gleam of the sun on blue water dancing in her reckless eyes.

He knew it was the truth. No living man could disarm Valeria of the Brotherhood with his bare hands. He scowled, his sensations a tangle of conflicting emotions. He was angry, yet he was amused and filled with admiration for her spirit. He burned with eagerness to seize that splendid figure and crush it in his iron arms, yet he greatly desired not to hurt the girl. He was torn between a desire to shake her soundly, and a desire to caress her. He knew if he came any nearer her sword would be sheathed in his heart. He had seen Valeria kill too many men in border forays and tavern brawls to have any illusions about her. He knew she was as quick and ferocious as a tigress.

Their little argument is interrupted by the appearance of a monstrous creature described as a dragon. It’s that, or some kind of oversized dinosaur. They immediately forget their differences and band together in mutual defense. Their fight & flight take them to the gates of an ancient, city-sized fortress. The few inhabitants are survivors of a long-running, bitter feud between two tribes, bent on nothing more than the annihilation of each other. The tribe that enlists the aid of Conan and Valeria intend to pit their superior skill at swords against the other tribes’ reliance upon dark sorcery unearthed from the catacombs of the city. For every enemy slain, they drive a red, copper nail into an ebony column to mark their victory.

Naturally, when two decadent, dying races are steeped in such hatred and focused on nothing but destruction, there’s not going to be much of a happy ending no matter which side the mercenary pair might team up with. The story is full of interesting characters, but the backdrop of two dying cultures in the halls of a fortress built by an even longer-dead race is compelling. It drips with detail, but never too much.

Valeria isn’t quite the super-powered creature that Conan is, nor can she match Olmec, prince of the Tecuhltli tribe, for brute force. She is described as being stronger than the average man, and in skill and speed there are few men alive who could equal her, let alone beat her. She and Conan fight side-by-side, and have to rescue each other in nearly equal measure, so it’s clear that this adventure requires both of them. She is reckless, but she isn’t quite the hyperactive psychopath that Bêlit is Shemite was. Valeria is a pirate and mercenary, aggressive without being foolhardy.

One major battle scene pits Conan, Valeria, and men and women of both tribes in a single, bloody conflict:

These crashed into the fray with the devastating effect of a hurricane plowing through a grove of saplings. In sheer strength no three Tlazitlans were a match for Conan, and in spite of his weight he was quicker on his feet than any of them. He moved through the whirling, eddying mass with the surety and destructiveness of a gray wolf amidst a pack of alley curs, and he strode over a wake of crumpled figures.

Valeria fought beside him, her lips smiling and her eyes blazing. She was stronger than the average man, and far quicker and more ferocious. Her sword was like a living thing in her hand. Where Conan beat down opposition by the sheer weight and power of his blows, breaking spears, splitting skulls and cleaving bosoms to the breast-bone, Valeria brought into action a finesse of sword-play that dazzled and bewildered her antagonists before it slew them. Again and again a warrior, heaving high his heavy blade, found her point in his jugular before he could strike. Conan, towering above the field, strode through the welter smiting right and left, but Valeria moved like an illusive phantom, constantly shifting, and thrusting and slashing as she shifted. Swords missed her again and again as the wielders flailed the empty air and died with her point in their hearts or throats, and her mocking laughter in their ears.

Neither sex nor condition was considered by the maddened combatants. The five women of the Xotalancas were down with their throats cut before Conan and Valeria entered the fray, and when a man or woman went down under the stamping feet, there was always a knife ready for the helpless throat, or a sandaled foot eager to crush the prostrate skull.

Brutal. Dark. Awesome.

And so NOT TOLKIEN.

Red Nails has some of the flashiest sorcery in the Conan stories. You’ve got a frickin’ lightning-wand and a glowing skull that renders victims helpless, and pipes that induce madness. You have giant snakes summoned from the depths, and ancient dragons resurrected through dark magic. You have witches that can compel with a gaze. And you have lots of swords. Yeah, this story is quintessential Sword & Sorcery, not just Conan. Tolkien’s wizards are slow-burning forces of nature with subtle magic. The sorcerers and witches of Conan’s world run hot and crazy.

If you are a Dungeons & Dragons player, the fortress city of Xuchotil is as archetypal dungeon as the Mines of Moria. With three tiers and towers above ground and who knows how many dank and dark levels in the crypts below, it is full of hidden passages, ancient torture chambers, lost magical items, monsters, and SCADS of treasure–to the point where the jewels and precious metals are esteemed valueless by the current inhabitants. Green fire-stones and the occasional indestructible skylight provide light through some of the chambers, but not all. There sounds like there is a lot more to the city than can be described in this story, but rather left to the imagination of the reader. Or an imaginative Dungeon Master.

