#As one of the four people who care about Scandal Savage

[cephalog0d]

For fuck's sake, it's not enough for you to disrespect the Batfam characters I love to further your stupid fucking plot, now you're dragging Scandal into this trash fire? She's barely appeared in reboot and this is what you're giving me? Making her work for her father (that thing that she was definitively not about in preboot) because...who knows. I would say "you better have a good reason" but they won't. Something something filial obligation apparently. Fuck you.

#I have not remotely been following Catwoman so I don't know if this was a super obvious reveal #But I hate it #It's like this arc is custom designed to piss me off personally #As one of the four people who care about Scandal Savage #scandal savage #dc comics #Gotham War bullshit #Can't wait for this to not pay off in any way and just throw away her character for Bat/Cat plot furthering #The more I think about this the angrier I get

[our-wargame]

miss the sun, and it starts to snow

Rating: M Pairing: Oda Sakunosuke / Dazai Osamu Tags: Implied Sexual ContentI...I...legitimately wrote this for fluff week...but it's not fluff. Mutual Pining. I can't even use the fluff and angst tag because it's literally not fluff. Chuuya's a Hoe and Also The Reason I Wrote This - Thank Him. Angst. angst with a ? ending. Ambiguous/Open Ending. Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence. One suicide mention. Hurt/Comfort. But Mostly Hurt Word Count: 2099 Status: Complete AO3 Link

Summary:

Sleeping with someone who cares about you too much despite the warning signs is the most selfish thing Dazai's done in the entirety of his lifetime, and he's slaughtered numbers and brought down entire nations to try and understand himself.

He knows this will not end well. They keep fucking like it might.

The first time Oda Sakunosuke fucks Dazai Osamu, it's a little more than a good decision made by two mature consenting parties. It starts with a slow night at Bar Lupin; low lights, lax words, long talks of nothing and everything. Tonight is not the first time Dazai looked at Odasaku and remembered the stars glittering for them, or the last time that he had thought, maybe the galaxy in its lonesome darkness could learn to live with some light. But it is the first time Dazai figures out the look in Odasaku's eyes, finally registers it for what it is. He breaks off from the middle of a bad joke. With an elbow on the counter propping him up and his chin in his hand, his bangs dance in and out of his eyes when he gives a little shake of his head, a little grin. "Odasaku."

"Mm?" Odasaku's gaze is too warm, too kind. All of his features are even softer under the mellow lighting. 

Dazai's grin gets a little meaner. "You should know better than to look at me like that!" Like you want me. "If you were anyone else, I'd have already taken your hand in mine and asked you to come home with me!" His drink tastes like layers and layers of lies. Don't.

The gate's been blown wide open; there are an infinite number of responses that could walk into his arms. But this is Odasaku, Odasaku who tils his head a degree, says, with meaning, "Do you want me to go home with you?"

Odasaku holds himself still, waits because he understands Dazai needs to search him. When Dazai can find nothing in his eyes that say anything else besides I'd choose you, if ever you'd let me, he's a fool for wanting to give in.

He tosses back the rest of the contents of his glass, a mess of melted ice and soft heat splashing down his throat, then rises to a stand. The bar stool shakes a little from his- enthusiasm? anxiousness? Odasaku waits. "I do." Dazai replies, and it is the most honest thing he has said so far, but that doesn't negate that it takes every bit of his willpower to keep holding Odasaku's gaze. They could stop here. They could turn back to talking about nothing at all.

The pressing need to flee battles against the way his chest hurts when he thinks about Odasaku and his willingness to offer a friend the universe.

Shut up. Just shut up. He should stop now. Shut. Up.

"Will you?" says Dazai.

So their first kiss is not preceded by the slide of a grin, the slip of a laugh. Dazai steps into Odasaku's space, a little concerned with how his approach feels like he's threatening Odasaku more than anything else, but Odasaku is already leaning in, slotting their mouths together. And that is that. That is that, because then Odasaku disengages, looks down to assess Dazai's reaction, absolutely overreacting in his care and attention. Dazai stares back at him, doing the same. And then they are leaving Lupin.

The first time Odasaku fucks Dazai, there is a little more to it than what's said. It may be a mistake, because this is not how things are supposed to go, is it? You can acknowledge your feelings, tuck them away, and never bring them up again. You can acknowledge your feelings and choose not to pursue them. But he wants to.

The beginnings of regret, the poison in his veins, is watered down, bearable. 

That night, Odasaku part his lips with his own, again and again and again. Dazai's had a couple of meaningless hookups with nameless mafia members before, but this is anything but that, so he fumbles in every instant that Odasaku is too close and yet not close enough. The lingering scent of smoke on Odasaku's coat lights the room. Dazai gets his hands in the thick of Odasaku's hair, presses teeth to the shell of an ear, slides his tongue over steady collarbone, trying to burn bruises there. Sometime later, he find himself burying his face into the warm crook between neck and shoulder, just breathing them in.

Lying in the same bed in the aftermath, Dazai knows he doesn't regret this but he may come to. The truth is, he's afraid of what comes next.

"Osamu," says Odasaku, rescuing Dazai, rather jarringly, out of his own head. "Stop thinking so loudly." It is a request- talk to me.

Dazai closes his eyes. He tugs the blankets over his head, curling his entire body inward, towards Odasaku, but keeping distance. Then he finds Odasaku's fingers, leaves the back of his hand against Odasaku's palm. Odasaku's thumb comes down to tap his palm once, then retreats, because you can't corner a stray dog and expect it not to get away in any way it knows how to. Dazai leaves between two and three in the morning anyways. Odasaku lets him, only telling him to grab an extra coat from the closet because of the cold. This is the little Dazai can comply with, so he complies, he does.

Sleeping with someone who cares about you too much despite the warning signs is the most selfish thing Dazai has done in the entirety of his lifetime, which is really something considering he's slaughtered numbers and brought down entire nations to try and understand himself. 

He knows this will not end well, so the only question is if the war he's fighting is between knowing and wanting to believe differently, or deciding who he can bring himself to trust more.

This does not end well. They keep fucking like it might.

****

The first time Dazai uses Odasaku's given name, Odasaku isn't even present. Using it is an accident, the unfortunate result of accumulating far more hours of stress than sleep, particularly the last four nights, which have requested the best of the Port Mafia to meet on each one. More importantly, The first time that Dazai says Sakunosuke, it is not so much an accident as it is a mistake. This means he can bite his tongue all he wants when he realizes what's left his lips, but the rest of the room falls silent with or without him. Chuuya's head snaps up, off of the meeting table from where it was resting in nap and the expression he turns on Dazai is both too incredulous and violent to be a grin.

"What a scandal- the executive sleeping with the errand boy!'" Chuuya gasps. "Does this mean Sakunosuke-"

Dazai plunges his hand into his pocket. Chuuya doesn't even bother with his ability- just tilts his head, lets the entire pistol fly by, clocking the wall and clattering to the ground.

Triumphant. "-is finally moving up the ladder?" Vicious. "The man deserves a different position! It's only right to return the favor...I assume he puts you in a different one every night-" 

Dazai contributes a solid effort towards putting a bullet through Chuuya's kneecap. It is a good place to go for, because even reconstruction surgery does not revive that which dies. In the end, their meeting table collects some new scars and the Golden Demon is summoned to hold him back. He cannot be objective about whether it is more for his own good or for Chuuya's, but his partner's sneer is telling, as is the gloat, the edge of his coat flaring out when he shows Dazai his back and skips off.

Dazai not hate Chuuya. There is nothing to be held against Chuuya, and he will acknowledge Chuuya's act of grace ungrudgingly. They're dogs after all. To savage without mercy when weakness is exposed is expected of them. Those who can not understand are driven from the pack and those who teach the law to others walk on. Dazai prefers the stray dogs.

He loathes himself a little more. 

 For Sakunosuke, today is a visit to the kids. He spends the usual number of hours of the afternoon with them, until his phone rings. The number of people who would call him are few, and the fraction of them who would call right now are even fewer. He knows it's Dazai. Even as he brings the phone to his ear, he knows there's something wrong.

"Odasaku-"

"Where are you," he interrupts, and his voice is rough from the worry so he swallows. Tries again. "Dazai, I'm coming. Where are you?"

"...your apartment. In 10?"

"Be there in 10." He promises. A moment is spent debating whether or not to hang up- would Dazai prefer to stay on call? But the line goes dead and he gets moving. Quick hugs for the kids, his thanks goes to the curry shop owner, and then he's gone.

There's very little that distresses Dazai. With his lips pressed in a tight line, Sakunosuke grips the steering wheel tighter and tries to keep within twice the speed limit. This is his fault.

Dazai's always known how Sakunosuke feels about him, just like he's known it's never not been mutual, even before Dazai said yes, before they'd walked away, hand in hand, that first night. But it's fault, because then he let Dazai drift, walk free. He thought it was time that would slowly pull Dazai into coming to terms with believing- they could make it work. But now he sees what he was extending, what he thought was kindness, for only its flaws. Right now, Dazai does not need Sakunosuke's patience.

What Dazai needs is a reminder. A reminder that he is only everything to Sakunosuke. Even if this does not end well...Sakunosuke is too selfish to want anything else for them. 

Racing through the city takes an eternity. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator to give himself something to do, with his heartbeat thundering in his head, but counts to ten, reigns himself in, when he works the doors instead of breaking them down.

Dazai lies in their bed, lies on his side, doesn't lift his head. "Odasaku..."

"I'm here." Sakunosuke murmurs. The mattress sinks a little when he sits on the edge of the bed, his back to Dazai. After a moment, he hears it creak again, Dazai shifting, moving close so he can reach and wrap an arm around Odasaku's waist, rest his hand on Odasaku's knee. Odasaku threads their fingers together. He doesn't know what it is that set Dazai off, because there are too many possibilities. Life. Death. Work.  Mafia. Osamu. Sakunosuke. Nothing. Everything. If he could take Dazai's misery and make it his own, he would.

Dazai squeezes his fingers. Sakunosuke makes himself breathe.

 An eon goes by. And then another. Humans live, humans die. Someone scrawls down history in letters and sends bottles out to sea. 

Dazai whispers, "How's Sakura?" 

"I love you."

Dazai flinches like he's been burned. This is the first time Odsaku has said it out loud, but is only cruel for him to give the words to Dazai right now. Sakunosuke relaxes his grip so that Dazai can disengage if he wants to, but this time, if Dazai runs, Odasaku will chase him. This doesn't mean he isn't tensed from head to toe, doesn't have the rest of his muscles locked. 

"I love you too."

Odasaku's inhale is sharp. He wants, so badly wants to believe that this isn't a goodbye.

 They could run away. Ango would help them hide the kids, the curry shop owner....and then what? Move, pack up every time, word of men in black are spotted some dozen miles away? Port Mafia is ruthless, Mori relentless.

They could part ways. It is- possible- that Odasaku will be allowed to leave the organization and yet, unlikely. Mori is a man of logic. He will find a way to use Sakunosuke up entirely beforehand, or if he is let go, somehow, Dazai will be used to call him back. Neither of them are okay with either of these.

They could die. It has been some time since he's asked, because he's stayed willing to learn himself, and because Sakunosuke still wants to write some day. This must be where Dazai's thoughts go now, and Sakunosuke trips over the same rabbithole. But they deserve better than that. If Sakunosuke is to die, it will be dying fighting.

They could stay. They could live and hurt and die a little and stay.

 His ability only sees six seconds into the future. He does not know how this ends. Dazai's fingers are warm against his.

---

Notes:

I'm dying to debrief the story owo.... As an additional disclaimer, I wrote the beginning and middle and end bit in entirely different moods but humor me and pretend it came out okay. [Legitimately Chuuya’s part is what convinced me to develop the rest of it mwahhaa]

*claps my hands* Though it's technically an open ending, I prefer Dazai still holding Odasaku's hand. :) He stays.

Let me know what you thought (tumblr replies yo); as always, reblogs appreciated + hmu on tumblr to talk odazai

#odazai #angst #open ending #reblogs are appreciated!!! <3 #you have no idea how much #like you reblog? and i'll lay my damn soul down for you #i'd write you too

[myheartrevealedocs]

Untouchable Ch 21: Elephant’s Memory (S3E16)

Warnings: murder, mentions of terrorism, mentions of drugs and addiction

Ch 20 | Ch 22

~ ~ ~

“I’m proud of you,” Spencer said, speaking up for the first time on their drive.

“You’re proud of me?” she asked, startled.

“Yes,” he argued. “Look at you! You’ve got a car now. Twenty-four years old, teaching two college classes and working for the FBI.”

“I’m more proud of you!” she shot back. “A full year sober! I can’t imagine how difficult it has been for you.”

“Thank you for coming with me.” Spencer sunk slightly in the passenger seat.

After the death of Ryan Phillips in front of the two of them, Spencer had been struggling with his cravings again. He hadn’t relapsed, of course, but he was plagued by nightmares and a lack of motivation. When he admitted this to Lydia, she’d suggested he look up some support meetings nearby. Tonight was going to be his first time attending the Beltway Clean Cops group.

“I’m more than happy to come along!”

The two of them sat in the back of the room, listening calmly to different people talk about their situations. Spencer had just gotten the courage to take the stage when Lydia got a text from Hotch.

Briefing in 30. Can’t get ahold of Reid. Please tell him.

Lydia dropped her head into her hands. Could it not wait just a few more moments? He had barely started speaking aloud and Lydia could see him trying to ignore the buzzing phone in his pocket.

“Hi. Uh… My name’s, uh, Spencer, and I’m uh… I don’t really know what I am.”

“Hello Spencer,” the crowd greeted.

“This is my- This is my first meeting,” he sputtered, his eyes locking with Lydia’s every few seconds. “I guess I, uh… I know I had a… a problem with Dilaudid, but… I stopped. My girlfriend helped me to stop about a year ago. I thought it was over, but recently I’ve really been… your literature uses the term ‘craving’. It started about a month ago. A- A suspect was murdered in front of me. A kid. And I thought that I could save that kid, but I couldn’t, and… Sorry.” He pulled out his phone, rejecting another call from their boss.  “I’ve seen a lot of that stuff before, but for some reason that kid’s face is really, uh… stuck in my brain. You know? It’s really- I can’t… And I want to forget… about him. And I just want to escape.”

Once again, he pulled his phone from his pocket and stepped away from the microphone, mumbling his apologies. Lydia got up and ran around to the side door to follow him out.

“I’m sorry,” she said as they met up and started walking to the car. “I didn’t want to interrupt you-”

“It’s fine,” he breezed. “Let’s just… get this over with.”

~ ~ ~

“Sorry we’re late,” Spencer announced as he and Lydia jogged into the conference room..

“Do I want to know what you two were up to?” Morgan teased.

Lydia was quick to cover Spencer’s secret for him. “You sound as if going to the movies is scandalous.”

“Movies, hm?” Rossi  joined. “Tell us what the movie was about.”

“Wouldn’t know. We didn’t get to finish it.”

Both boys gave the couple a look. Spencer started to shrink in his seat, but Lydia kept up her stance, not wanting them to push for anymore answers.

“I know it’s late,” Hotch interrupted. “I know we’re tired, but we’ve got two dead cops.”

“Alright.” JJ opened up the file in front of her and continued briefing the team, pointing to what looked to be a massive house fire displayed on the scene. “The resident, Rod Norris, was DOA. They’re still trying to ID the remains of the second victim, whom they believe is his 16-year-old daughter Jordan. From the condition of the remains, she would have had to have been inside the house, close to the source of the blast.”

“Clearly they used the bombing to set the officers up for an ambush,” Emily noted.

Spencer nodded. “It’s a well-established terrorist tactic. The first wave takes out civilians, the second wave takes out first responders.”

“The locals are thinking terrorism?” Morgan asked. “In West Bune, Texas?”

JJ nodded. “Not exactly a tier-one target, but DHS did issue a terror alert for the border states yesterday, just due to the timing and nature of the attacks.”

As the team argued about the chances of this being an actual terrorist attack, Lydia looked over her file. An explosive went off in Rod Norris’s house, and when two cops arrived on the scene, they were shot. Hotch probably wanted her working on identifying the explosive and seeing if there is any evidence to recover from the house.

Simple enough.

~ ~ ~

“The blast was localized here,” Lydia announced as she walked onto the scene. “The room was sealed off. There’s plastic and duct tape on the doors and windows.”

“Cordite,” Rossi added as he smelled something on the ground. “Gunpowder.”

Reid was looking through his file. “Yeah. They found a dozen canisters, it says.”

Rossi and Prentiss put their heads together, determining where Jordan and Rod were standing when the explosion happened. Lydia ran her fingers over the door frames. Whoever set this up wouldn’t need to clean up their evidence. There was no way she could recover anything out of the pile of ashes that used to be the Norris house.

“They didn’t care about the rest of the house,” Spencer said, more to Lydia than the others. “The whole thing’s designed to focus the blast on whoever came through that door.”

“If that’s true, something had to trigger the blast,” she reasoned.

Emily held up a charred box of cigarettes. “Rod Norris was a smoker.”

Lydia glanced at the floor where all the gunpowder had been set. Drop a hot cigarette on that? Kaboom.

“I’ve been working with you profilers long enough to know that no terrorist is going to watch Rod Norris long enough to know that he was going to enter through this door and be smoking a cigarette at a specific time,” Lydia replied. “This is too personal.”