And yeah, of the three stories I read for this challenge, this is my favorite, and remains one of my favorite Conan stories. Maybe it will become one of yours, too. You can find it online at Project Gutenberg, or over at Wikisource (complete with the July 1936 Margaret Brundage Weird Tales cover that is totally inappropriate by today’s standards…)

Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed this series. There was plenty of excellent fantasy out there before Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series hit the bookshelves, and while I still love LotR, I would love to see more of the preceding works get remembered. There’s plenty to enjoy.

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joelandryus · 6 years

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Screw Fat Loss

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The goal of fat loss isn’t (usually) the problem. It’s the mindset that often evolves from a seemingly never-ending fat loss pursuit. Fat loss isn’t executed as a simple objective, structured process that lasts for a designated time — it gradually morphs into a definitive, emotionally-fueled, all-consuming infinite lifestyle.

This unrelenting, long-term focus on fat loss is brutally effective for one thing: making women chronically dissatisfied with their bodies.

The Deep-Rooted Fat Loss Mindset

If you’ve spent more than several months, or years, constantly thinking about shedding fat, it’s time to terminate the fat loss mindset, and take a new approach.

Tons of women vow to more closely “watch what they eat” or to work out more frequently, lamenting the pounds that have packed on gradually over the years. The only goal a woman can have is slimming down; her actions in the gym and kitchen must be offered as a sacrifice to the fat loss gods. At least, that’s how it seems for women who, for years, have been focusing on losing fat, whether it’s the “last few stubborn pounds” or those that have always seemed to live on their frame.

Women are barraged with social media advertisements for products and programs that promise rapid fat loss with their revolutionary, one-of-a-kind system. (Or to sell products that make you look like you lost fat — body wraps, anyone?) And so it goes month after month, year after year; women try different diets and workouts and everything else possible to burn off stubborn body fat, embedding the fat-loss-matters-most mindset further.

Screw fat loss.

You can set health and fitness goals that don’t have a thing to do with losing fat.

The reason you eat a chicken salad doesn’t have to be I’m trying to lose weight. You can eat a slice of pizza without declaring you’re cheating on your diet or, even worse, bemoaning I’m going to get fat from this, while indulging in what’s been labeled a guilty-pleasure food.

The reason you perform a workout doesn’t need to revolve around the desire to incinerate fat stores or because you overindulged at last night’s dinner and think you have to go into damage control to minimize the effects of your food choices.

Screw fat loss.

Slimming down your waistline doesn’t have to be the dominate thought prodding your return to the gym each week. You can choose to move your body and eat well because, oh, I don’t know, you’d like to feel good about yourself instead of hating your body and relentlessly berating yourself until you can get the button on that smaller pair of jeans to clasp. Because you want to discover what your body can do, and then do more for no reason other than because you can.

Screw fat loss. Exercise should not be punishment.

You don’t have to go on the latest diet that promises to be “the one” or think about torching calories or turn to quick-fixes that use misleading marketing messages like “lose up to ten pounds in one week” or revolve every waking moment around a nonsensical regimen that’s too impractical to be sustained more than a couple weeks. (While we’re at it, screw you too, quick-fix fads and cleanses that have been proven repeatedly to be utterly useless.)

You don’t have to hate parts of your body, loathe so called “flaws,” or proclaim to be happy once the Fat Loss Fairy flutters by sprinkling her butt-blasting, calorie-torching, cellulite-incinerating, age-defying magical dust upon you.

Screw fat loss and the hate-your-way-skinny mindset it often encourages.

What if I don’t care about getting crazy strong or improving my performance and just want to look great naked; what if I need to lose fat to alleviate achy joints or for health reasons? you may be wondering. Wouldn’t choosing to embrace the screw-fat-loss mindset while flipping the double-bird salute to the rampant nonsense in the health and fitness world be stupid or irresponsible?

Nope. In fact, if the only thought that has pulsed through your mind for countless months or years when you see yourself naked or when you look at your reflection in a full-length mirror as you slide on your jeans or when deciding what to eat, or what not to eat, is fatlossfatlossfatlossfatlossfatloss then you should swat fat loss off the why-I-will-work-out-and-eat-well pedestal.