~ ~ ~

The more they learned, the more the case reeked of personal problems.

Their unsub was a boy named Owen Savage. His father was one of the responding officers on the Norris scene. He’d staged the explosion to kill Jordan Norris’s dad and look like Jordan had died too. Then, when his father showed up, he shot him and his partner. They were pretty sure that Jordan wasn’t a part of the murders and was either a hostage or was completely unaware of the situation. She had been dating Owen for a long time, so it was likely she had agreed to leave with him, without checking in with her father.

Lydia had been talking with Garcia about the teens’ families when she saw Spencer storm away out of the corner of her eye. He had just… left.

Finishing up her conversation, she ran over to Hotch.

“Did you send Spencer away?”

“Have you seen how he’s been acting?” Hotch snapped.

She wasn’t surprised to hear that Spencer was moody. Leaving that meeting so suddenly was hard for him and he was still dealing with Ryan Phillips’s death. Working on another teen-involved case was probably not helping.

“Lydia, you two promised-”

“This isn’t a relationship thing!” she defended before he could say anything else. “He’s dealing with something else. The only reason I’m involved is because he told me about it. Please just…”

“Talk to him,” Hotch ordered. “His passive aggressive attitude is going to get him into trouble. The town’s already pissed we’re here.”

Lydia nodded, switching topics. “I heard that Officer Lett’s wife freaked out on you guys earlier. I’m sorry.”

“The police are under a lot of pressure to find who did this. They don’t need some angsty teen from the FBI telling them they’re stupid as well.”

She blinked. “He called someone stupid?”

“Talk to him,” Hotch repeated, ignoring her question.

“Yes, sir.”

~ ~ ~

“Has she calmed yet?” Lydia asked Emily.

They had been able to get in contact with Jordan Norris and tell her about what Owen had done, convincing her to run away from him and join them in the station, but she still didn’t fully trust them. It’d taken much persuasion and a lot of promises not to hurt Owen for her to give up where he was hiding. And now she was sobbing, half in fear, half in shame, in one of the private rooms in the station.

“No,” Emily replied, bluntly, on her way to get the girl another cup of water. “Did you hear from Hotch?”

Lydia nodded. “Owen wasn’t at the ranch. He left a note, I guess, about returning his mother’s necklace.”

Emily simply shrugged. “He can’t have gotten far. I’m sure the rest of the team will find him.”

She walked back to the grieving girl, who JJ was currently comforting, leaving Lydia alone in the bullpen of the station. That is, until Spencer came rushing in, brushing past her to get to their evidence boards.

“Spencer?” she called, already on his heels. “Why are you back?”

“They think he’s going to his mother’s grave,” he breathed, yanking a photo from the board and then looking around for Jordan.

“Isn’t he?” she demanded, seeing that the picture he had grabbed was the photo of Owen’s mother that he kept on his laptop. She was smiling, pointing to her necklace, which said ‘Hope’.

Hotch had assumed by Owen’s note that Owen was taking that necklace to his mother’s grave, as a way of ‘giving it back’ to her. But when Spencer interrupted Jordan and JJ’s conversation, throwing the photo in the young girl’s face, Lydia understood what he was thinking.

“He was gone when we got to the ranch. I want to save his life, but I need to ask you a question. This necklace-- he gave it to you?”

He spoke so fast, it was hard to differentiate between sentences, but Jordan took a second to process what he had said, then nodded. “I left it at the ranch.”

“He’s coming here,” Spencer said, already on his way out of the station.

Lydia jumped in front of him, already holding up a hand to stop him. “He’s going to do everything he can to get to Jordan.”

“I can’t let him do this, Lydia,” he hissed, trying to push past her. “It’s a suicide mission. I won’t let him die.”

“I know this is hard for you,” she told him, still maintaining eye contact to keep him in place. “But I can’t let you do this alone. Tell me the plan, and we walk out together.”

He glanced at the door, clearly anxious to leave before Owen got there. But his eyes were somewhat relieved to tell her what he was going to do. “Leave your gun. He wants to go down shooting. If we don’t have weapons, he has no reason to kill us. The only thing he wants more than death, is to apologize to Jordan so… I have to make it clear that that’s still an option.”

Lydia was already pulling her gun from its holster, setting it down on the desk beside her. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He nodded, sternly, and unarmed, the two of them walked out of the station, side by side.

The sun was unbearable outside. The two of them could barely see Owen’s dark figure approaching down the block, but the shotgun across his chest was hard to miss. Lydia’s hands were already up, her palms facing outwards. Spencer followed suit as the boy saw them approaching and aimed his weapon in their direction.

“Reid!” Prentiss screamed, leaving the station just in time to watch them walk into danger. “Ambers!”

The two of them ignored her, Spencer stepping forward to speak. “Owen, we don’t have guns on us. My name is Spencer, this is Lydia, we’re with the FBI, and we’re here to help you.”

“Yeah?” he cried. “I need you to stay back.”

There were tires squealing behind them and Lydia finally glanced behind her to see a black SUV with Rossi, Morgan, and Hotch inside pull up behind them. As Spencer continued, they threw open the doors and positioned themselves behind them, guns at the ready.

“I know the only reason you joined the wrestling team was for your father. I know that he blamed you for what happened-”

“Stay back! Right where you are!”

“-I also know the only reason you killed Rod Norris and Kyle Borden was to protect Jordan. I know the harder you tried, the worse it got, and it felt like everyone just stood there watching you suffer, and not a single person even tried to help.”

“They didn’t,” Owen sobbed. “They didn’t.”

“I know you want to escape… and forget. Believe me when I say I know… I know exactly how that feels.”

Lydia, listened to him speak. This case with Owen was really hard for him. She knew that he was dealing with cravings, but the way he spoke to Owen made her think it was something more. She’d never imagined that highschool was easy for Spencer. He was only 12 at the time. But there was clearly something specific on his mind.

Lydia kept glancing back so that she could position herself between Owen and the rest of the team. Hotch was going to kill her later. She was certain of it. But she was convinced that they were more likely to shoot Owen than Owen was likely to shoot her or Spencer. And for Spencer’s sake, she’d do anything to keep Owen from dying.

“Owen, there’s so much more for you out there,” Lydia finally spoke up.

“No. No, I’m already dead.”

“You aren’t dead,” she promised. “If you die, you’re going to leave Jordan. And right now, she’s in the station begging us not to hurt you.”

“You don’t want to leave her like your mother left you,” Spencer agreed.

“Ok.” Owen’s head shook wildly, trying to keep the upper hand on the situation. “Bring her to me. Bring her outside.”

“I can’t bring her outside,” Spencer quickly told him. “But, if you put the gun down, I swear to god, I’ll take you to her. I promise, nobody will hurt you. You’ll say goodbye to her, and you’ll give her the necklace. Alright? So what do you say? Let’s put the gun down. Let’s go inside.”

Lydia could see the battle in Owen’s mind, so she added, “Owen, Jordan loves you so much. If not for your sake, come in peacefully for hers. She’s been through so much, don’t let her live with this on her conscience as well.”

Finally, he nodded, reaching underneath his overcoat and taking the strap of the shotgun off his shoulder. Pointing it away, he stepped forward and put the weapon softly on the ground.

Now that he was unarmed, Lydia stepped to the side and let the team see Owen, his arms already above his head.

“They have to cuff you now, Owen,” Lydia told him calmly, trying to maintain eye contact with him so he didn’t see all the FBI agents running towards him and freak out. Spencer moved the gun aside and stepped up next to her. “You did so good, Owen. I know this is scary, but just stay calm. I promise we’re taking you to Jordan right now.”

“You two okay?” Morgan asked as he grabbed Owen's arms and locked them behind his back.

Spencer nodded, patting the boy down and pulling a knife from his belt as well as his mother’s necklace. “We’re fine.”

Lydia turned and finally made eye contact with Hotch. A very, very pissed off Hotch.

~ ~ ~

The night had hit fast and the whole plane was quiet. Lydia leaned into Spencer’s shoulder, her mind drifting with everything that had happened on the case. As much as she had to be worried about, her mind kept coming back to the same point: despite how stressed he was, Spencer told her the plan. He let her come with him. And that said volumes about the trust between the two of them. She knew that. She could see it so clearly now.

The strong connection she felt to him in the moment, couldn’t even be broken when Hotch sat down across from the two of them, his face a state of unwavering seriousness.

“You two knowingly jeopardize your lives and the lives of others. I should fire you both.”

Reid bit down on his lip nervously. “You have to understand that this was entirely my idea, sir.”

“Ambers?” Hotch addressed. “Do you believe Reid deserves the blame for this?”

“No, sir.”

Despite his clear anger, Lydia knew that Hotch wasn’t going to fire them. In fact, she doubted they’d get much punishment at all. He was good at understanding the intentions of his team.

He looked at Spencer again. “You’re the smartest kid in the room, but you’re not the only one in that room. You pull something like this again, don’t expect lenience from me. The same goes for you, Lydia. Am I clear?”

Spencer nodded immediately, “Yes, sir,” with Lydia following suit.

“It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you,” Spencer added.

“What were you thinking?”

Lydia dropped her hand over her boyfriend’s and waited patiently for him to answer. She may have followed him into the line of fire, but in the end, it was his decision, which would have happened with or without her.

“I was thinking that that would have been the second time a kid died in front of me.”

“You’re keeping score.” Hotch shook his head in warning. “Just like Owen.”

“It was my turn to save one,” Spencer joked, without much of the humor.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“It should.”

Lydia listened intently to their conversation. This was obviously a talk the Spence needed to have with his boss on his own. They both needed to address the death of Ryan Phillips.

“I know it’s painful when the person you identify with is the bad guy,” Hotch told him and Spencer’s eyes fell to his intertwined fingers with Lydia.

“What does that make me?”

“Good at the job.” For the first time that night, there seemed to be a hint of a smile on his face.

Lydia leaned back onto her boyfriend’s shoulder as the unit chief stood up, but he continued to speak to them as he stepped into the walkway of the jet.

“I know it’s none of my business, but when we land, I think you should go and catch the rest of that movie.”

Lydia almost stupidly asked him what he was referring to, forgetting all about the cover she had set up for them at the beginning of the case to excuse their tardiness.

“He has to know that was a lie,” Spencer mumbled into her hair.

“No doubt,” she agreed. “But I think he knows that whatever it was was important to the two of us. That’s all that really matters, right?”

“Right,” he whispered, tiredly drifting off against her side.

Tags: @kris-stuff, @wooya1224, @arthurmorrgans, @anotherr-fine-mess, @eddysocs

#criminal minds #cm #spencer reid #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds oc #cm fanfiction #cm fanfic #cm oc #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #oc #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #untouchable #untouchable ch21 #lydia ambers

[96harmony96]

Chapter 6

Hey, Dad. I caught you.” I adjusted my grip on the phone receiver and pulled up a stool at the breakfast bar. I missed my father. For the last four years we’d lived close enough to see each other at least once a week. Now his home in Oceanside was the entire country away. “How are you?”

He lowered the volume on the television. “Better, now that you’ve called. How was your first week at work?”

I went over my days from Monday through Friday, skipping over all the Lauren parts. “I really like my boss, Mark,” I finished. “And the vibe of the agency is very energetic and kind of quirky. I’m happy going to work every day, and I’m bummed when it’s time to go home.”

“I hope it stays that way. But you need to make sure you have some downtime, too. Go out, be young, have fun. But not too much fun.”

“Yeah, I had a little too much last night. Cary and I went clubbing, and I woke up with a mean hangover.”

“Shit, don’t tell me that.” He groaned. “Some nights I wake up in a cold sweat thinking about you in New York. I get through it by telling myself you’re too smart to take chances, thanks to two parents who’ve drilled safety rules into your DNA.”

“Which is true,” I said, laughing. “That reminds me…I’m going to start Krav Maga training.”

“Really?” There was a thoughtful pause. “One of the guys on the force is big on it. Maybe I’ll check it out and we can compare notes when I come out to visit you.”

“You’re coming to New York?” I couldn’t hide my excitement. “Oh, Dad, I’d love it if you would. As much as I miss SoCal, Manhattan is really awesome. I think you’ll like it.”

“I’d like anyplace in the world as long as you’re there.” He waited a beat, then asked, “How’s your mom?”

“Well…she’s Mom. Beautiful, charming, and obsessive-compulsive.”

My chest hurt and I rubbed at it. I thought my dad might still love my mom. He’d never married. That was one of the reasons I never told him about what happened to me. As a cop, he would’ve insisted on pressing charges and the scandal would have destroyed my mother. I also worried that he’d lose respect for her or even blame her, and it hadn’t been her fault. As soon as she’d found out what her stepson was doing to me, she’d left a husband she was happy with and filed for divorce.

I kept talking, waving at Cary as he came rushing in with a little blue Tiffany & Co. bag. “We had a spa day today. It was a fun way to cap off the week.”

I could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “I’m glad you two are managing to spend time together. What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?”

I hedged on the subject of the charity event, knowing the whole red carpet business and astronomically-priced dinner seats would just highlight the gap between my parents’ lives. “Cary and I are going out to eat, and then I plan on staying in tomorrow. Sleeping in late, hanging out in my pajamas all day, maybe some movies and food delivery of some sort. A little vegetating before a new work week kicks off.”

“Sounds like heaven to me. I may copy you when my next day off rolls around.”

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was creeping past six. “I have to get ready now. Be careful at work, okay? I worry about you, too.”

“Will do. Bye, baby.”

The familiar sign-off had me missing him so much my throat hurt. “Oh, wait! I’m getting a new cell phone. I’ll text you the number as soon as I have it.”

“Again? You just got a new one when you moved.”

“Long, boring story.”

“Hmm…Don’t put it off. They’re good for safety as well as playing Angry Birds.”

“I’m over that game!” I laughed and warmth spread through me to hear him laughing, too. “I’ll call you in a few days. Be good.”

“That’s my line.”

We hung up. I sat for a few moments in the ensuing silence, feeling like everything was right in my world, which never lasted long. I brooded on that for minute; then Cary cranked up Hinder on his bedroom stereo and that kicked my butt into gear.

I hurried to my room to get ready for a night with Lauren.

“Necklace or no necklace?” I asked Cary, when he came into my bedroom looking seriously amazing. Dressed in his new Brioni tux, he was both debonair and dashing, and certain to attract attention.

“Hmm.” His head tilted to the side as he studied me. “Hold it up again.”

I lifted the choker of gold coins to my throat. The dress my mom had sent was fire engine red and styled for a Grecian goddess. It hung on one shoulder, cut diagonally across my cleavage, had ruching to the hip, and then split at my right upper thigh all the way down my leg. There was no back to speak of, aside from a slender strip of rhinestones that connected one side to the other to keep the front from falling off. Otherwise, the back was bared to just above the crack of my buttocks in a racy V-cut.

“Forget the necklace,” he said. “I was leaning toward gold chandeliers, but now I’m thinking diamond hoops. The biggest ones you’ve got.”

“What? Really?” I frowned at our reflections in my cheval mirror, watching as he moved to my jewelry box and dug through it.

“These.” He brought them to me and I eyed the two-inch hoops my mother had given me for my eighteenth birthday. “Trust me, Camila. Try ’em on.”

I did and found he was right. It was a very different look from the gold choker, less glam and more edgy sensuality. And the earrings went well with the diamond anklet on my right leg that I’d never think of the same way again after Lauren’s comment. With my hair swept off my face into a cascade of thick, deliberately messy curls, I had a just-screwed look that was complemented by smoky eye shadow and glossy nude lips.

“What would I do without you, Cary Taylor?”

“Baby girl”—he set his hands on my shoulders and pressed his cheek to mine—“you’ll never find out.”

“You look awesome, by the way.”

“Don’t I?” He winked and stepped back, showing off.

In his own way, Cary could give Lauren a run for her money…er, looks. Cary was more finely featured, almost pretty compared to Lauren’s savage beauty, but both were striking people that made you look twice, and then stare in greedy delight.

Cary hadn’t been quite so perfect when I met him. He’d been strung out and gaunt, his emerald eyes cloudy and lost. But I’d been drawn to him, going out of my way to sit next to him in group therapy. He’d finally propositioned me crudely, having come to believe the only reason people associated with him was because they wanted to fuck him. It was when I declined, firmly and irrevocably, that we finally connected and became best friends. He was the brother I’d never had.

The intercom buzzed and I jumped, making me realize how nervous I was. I looked at Cary. “I forgot to tell the front desk she was coming back.”

“I’ll get her.”

“Are you going to be okay riding over with Stanton and my mom?”

“Are you kidding? They love me.” His smile dimmed. “Having second thoughts about going with Jauregui?”

I took a deep breath, remembering where I’d been earlier—on my back in a multi-orgasmic daze. “Not really, no. It’s just that everything’s happening so fast and going better than I expected or realized I wanted…”

“You’re wondering what the catch is.” Reaching out, he tapped my nose with his fingertip. “she’s the catch, Camila. And you landed her. Enjoy yourself.”

“I’m trying.” I was grateful that Cary understood me and the way my mind worked. It was just so easy being with him, knowing he could fill in the blanks when I couldn’t explain something.