Examining the Dark Side of Fat Loss

Confused or have lingering questions about eradicating thoughts of losing fat from your mind? This will help.

How many diets have you tried because of their tantalized promises of fast, almost effortless fat loss? Have you been sucked in by a confusing, rigid diet thinking it had to work because it was so complicated? Have you ever stated, “This time will be different. This time I’m finally going to shed these lingering stubborn pounds,” as you examined the lengthy list of do-not-eat foods and other unbreakable rules of the new diet? And … and … how long did you practice the diet before quitting and reverting to previous eating habits?

Your answers exposed the dark side — the ugly side — of the relentless pursuit of fat loss.

If indelible fat loss obsession worked — i.e., working out and eating well and trying diets with the sole intention of losing fat for a span of many months or years — then that’s what I’d tell you to do. Over the past decade I’ve worked with too many women who developed eating and binge eating disorders, obsessive eating habits, and a ballooning negative body image from the relentless pursuit of fat loss spurred on by the belief they would finally be happy and beautiful if they gutted it out and adhered to the miserable diet long enough.

One glaring truth emerged from these synonymous stories.

Obsessing over fat loss for an extended time — dictating your choices in the kitchen and actions in the gym based on their ability to maximize fat loss — is brutally effective for one thing: making women chronically dissatisfied with their bodies. Developing disordered eating habits and using exercise as punishment (until eventually not even doing that because who wants to punish themselves nonstop) comes in a close second and third.

People tend to get carried away with a fat loss plan. I repeat: The goal of fat loss isn’t (usually) the problem. It’s the mindset that often evolves from a seemingly never-ending fat loss pursuit. Fat loss isn’t executed as a simple objective, structured process that lasts for a designated time; it gradually morphs into a definitive, emotionally-fueled, all-consuming infinite lifestyle.

And that is why I encourage those who have been riding the fat loss rollercoaster with no end in sight to break away from that mindset. To choose other goals and actions to focus on.

How to Break Away from the Fat Loss Mindset

It’s not uncommon for people to assume that choosing to stop thinking about fat loss every time they stab a forkful of food or load up a barbell means they’ll compromise the results they wish to achieve. They assume they can’t build a better, stronger, healthier body if thoughts of fat loss don’t loom in their mind.

If you’ve been obsessing over fat loss for so long you can’t recall when you weren’t always thinking about losing fat — or you’ve simply never considered reasons for eating well and working out for any reason other than fat loss — then it’s time to break away from that mindset.

What should you do instead? I’m so glad you asked.

What must be done? Focus on the answer to this. Hone your attention on what you must do to achieve results. Schedule three strength training workouts per week in your calendar and a 30-minute walk or other body-moving activity the other days of the week. These are actions; define them, clearly, and practice them consistently. Checking off actions taken is superior to obsessing over an outcome because you know exactly what must be done to achieve results. Obsession and intent don’t produce results, but action does. Furthermore, actions create habits. (And sometimes our actions create bad habits, like those developed from a life ruled by the fat loss mindset. That is why we’re replacing the habits we don’t want with empowering, positive habits we do want; those that serve us.)

Revolve workouts and eating habits around a positive, measurable purpose. Working out because you hate the fat on your thighs isn’t a positive purpose. Lambasting yourself because of less-than-ideal food choices isn’t productive. Learning how to correctly squat and deadlift and press a barbell is a purpose. Building your strength to see how strong you can truly be is productive, and measurable. Improving your performance from last week’s workouts is a positive purpose, as is eating foods that satisfy and nourish you.

Screw fat loss — get strong. Be more, not less.

Ditching the Fat Loss Mindset in Action:

“I went from constantly thinking about food and how much (or little) I could eat. From stressing about what my body fat percentage was and what size pants I could fit into. I started to care about how much weight I could load onto my barbell. I started to care about the fact I can now do push-ups and prior I couldn’t do one to save my life. I started feeling proud, strong and energized. And guess what happened when I changed my mindset to being MORE and not LESS? I fit into smaller pants. My muffin top faded. My arms became gorgeously toned … read this book. You won’t regret it.”

– Erin K. Amazon review of Lift Like a Girl: Be More, Not Less

Don’t be misled. This isn’t about fat loss even though Erin lost fat when she said, “Screw fat loss!” It’s about what happened when she chose to focus on actions (changing her mindset to focusing on more) and revolving her workouts around a measurable purpose (adding weight to the barbell). Building muscle and shedding fat was simply a side effect. A change in performance and body composition quite often accompanies a preceding change in mindset; I think it’s because the process becomes more enjoyable, and when you enjoy something, you’re likely to keep doing it.