“I researched the hell out of her this morning and printed out the interesting recent stuff. It’s on your desk, if you decide you want to check it out.”

I remembered him printing something before we got ready for the spa. Pushing onto my tiptoes, I kissed his cheek. “You’re the best. I love you.”

“Back atcha, baby girl.” He headed out. “I’ll head down to the front desk and bring her up. Take your time. she’s ten minutes early.”

Smiling, I watched him saunter into the hallway. The door had closed behind him when I moved into the small sitting room attached to my bedroom. On the very impractical escritoire my mother had picked out, I found a folder filled with articles and printed images. I settled into the chair and got lost in Lauren Jauregui's history.

It was like watching a train wreck to read that she was the Daughter of Geoffrey Jauregui, former chairman of an investment securities firm later found to be a front for a massive Ponzi scheme. Lauren was just five years old when her dad committed suicide with a gunshot to the head rather than face prison time.

Oh, Lauren. I tried to picture her that young and imagined a handsome dark-haired girl with beautiful green eyes filled with terrible confusion and sadness. The image broke my heart. How devastating her father’s suicide—and the circumstances around it—must have been, for both her and her mother. The stress and strain at such a difficult time would’ve been enormous, especially for a child of that age.

Her mother went on to marry Christopher Vidal, a music executive, and had two more children, Christopher Vidal Jr. and Ireland Vidal, but it seemed a larger family and financial security had come too late to help Lauren stabilize after such a huge shakeup. she was too closed off not to bear some painful emotional scars.

With a critical and curious eye, I studied the women who’d been photographed with Lauren and thought about her approach to dating, socializing, and sex. I saw that my mom had been right—they were all blondes. The woman who appeared with her most often bore the hallmarks of a KaKasian heritage. she was taller than me, willowy rather than curvy.

“Magdalene Perez,” I murmured, grudgingly admitting that she was a stunner. Her posture had the kind of flamboyant confidence that I admired.

“Okay, it’s been long enough,” Cary interrupted with a soft note of amusement. He filled the doorway to my sitting room, leaning insolently into the doorjamb.

“Really?” I’d been so absorbed; I hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

“I would guess you’re about a minute away from her coming to find you. she’s barely restraining herself.”

I shut the folder and stood.

“Interesting reading, isn’t it?”

“Very.” How had lauren’s father—or more specifically, her father’s suicide—influenced her life?

I knew all the answers I wanted were waiting for me in the next room.

Leaving my bedroom, I took the hallway to the living room. I paused on the threshold, my gaze riveted to lauren’s back as she stood in front of the windows and looked out at the city. My heart rate kicked up. Her reflection revealed a contemplative mood. Her gaze was unfocused and her mouth grim. Her crossed arms betrayed an inherent unease, as if she was out of her element. she looked remote and removed, a woman who was inherently alone.

she sensed my presence or maybe he felt my yearning. she pivoted; then went very still. I took the opportunity to drink her in, my gaze sliding all over her. she looked every inch the powerful magnate. So sensually handsome my eyes burned just from looking at her. The rakish fall of black hair around her face made my fingers flex with the urge to touch it. And the way she looked at me…my pulse leaped.

“Camila.” she came toward me, her stride graceful and strong. she caught up my hand and lifted it to her mouth. Her gaze was intense—intensely hot, intensely focused.

The feel of her lips against my skin sent goose bumps racing up my arm and stirred memories of that sinful mouth on other parts of my body. I was instantly aroused. “Hi.”

Amusement warmed her eyes. “Hi, yourself. You look amazing. I can’t wait to show you off.”

I breathed through the delight I felt at the compliment. “Let’s hope I can do you justice.”

A slight frown knit the space between her brows. “Do you have everything you need?”

Cary appeared beside me, carrying my black velvet shawl and opera length gloves. “Here you go. I tucked your gloss into your clutch.”

“You’re the best, Cary.”

He winked at me—which told me he’d seen the condoms I had tucked into the small interior pocket. “I’ll head down with you two.”

Lauren took the shawl from Cary and draped it over my shoulders. she pulled my hair out from underneath it and the feel of her hands at my neck so distracted me, I barely paid attention when Cary pushed my gloves into my hands.

The elevator ride to the lobby was an exercise in surviving acute sexual tension. Not that Cary seemed to notice. He was on my left with both hands in his pockets, whistling. Lauren, on the other hand, was a tremendous force on the other side of me. Although ahe didn’t move or make a sound, I could feel the edgy energy radiating from her. My skin tingled from the magnetic pull between us, and my breath came short and fast. I was relieved when the doors opened and freed us from the enclosed space.

Two women stood waiting to get on. Their jaws dropped when they saw Lauren and Cary, and that lightened my mood and made me smile.

“Ladies,” Cary greeted them, with a smile that really wasn’t fair. I could almost see their brain cells misfiring.

In contrast, Lauren gave a curt nod and led me out with a hand at the small of my back, skin to skin. The contact was electric, sending heat pouring through me.

I squeezed Cary’s hand. “Save a dance for me.”

“Always. See you in a bit.”

A limousine was waiting at the curb, and the driver opened the door when Lauren and I stepped outside. I slid across the bench seat to the opposite side and adjusted my gown. When Lauren settled beside me and the door shut, I became highly conscious of how good she smelled. I breathed her in, telling myself to relax and enjoy her company. she took my hand and ran her fingertips over the palm, the simple touch sparking a fierce lust. I shrugged off my shawl, feeling too hot to wear it.

“Camila.” she hit a button and the privacy glass behind the driver began to slide up. The next moment I was tugged across her lap and her mouth was on mine, kissing me fiercely.

I did what I’d wanted to do since I saw hee in my living room: I shoved my hands in her hair and kissed her back. I loved the way she kissed me, as if she had to, as if she’d go crazy if she didn’t and had nearly waited too long. I sucked on her tongue, having learned how much she liked it, having learned how much I liked it, how much it made me want to suck her elsewhere with the same eagerness.

Her hands were sliding over my bare back and I moaned, feeling the prod of her erection against my hip. I shifted, moving to straddle her, shoving the skirt of my gown out of the way and making a mental note to thank my mom for the dress—which had such a convenient slit. With my knees on either side of her hips, I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and deepened the kiss. I licked into her mouth, nibbled on her lower lip, stroked my tongue along her…

Lauren gripped my waist and pushed me away. she leaned into the seat back, her neck arched to look up at my face, her chest heaving. “What are you doing to me?”

I ran my hands down her chest through her dress shirt, feeling the unforgiving hardness of her muscles. My fingers traced the ridges of her abdomen, my mind forming a picture of how she might look naked. “I’m touching you. Enjoying the hell out of you. I want you, Lauren.”

she caught my wrists, stilling my movements. “Later. We’re in the middle of Manhattan.”

“No one can see us.”

“That’s not the point. It’s not the time or place to start something we can’t finish for hours. I’m losing my mind already from this afternoon.”

“So let’s make sure we finish it now.”

Her grip tightened painfully. “We can’t do that here.”

“Why not?” Then a surprising thought struck me. “Haven’t you ever had sex in a limo?”

“No.” Her jaw hardened. “Have you?”

Looking away without answering, I saw the traffic and pedestrians surging around us. We were only inches away from hundreds of people, but the dark glass concealed us and made me feel reckless. I wanted to please her. I wanted to know I was capable of reaching into Lauren Jauregui, and there was nothing to stop me but her.

I rocked my hips against her, stroking myself with the hard length of her cock. Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth.

“I need you, Lauren,” I said breathlessly, inhaling her scent, which was richer now that she was aroused. I thought I might be slightly intoxicated, just from the enticing smell of her skin. “You drive me crazy.”

she released my wrists and cupped my face, her lips pressing hard against mine. I reached for the fly of her slacks, freeing the two buttons to access the concealed zipper. she tensed.

“I need this,” I whispered against her lips. “Give me this.”

she didn’t relax, but she made no further attempts to stop me either. When she fell heavily into my palms, she groaned, the sound both pained and erotic. I squeezed her gently, my touch deliberately tender as I sized her with my hands. she was so hard, like stone, and hot. I slid both of my fists up her length from root to tip, my breath catching when she quivered beneath me.

Lauren gripped my thighs, her hands sliding upward beneath the edges of my dress until her thumbs found the red lace of my thong. “Your cunt is so sweet,” she murmured into my mouth. “I want to spread you out and lick you ’til you beg for my cock.”

“I’ll beg now, if you want.” I stroked her with one hand and reached for my clutch with the other, snapping it open to grab a condom.

One of her thumbs slid beneath the edge of my panties, the pad sliding through the slickness of my desire. “I’ve barely touched you,” she whispered, her eyes glittering up at me in the shadows of the backseat, “and you’re ready for me.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I don’t want you to help it.” she pushed her thumb inside me, biting her lower lip when I clenched helplessly around her. “It wouldn’t be fair when I can’t stop what you do to me.”