Set yourself up for success. Attempting to follow a diet or workout program that’s too strenuous, time consuming, or rigid is why people often fail to reach their goals. It’s why people who go “all in” on a diet and demanding workout schedule quickly abandon it — it dominated their life. They either do “all” (I’m not going to miss a workout or cheat on my diet!) or do nothing (I cheated on my diet so I might as well eat whatever I want the rest of the day … and weekend). Set yourself up for success. Can you realistically commit to no more than three trips to the gym each week because you’re a busy woman? Then don’t vow to go four or more! Follow a three-day per week program if that’s best for you, right now. In addition, work on making sustainable changes to your eating habits.

The way you eat and move your body must fit into your life, accommodate your schedule, and have built-in flexibility. Don’t underestimate this truth. Choose the most important actions, practice them consistently for several months, have a positive and measurable purpose with your workouts, and set yourself up for success.

Why, you may be wondering, is this more effective than a typical fat loss obsessed approach most people are accustomed to? Because you can actually feel great about yourself, for a start, instead of physically and mentally punishing yourself for having fat on your body or missing a workout or eating a donut. Because you can have a social life and enjoy your favorite foods with a dose of flexibility and responsibility. Because working out with a positive purpose builds you up instead of tears you down. Because a crazy diet or quick-fix program isn’t necessary when you take the time to turn guidelines into sustainable habits. Because what you think affects what you do and what you will become.

Screw fat loss. Choose to get strong. Or choose to become more awesome.

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afriendlypokealien · 3 years

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She’s Leading the Fight Against Mandatory Vaccines in Texas. She Also Happens to Be a Nurse.

News reports and important tips on POS Equipment & POS.

In the darkest days of the pandemic, the staff at Houston Methodist Baytown Hospital devised a way to allow families to say goodbye to loved ones who were terminally ill with COVID-19. They moved patients to rooms where they’d be able to see and communicate with visitors through a window. To facilitate the goodbye, a nurse wearing an isolation gown, gloves, and both an N95 mask and a face shield, would hold a phone to the patient’s face while family members spoke to them for the last time. It was a grueling task. Not only did nurses risk infection and incur the psychological toll of witnessing family trauma, but underneath the PPE, it often got brutally hot and difficult to breathe. At the end of an hour-long meeting, nurses found themselves drenched in sweat and light-headed, their arms numb from holding up a phone or iPad for hours.

Despite the difficult conditions, Jennifer Bridges, a 39-year-old former bartender and CrossFit fanatic, was the first nurse to volunteer for the program. “I didn’t even care if I passed out,” said Bridges, whom other nurses describe as “devoted” to patient care and “extremely hardworking.” “I was going to hold out until my body gave out.”

In those days, Bridges’s strength and hard-nosed attitude helped her excel at work, but more recently those qualities have placed her at the center of a heated dispute with the hospital over her refusal to get a mandatory COVID-19 vaccine. Last month, Houston Methodist became the first hospital in the nation to require that all of its employees get vaccinated. Those who are unable to provide proof of vaccination by June 7 will be suspended without pay for two weeks, according to the company’s new HR policy; and those who haven’t been vaccinated by the end of their suspension will be subject to the “employment termination process.” To date, 98 percent of the 26,000 employees have gotten the jab. Bridges is refusing.

Bridges, who had a bout with COVID-19 last year, balks at the notion that she’s an anti-vaxxer. She said she has received annual flu inoculations and the vaccines for hepatitis B and measles, mumps, and rubella. But like millions of other Americans, she believes the COVID-19 vaccines—which received emergency use authorization—were rushed through the government’s approval process and that some who’ve received the shots have suffered severe side effects that are intentionally withheld from public view. She said she’s encountered dozens of patients at the hospital who have experienced adverse reactions to the vaccines, such as blood clots, heart arrhythmias, and swollen appendages, and has received messages from other hospital workers who say they’ve witnessed the same. Health experts say these assertions are not only misleading but rooted in dangerous misinformation that has flourished on social media. A Houston Methodist spokesperson echoed that sentiment, saying that the hospital has seen “very few severe reactions from the vaccine.”

As Bridges’s fight has circulated in the media, anti-vaxxers have rushed to champion her cause. She welcomes their support and sympathizes with their cause, even as she admits that the pairing is “a little weird. “I don’t discriminate,” she said. “If that’s their belief I’m totally comfortable with it, because everyone should have a choice, and right now people are being forced to do this when they don’t want to. If they are anti-vax that’s their right.”

The conflict between employer and employee arrives at a critical moment for the federal government’s nationwide vaccine rollout: “vaccine hesitancy” has caused daily vaccination totals to drop, and the promise of reaching herd immunity appears increasingly unlikely. In Texas, where only 33 percent of the state is fully vaccinated, and 36 percent of residents are hesitant to get the jab, surplus doses have lingered for weeks. Public health officials have switched to more aggressive outreach efforts in hopes of avoiding a surge of COVID-19 cases or the rise of new variants. Noting that an unvaccinated health-care worker was linked to a COVID outbreak at a Kentucky nursing home in March, leading to several deaths, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said in late April that vaccinating health-care workers, in particular, is “essential to reduce the risk of symptomatic COVID-19.”

Both Bridges and another Houston Methodist nurse, Ashton Hanley, said pressure to get vaccinated began months ago and grew more intense as shots became widely available. They said managers at the hospital publicly confronted employees about their vaccine status in hallways. “One manager addressed someone by an ice machine and asked, ‘Are you getting the vaccine or are you going to resign?’” Hanley said, calling the interaction “invasive” and “unprofessional.” Once the hospital announced last month that it would require vaccination, Bridges became upset and began gathering the signatures of more than one hundred coworkers who felt similarly. She said the hospital’s policy has turned vaccine-hesitant employees into “outcasts” at work, leaving many distraught and some in need of anti-anxiety medication.

Jennifer Bridges in 2019.Courtesy of Jennifer Bridges

With tensions rising in the wake of Bridges’s decision to collect signatures, she and Hanley were granted a meeting with hospital officials last month to discuss their concerns about the vaccine. Hospital officials refused to offer them an extra year to decide whether to get inoculated. Both nurses said the tenor of the meeting was uncompromising and constituted bullying. Hanley promptly gave her two weeks’ notice. Bridges decided to fight back in the media, a decision that quickly made her the policy’s most vocal critic and set the stage for an impending showdown.

Stefanie Asin, a Houston Methodist spokesperson, said the hospital’s leadership feels strongly that all employees should be subject to the same vaccination deadlines. “We have to have a fair process with one deadline for the vast majority of our employees,” she said, noting that the hospital offers medical and religious exemptions, as well as delays for pregnant employees. “We did the same thing in 2009 for the flu vaccine as well, because this is part of our culture.” (Bridges and Hanley said the flu comparison is misleading because the vaccine had been in use for years.) Responding to Bridges and Hanley’s allegations of bullying and being confronted in hallways, the hospital declined to address specific incidents. But Asin denied that anyone had pressured the nurses or tried to intimidate them into taking a COVID-19 vaccine. “We absolutely do not retaliate against any employees about anything,” she said. “We are a values-based organization and we do not retaliate.”

Bridges compares her fight to that of women arguing for control of their reproductive rights. “This is supposed to be America, you’re supposed to have civil rights and constitutional rights, your freedom of choice,” she said. “All these people who always claim my body, my choice, well where are you now. It’s the same thing. Nobody should be forced to put anything into their body if they’re not okay with it.” In an email provided to Texas Monthly by Houston Methodist, the hospital’s CEO, Marc Boom, framed the disagreement differently, mostly as a question of patient health. “As health care workers we must do everything possible to keep our patients safe and at the center of everything we do,” Boom wrote. “By choosing to be vaccinated, you are leaders—showing our colleagues in health care what must be done to protect our patients, ourselves, our families and our communities.”

Bridges has threatened to sue Houston Methodist, going as far as launching a GoFundMe campaign to raise legal fees. In three weeks, it has brought in about $17,000 of a goal of $500,000. If Bridges does file suit, Valerie Gutmann Koch, codirector of the Health Law & Policy Institute at the University of Houston’s Law Center, said she doesn’t expect courts to embrace the argument that vaccine mandates infringe upon personal liberty. There are several legal precedents, Koch noted, that have allowed employers to mandate vaccines, especially in health-care settings. In addition to that precedent, Bridges, as an at-will employee of a private institution with medical and religious exemptions in place, is not being forced to receive the vaccine, Koch said.

But even if her suit is unsuccessful, Bridges has become a cause célèbre among vaccine skeptics both inside the medical establishment and out. Public health experts worry about the reach she could have.