I ripped the foil packet open with my teeth and held it out to her with the ring of the condom protruding from the tear. “I’m not good with these.”

Her hand curled around mine. “I’m breaking all my rules with you.”

The seriousness of her low tone sent a burst of warmth and confidence through me. “Rules are made to be broken.”

I saw her teeth flash white; then she hit a button on the panel beside him and said, “Drive until I say otherwise.”

My cheeks heated. Another car’s headlights pierced the dark tinted glass and slid over my face, betraying my embarrassment.

“Why, Camila,” she purred, rolling the condom on deftly. “You’ve seduced me into having sex in my limousine, but blush when I tell my driver I don’t want to be interrupted while you do it to me?”

Her sudden playfulness made me desperate to have her. Setting my hands on her shoulders for balance, I lifted onto my knees, rising to gain the height I needed to hover over the crown of Laurens thick cock. Her hands fisted at my hips and I heard a snap as she tore my panties away. The abrupt sound and the violent action behind it spurred my desire to a fever pitch.

“Go slow,” she ordered hoarsely, lifting her hips to push her pants down farther.

Her erection brushed between my legs as she moved and I whimpered, so aching and empty, as if the orgasms she’d given me earlier had only deepened my craving rather than appeased it.

she tensed when I wrapped my fingers around her and positioned her, tucking the wide crest against the saturated folds of my cleft. The scent of our lust was heavy and humid in the air, a seductive mix of need and pheromones that awakened every cell in my body. My skin was flushed and tingling, my breasts heavy and tender.

This is what I’d wanted from the moment I first saw her—to possess her, to climb up her magnificent body and take her deep inside me.

“God. Camila,” she gasped as I lowered onto her, her hands flexing restlessly on my thighs.

I closed my eyes, feeling too exposed. I’d wanted intimacy with her and yet this seemed too intimate. We were eye-to-eye, only inches apart, cocooned in a small space with the rest of the world streaming by around us. I could sense his agitation, knew she was feeling as off-center as I was.

“You’re so tight.” Her gasped words were threaded with a hint of delicious agony.

I took more of her, letting her slide deeper. I sucked in a deep breath, feeling exquisitely stretched. “You’re so big.”

Pressing her palm flat to my lower belly, she touched my throbbing clit with the pad of her thumb and began to massage it in slow, expertly soft circles. Everything in my core tightened and clenched, sucking her deeper. Opening my eyes, I looked at her from under heavy eyelids. she was so beautiful sprawled beneath me in her elegant tuxedo, her powerful body straining with the primal need to mate.

Her neck arched, her head pressing hard into the seatback as if she was struggling against invisible bonds. “Ah, Christ,” she bit out, her teeth grinding. “I’m going to come so hard.”

The dark promise excited me. Sweat misted my skin. I became so wet and hot that I slid smoothly down the length of her cock until I’d nearly sheathed her. A breathless cry escaped me before I’d taken her to the root. she was so deep I could hardly stand it, forcing me to shift from side to side, trying to ease the unexpected bite of discomfort. But my body didn’t seem to care that she was too big. It was rippling around her, squeezing, trembling on the verge of orgasm.

Lauren cursed and gripped my hip with her free hand, urging me to lean backward as her chest heaved with frantic breaths. The position altered my descent and I opened, accepting all of her. Immediately her body temperature rose, her torso radiating sultry heat through her clothes. Sweat dotted her upper lip.

Leaning forward, I slid my tongue along the sculpted curve, collecting the saltiness with a low murmur of delight. Her hips churned impatiently. I lifted carefully, sliding up a few inches before she stopped me with that ferocious grasp on my hip.

“Slow,” she warned again, with an authoritative bite that sent lust pulsing through me.

I lowered, taking her into me again, feeling an oddly luscious soreness as she pushed just past my limits. Our eyes locked on each other as the pleasure spread from the place where we connected. It struck me then that we were both fully clothed except for the most private and intimate parts of our bodies. I found that excruciatingly carnal, as were the sounds she made, as if the pleasure was as extreme for her as it was for me.

Wild for her, I pressed my mouth to her, my fingers gripping the sweat-damp roots of her hair. I kissed her as I rocked my hips, riding the maddening circling of her thumb, feeling the orgasm building with every slide of her long, thick penis into my melting core.

I lost my mind somewhere along the way, primitive instinct taking over until my body was completely in charge. I could focus on nothing but the driving urge to fuck, the ferocious need to ride her cock until the tension burst and set me free of this grinding hunger.

“It’s so good,” I sobbed, lost to her. “You feel…Ah, God, it’s too good.”

Using both hands, Lauren commanded my rhythm, tilting me into an angle that had the big crown of her cock rubbing a tender, aching spot inside me. As I tightened and shook, I realized I was going to come from that, just from the expert thrust of her inside me. “Lauren.”

she captured me by the nape as the orgasm exploded through me, starting with the ecstatic spasms of my core and radiating outward until I was trembling all over. she watched me fall apart, holding my gaze when I would’ve closed my eyes. Possessed by her stare, I moaned and came harder than I ever had, my body jerking with every pulse of pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she growled, pounding her hips up at me, yanking my hips down to meet her punishing lunges. she hit the end of me with every deep thrust, battering into me. I could feel her growing harder and thicker.

I watched her avidly, needing to see it when she went over the edge for me. Her eyes were wild with her need, losing their focus as her control frayed, her gorgeous face ravaged by the brutal race to climax.

“Camila!” she came with an animal sound of feral ecstasy, a snarling release that riveted me with its ferocity. she shook as the orgasm tore into her, her features softening for an instant with an unexpected vulnerability.

Cupping her face, I brushed my lips across her, comforting her as the forceful bursts of her gasping breaths struck my cheeks.

“Camila.” she wrapped her arms around me and crushed me to her, pressing her damp face into the curve of my neck.

I knew just how she felt. Stripped. Laid bare.

We stayed like that for a long time, holding each other, absorbing the aftershocks. she turned her head and kissed me softly, the strokes of her tongue into my mouth soothing my ragged emotions.

“Wow,” I breathed, shaken.

Her mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

I smiled, feeling dazed and high.

Lauren brushed the damp tendrils of hair off my temples, her fingertips gliding almost reverently across my face. The way she studied me made my chest hurt. she looked stunned and…grateful, her eyes warm and tender. “I don’t want to break this moment.”

Because I could hear it hanging in the air, I filled it in. “But…?”

“But I can’t blow off this dinner. I have a speech to give.”

“Oh.” The moment was effectively broken.

I lifted gingerly off of her, biting my lip at the feel of her slipping wetly out of me. The friction was enough to make me want more. she’d barely softened.

“Damn it,” she said roughly. “I want you again.”

she caught me before I moved away, pulling a handkerchief out from somewhere and running it gently between my legs. It was a deeply intimate act, on par with the sex we’d just had.

When I was dry, I settled on the seat beside her and dug my lip gloss out of my clutch. I watched Lauren over the edge of my mirrored compact as she removed the condom and tied it off. she wrapped it in a cocktail napkin; then tossed it in a cleverly hidden trash receptacle. After restoring her appearance, she told the driver to head to our destination. Then she settled into the seat and stared out the window.

With every second that passed, I felt her withdrawing, the connection between us slipping further and further away. I found myself shrinking into the corner of the seat, away from her, mimicking the distance I felt building between us. All the warmth I’d felt receded into a marked chill, cooling me enough that I pulled my shawl around me again. she didn’t move a muscle as I shifted beside her and put my compact away, as if she wasn’t even aware I was there.

Abruptly, Lauren opened the bar and pulled out a bottle. Without looking at me, she asked, “Brandy?”

“No, thank you.” My voice was small, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she didn’t care. she poured a drink and tossed it back.

Confused and stung, I pulled on my gloves and tried to figure out what went wrong.

[haru-sen]

Angst!AU

First off, thanks to the anon ask that sparked me actually writing this out.  It’s been a rough week.  But this was fun.  Second, it’s a draft and details may change when I actually get around the writing the fic.  

The Jesse on Route 66 chapter takes place a little before this. 

“He’s four hundred meters out. The vehicle is heavily shielded. I have not detected an escort.”  Zee’s drone floated beside your hovercycle.  “But this is still ill-advised.”

You shrugged, idling on the low rooftop, taking cover in the shadow of a massive viewscreen advertising a new fantasy drama.  The actors were pretty, but the fight choreography looked too stilted.  If you were at home, you would probably be bullied into watching it.  If anyone still wanted to be in the same room as you.  

“You can request backup.”

“Don’t need it,” you said, mapping the trajectory of the armored car.  If it was just the one vehicle, Zee was enough.  You just had to get her through the physical barrier of hardened shielding.  She could penetrate the firewalls on her own.  And more importantly, Zee was the only one not mad at you right now.  

“They would come.”

You frowned.  It was really unlike Zee to harp on this shit.  “It’s not necessary.”  

“Neither is going after Cian Barrett on your own.”  

“I’m not on my own, I have you,” you said, not taking your eyes off the car.  In this moment, you could almost forget that she wasn’t Athena.  You could forget that Athena wasn't really Athena any more. You could forget that Blackwatch was nothing more than a memory of scandal. You could forget...so you did.  That part of your brain wasn’t necessary for this job.  

It was like slipping into your old armor.  It was like coming home.  The world faded away.  There was you, Zee’s drone, and Barrett’s car.  Everything else was secondary.  

There were no identifying marks on your bike or your armor. The form-fitting suit was all matte black and shielded for direct combat. The helm, styled after a motorcycle helmet, covered your features entirely.  Not your usual outfit, but your “Keres” identity had political links.  Best to be incognito for now.  

The sun was just beginning to dip, and the traffic was heavy. Zee would be able to jam the emergency transmissions, but there would be a lot of witnesses.  There would be calls to emergency services. You were running this operation in broad daylight, and you couldn’t summon the urge to care.  

“This is very reckless,” Zee said.  

“Yeah, but Hong Kong is our territory,” you said, gritting your teeth behind your helmet.  “Are you saying we can’t do this in our own backyard?”  

“...It’s the only reason I’m agreeing to it,” Zee said primly.  “But this is our backyard.  Try not to shit where we eat.”  

You chuckled, a little surprised by her use of profanity.  “It’s nothing you can’t handle.”  He was three hundred meters out.  The overlay on the inside of your helmet fed you more statistics.  The vehicle’s armoring class was higher than you expected, but it had side windows.  Windows were always a structural weak point.  You waited for Barrett’s car to reach the next intersection.

On cue, the light shifted to red, stopping the car in front of him. There was a slight reverberation as Zee tethered her drone to your bike.

You shifted gears, and then suddenly you were dropping forward, accelerating even as you fell.  

Barrett’s car was a thick monstrosity, black and purple, custom-made by Vishkar: hard light kinetic shields, front and rear turrets, a Farraday cage overlay to prevent hacking.  All of that was geared to stop bombs, guns, or cyberattacks.  None of it would stop you.  

You leaned into the turn, holding yourself at 45 degrees off the ground, the bike still accelerating as you slipped into traffic. You pulled yourself upright so you could slide between stopped cars.  You took the innermost lane hovering on the border of oncoming traffic.  

Barrett’s stopped car was just ahead.  

“Cut it,” Zee said.

You released the controls, letting her take over as you drew the spike. Eight inches of hardened omnium, the point already starting to glow with heat. It was a simple tool, perfect for shorting out Farraday cages and breaking glass.  Feet jammed in the stirrups, you rested your left arm across your chest, the spike in your metal hand.  Powering up the prostheses and the tool took half a second. And as you passed Barrett’s car your arm snapped sideways, driving the metal into the glass with inhuman force.  

You pierced a thick line through layers of glass, polymer shielding, and then tore through the metal frame, breaking the continuous line of the circuits.  Now there would be a hole in the hard light armoring and the Farraday cage.  In seconds, the spike grew too hot to hold, so you let it go, swinging yourself off the bike.   You just had to carve the hole.  Zee would open the way.  

“I’m in,” Zee said, as the locks popped.

Grinning savagely behind your helmet, you yanked the door open, even as someone within emptied their gun at you.  You jerked back behind the door, getting a glimpse of an omnic bodyguard switching weapons.  

“Zee?”

“Working on it,” she snapped.  

If you’d been alone, you could have used an EMP, but if you’d been alone, you wouldn't be able to pull the data from his devices.  And that was more important than simply killing Barrett.  Not that you planned on sparing him.  Not after what Sakai had let slip. It had taken a lot of work, but in the end, you’d gotten what you needed from what was left of- You winced inwardly.  You didn’t need to think about that right now.  

You drew your gun, angled it, and fired into the car at where the bodyguard had been sitting.  You heard the shots connect, metal rending metal.

“Watch where you’re shooting,” Zee snapped.  

You were never in any danger of hitting her, but if your bullets made it out of the vehicle... You gritted your teeth.  A ricochet probably wouldn’t kill a civilian.  You swung around the door, gun raised.  

The omnic was a smoking wreck.  An armored woman lay bleeding on the ground.  

An older, dignified “gentleman” in a suit, Barrett was pressed against the partition, his own weapon raised at you.  But his hands shook violently. There was blood on his face and in his gray hair, but you didn’t see any serious wounds.  

“Where is she?” You snarled.  

“I don’t know whom you’re talking about!” Barrett shouted defiantly, words blending together in his thick brogue.  

“I think you do,” you sneered, taking aim at his knees.  

“Incoming!” Zee shouted as light flared in your peripheral vision.  

Three things happened at once.   The delivery van in a neighboring lane opened up, half a dozen armored Talon troopers pouring out. And then a sunburst struck the front of Barrett’s car.  You dove to the side, taking cover behind the rear bumper of the vehicle, and then a wave of force rolled you under the next car as an explosion rocked Barrett’s vehicle-though it didn’t come apart.  All around you, car windows shattered from the concussive blast.  

“Is that-?”  You winced, dragging yourself out from underneath a jeep.

“No, not one of ours,” Zee said sharply.  “You need to get out, now.”

“KA-BOOOOM!”  The voice was male, the accent distinctly Australian.  You blinked as you watched a heavily singed blonde man kick Barrett’s front tire. “Hahaha!  You’re blowing up! And this tire is blowing out!”

You staggered to your feet, ears ringing.  There were armored Talon troopers sprawled across the asphalt.  And twenty yards away, Cian Barrett was rabbiting down the crowded streets.  

“Fuck,” you snarled.  

“Move!” Zee shouted in your helmet more forcefully than you’d heard in a long time.  You ducked low, running past prone troopers.

“How did you miss them?” You hissed.

“-I don’t know,” Zee said, her voice distant in your hear. “Transmitting this back to base.”  

“I think they’ll see it on the news,” you huffed.  

There was a ping in your helmet as someone tried to call you.  You ignored it.  

“There’s no way they know about Sakai,” you growled.  Because the only people who knew what you’d done to Sakai and how you made her talk, well, they were on your side, even if they weren’t very happy with you right now.  

“This isn’t for you,” Zee said, even as a Talon trooper raised her gun at you.  “Drop!”

You dove forward, rolling through a brackish puddle, splashing foul liquid everywhere.  It was good thing you were wearing a helmet.  

“Come here.”  A chain shot over your head, a massive hook sinking into the woman’s armor, and suddenly she was airborne.  You turned your head, watching as a massive man in a gas mask yanked her to him.  

“What the hell?”

“Junker mercenaries,” Zee said.  “They’re here for Barrett too.  Avoid them.”  

“Lucky, you butthead! I know you can hear me!  I know this tech can withstand bigger explosions, even if Hong Kong can’t! What the hell is going on?” A very familiar, very angry voice shouted over the comms.  Someone had hacked your settings, not hard considering it was her hardware to begin with.

“Busy!” You shouted, trying to catch sight of Barrett.  In the distance you saw an older European man rounding a corner-

“Yeah, well so am I!  I have the fucking Minister of State Security on hold! Auntie has shorted out the power grid in a six block radius.  Oksana is trying to take out any peripheral electrical surveillance. What in the ten hells do you think you’re doing?”

You flinched.  “I was going after Barrett.  But I’m not the only one.”  You hesitated.  “We didn’t know about the backup.  Or the Aussies.”  You didn’t say whether or not you would have still made the move if you had known.  Better not to go there.  

There was a moment of distracted silence.  She was verifying your claim. “I see that...OK.  Look, you need to get out of there.  Those Australians can take the fall.  You don’t need to get caught up in it any more then you already are.”  

“Barrett has information I need,” you said tightly, vaulting over a low wall as you dodged down an alley, running parallel to the street you saw Barrett turn down.

There was a heavy sigh.  Because they all knew what you would do to get that information.  

“Give me some more time, Lucky.  We can find them too.  You don’t need to cut the answers out of every single Talon agent you dislike.”

“It’s therapy,” you hissed, swearing as dirt and garbage erupted behind you.  A concussive blast nearly knocked you off balance.  “You’re always telling me I need more of that.”

“This bomb’s for you!” The Junker cackled, rapidly closing the distance.  

You swung around, raising your gun.  

The Junker blew past you, literally hoisted by his own petard.  He just waved, winking at you as he rocketed through the air.  

Behind him, three more Talon troopers surged forward.  