On a recent spring afternoon, a sleep-deprived Bridges tried to decompress on her backyard deck in a tank top and shorts, before her phone made it nearly impossible. Over the course of an hour, she received an unending stream of texts and phone calls from coworkers, friends, reporters, and strangers. A few minutes into our chat, Bridges also received a message from a political operative summoning her to Austin the next morning to testify in support of a bill in the state Senate, introduced by Edgewood Republican Bob Hall, that would make mandatory vaccination an unlawful employment practice.

In recent days, Bridges has also fielded interview requests from the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Bloomberg, Inside Edition, and a handful of local television stations. Well-wishers from around the country, most of them conservative and religious, have begun sending Bridges hundreds of messages each day, by email and on Facebook, praising her bravery, promising to pray for her lawsuit, and encouraging her to continue her “fight for freedom.” “It’s nonstop, from seven in the morning until eleven at night,” she said. “I’m happy that there’s so much support and there’s so many people wanting to help fight this right now.”

But all of the interview requests, the constant messages, and the feeling that coworkers were counting on her to keep their jobs had also begun to feel like an “incredible weight,” causing her to have a panic attack at work a week earlier. Bridges said, however, that she was ready to travel to Austin to continue her fight. “I don’t like bullies and I don’t like people who feel they can intimidate you because they have power and money,” she said, explaining her motivation for testifying. “I’m that one where, if I see a bunch of people who are picking on someone who is defenseless, I’m going to come help them, and if I can’t help them, I’m going to kick the bully’s ass or go to jail because I’m not going to let the victim go through that.”

For coworkers on either side of the vaccine debate, Bridges’s decision to confront her employer is not entirely surprising. “She’s a fighter and she doesn’t care about losing a job because it’s about morality to her,” said Hanley. Bridges said she’s prepared to sacrifice her steady paycheck. “If I have to go back to bartending, I’ll do it. I’ve been a single mom, I’ve cut yards for money, I know how to work and nothing is beneath me.”

Bridges’s newfound celebrity spawned by her pugnaciousness is worrying to health experts who say the information she’s peddling is dangerous. James T. McDeavitt, a doctor and dean of clinical affairs at the Baylor College of Medicine, called the idea of vaccines unleashing severe side effects and the medical establishment suppressing reports of the reactions “categorically untrue.” He pointed to the CDC’s recommendation last month that states temporarily suspend the use of Johnson & Johnson’s coronavirus vaccine after six individuals developed a rare blood-clotting disorder. Considering that more than 264 million coronavirus vaccine doses have been administered throughout the United States, he said, they have proved “extraordinarily safe.” “When you do something to two hundred million people and then look back at the data, inevitably you’re going to find that bad things have happened among a population of that size, whether it’s heart attacks or strokes,” he added. “But that doesn’t mean that the vaccine caused those bad things to happen any more than we’d attribute a good thing happening, like winning the lottery, to the vaccine.”

Though she has firsthand experience caring for patients who attribute sudden health issues to COVID-19 vaccines, Bridges said her distrust stems from reading articles shared among her network of coworkers, family, and friends. She also believes the popular internet conspiracy theories that mRNA vaccines, such as those offered by Moderna and Pfizer, alter recipients’ DNA and that the media has aided public health officials’ attempts to censor news of vaccine-related deaths.

Katelyn Jetelina, an assistant professor of epidemiology at the University of Texas Health Science Center at Houston, whose newsletter Your Local Epidemiologist unpacks pandemic-related science for the public, said that each of Bridges’s fears have not only been debunked, but can easily be traced back to online misinformation. She pointed out that experts, herself included, have for months provided detailed explanations addressing concerns about vaccines altering DNA. She also pushed back against the notion that the record-breaking vaccine development process was rushed, noting that relevant research for a SARS vaccine began in 2003 and, unlike in previous efforts, today’s researchers have benefited from an unprecedented amount of government funding, manufacturing assistance, and volunteers for clinical trials. “Fast,” she said, “doesn’t necessarily mean rushed.”

What is potentially dangerous, Jetelina said, is when health-care workers and other public figures fall victim to misinformation and then use their platforms to influence public opinion. “People trust nurses and physicians with their lives and, quite frankly, it’s incredibly important that they’re spreading the truth on a grassroots front and really not influencing people to make decisions on false pretenses,” she said. “A health-care worker helping to spread misinformation does huge damage.”

The above post was provided here.

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