So many targets, but it wasn’t a hard decision.  

The visor of your helmet overlaid the shot trajectories, even as you raised your gun in your left hand. Three T-Zone hits, three corpses toppling.  The skill was unnatural as fuck, but you wouldn’t argue with the results.  

You turned back to see the Junker, with his goddamn peg-leg, meters ahead of you. He squinted at you for a moment.  

You surged forward.

“Oh good, I had no idea where he went!” The Junker chuckled as you passed him.  In that moment, he tossed something in front of you, even as you jerked to the side, narrowly missing a steel-jawed trap.

“Aww, c’mon,” he groaned.

You just shook your head and kept moving.  You were very tempted to shoot him, but if Talon was here for him and the big guy, then you might be better off letting him live.  The old you might have been more concerned about the chaos.  But Cian Barrett was getting away.  And that was unacceptable.  

“Zee, I’ve lost visual contact.  Do you-”

“He’s two blocks north,” another voice chimed in.  “You can cut though that alley up ahead and jump the fence.”  

You inhaled sharply.  After what you had done to Sakai, you didn’t think she’d speak to you for another year or two.  And maybe you deserved that. “Thanks,” you said after a moment.  

“Yes, well, be more careful,” she said quietly.  “I’m mad at you, but I’ll be even madder if you die before we can talk about it.”

Dying might easier.  But you were smart enough not to say that out loud. “I’ll be home tonight,” you said.  “If I can wing it.”  

“Kara misses you,” she said hesitantly, in a way that might mean someone other than Karalika missed you.  Which made you smile in spite of the situation. Karalika probably did miss you, but she’d be fine.  Everyone else spoiled her.    

“Yeah, and if you make a bigger mess of this, I’m going to feed her sweet bean paste till she shits all over your room!  Picture it! Bean shits everywhere!” Your “boss” shouted over the comms. “You’ll be mopping the goddamn ceilings for days!”  

If that happened, maybe you’d stay in Hong Kong a little longer.  You turned down the alley, still hearing the peg-legged Junker hopping along behind you.  The fence was three meters high but you leapt onto a closed dumpster, pushed off a support pole, and flung yourself over the chain links.  You dropped down with a heavy thud and picked back up.

“Zee, you have my ride ready?”

“In a minute,” she said, sounding distracted. It should not have come as a surprise, she was balancing a larger workload now.  

With the explosions nearby, the crowds were thinning. You scanned the street- And there he was! A few blocks up, Barret shoved a street vendor and tried to duck into a shop.

You moved quickly through the press, following him into the little electronics stand.  

Sweaty and disheveled, he slumped against a headphones display, panting.  He was not doing a very good job of hiding.  You glanced sharply at the shopkeeper who ducked into a back room.  

Raising your gun in your right hand, you seized him by the collar.  He flailed vainly against the metal.  

“Wait! No! My people will pay handsomely for safety!”

You held up him by the throat, watching him twitch and shake, fear in those pale gray eyes. Your helmet was opaque.  He would not see anything but his own distorted reflection. “Your money means nothing.  I want information.”

“I-I-” He stammered.

“Widowmaker,” you snapped.  “Where are they storing her?”  

He shook his head frantically.  “I don’t know!”

“Agent Sakai seemed to think you did,” you growled.  

“That was a month ago!  I don’t keep close tabs on all combat assets.”

“Bullshit! Where the hell is she?!” You squeezed tighter, rage making your arms shake.  

“I don’t have a fucking clue!” He shouted back.  “They keep the freaks with O’Deorain.  Widowmaker, Sigma, Reap-”

Glass smashed as a giant hook hurtled through the storefront.  You spun, holding up Barrett as your shield.  That thick chain wrapped around his waist.

Maniacal laughter sounded, far too close.  It made your blood run cold. The giant Junker was huge, and only wearing bits of armor, with lots of visible flesh.  The piggy tattoo on his bulging stomach said “Wild Hog Power.”  Barrett screamed as “Wild Hog Power” reeled him in.  

It really wouldn’t do for Barrett to be ransomed.  He was Moira’s financial advisor, and one more nail in her treacherous coffin.  You slapped your gun back into your left hand, letting your helm’s targeting software direct your shot.  

A neat red hole burst in Barrett’s skull.  Much neater than Sakai had been.  But Sakai had been personal.  

“Wild Hog Power” shook Barrett like a doll, the corpse flopped around, neck flopping at an extreme angle. “Wild Hog Power” was breathing hard, hunched over Barrett.  Bestial and berserking, this one was less human than most.  He looked up then, clocking you instantly.  He began spinning his chain.  

Your insides shriveled, an atavistic reaction.  This was a very dangerous place to be.  “Zee-”

“Go out back!”

You jumped the counter, narrowly dodging that damn hook.  More gunfire blew over your head, and you rapidly crawled out the back exit, finding your hoverbike waiting.  

“Thanks!” You hissed, even as you hopped aboard, staying low.  “Chances of extraction?”

“Not any time soon,” your boss huffed angrily.  “I’m busy doing damage control.  Looks like there was a lot of it- mostly property, but also quite a few civilians with shrapnel injuries. Hospitals will be overcrowded.  We’re offering additional support to the locals. You can lay low for now.”

“Understood,” you said.  Your safehouse not too far off.  Checking your mirrors, you saw the Junker pair standing together in your dust, watching you make your escape.  

**

You went radio silent.  You were sore, but you’d gotten off lighter than you deserved, given the amount of mayhem you’d helped instigate.

Your safehouse was well-stocked and decorated to someone else’s taste. It was filled with Pachimari paraphernalia, though there were all kinds of stuffed animals on the couch. Kittens, hamsters, even a piggy.  You shuddered slightly.  “Wild Hog Power” had taken Barrett mid-sentence, but you’d already known about Reaper. Sakai had spilled everything in end, both figuratively and literally.

You showered first, setting aside your battered gear for repairs.  Then you changed into sweats. You considered external healing, but there was no need.  As long as you got a good meal, you’d be back in fighting shape after dinner.  

The kitchen was full of novelty appliances and decorated in an alarming shade of pink enamel: the fridge, stove, sink, cupboards, everything. You’d been here a week and you still weren’t used to it.  But it wasn’t all terrible, there was a bubble tea maker, and you fiddled with that – doing it from scratch wasn’t hard.  But the machine took a few minutes to set up. You started the rice cooker too.

You had filled the fridge yourself, with fresh groceries and a beautiful raspberry chocolate cake covered in ganache. You were still working on improving your recipe for fish head curry. The freezer was packed with dimsum.  Idly, you began heating up a pan of oil. Your body needed a lot of calories post-combat and cooking gave you some time to meditate.  

The Talon troopers had not stepped in to save Barrett from you.  Talon had not been waiting for you. They’d only come out when the Junkers were in range. So Talon had been expecting those Junkers.   Your helm had captured enough footage that you could research the men. Zee had forwarded a large file to you.  

The demolitionist was a man named Jameson Fawkes.  He was a caricature of all the shitty, fried, explosion-happy maniacs you’d met through the years.  Nwazue had been painstakingly responsible.  Hell, Vo had been a pain in the ass, but- You exhaled slowly.  Vo hadn’t been so bad.  Not really.  You stared at the fridge.  She would have loved that cake.  

“Wild Hog Power” was a man named Mako Rutledge.  There wasn’t a lot of information about him.  But you knew “incredibly dangerous” when you saw it.  Both men had accumulated massive bounties and were wanted in several countries. You’d be surprised if they made it out of Hong Kong alive.  

But that wasn’t your problem, you didn’t need to go borrowing more trouble. You had more than enough.  

Your problem was how to save Widowmaker, especially since she didn’t especially want to be saved.  

Your problem was that you knew exactly who was wearing that stupid skull mask and calling himself Reaper.  But you didn’t know why, and that was just as awful.  You had theories, of course, but even the best case scenario made you sick to your stomach.  

Your problems all stemmed from the past, the sort of unresolved bullshit that only worsened over time. Jesse had been trying to get in contact with you, but you’d been putting him off.  You still weren’t sure if you wanted to see him now, no matter what kind of intel he offered.  

But you would, eventually.  Not because he’d been your friend.  Not because you were ready to forgive him.  Not because you missed him. But because you needed every advantage you could get in this war.  

“Lucky, you need to see this.”  Zee’s cultured voice came on over the sound system.  A security monitor flicked on.  You stared incredulously as the two Junkers traipsed up the stairs and through the halls on the building, clearly looking for someone.  They were still several floors below you. You had no idea how they’d tracked you here.  

You could run.  You knew this city pretty well.  There might not be fighting.  There might be more collateral damage.  It was hard to say.  

You could fight.  The building was not unoccupied.  It would not survive. There would be more collateral damage.  

You could try diplomacy.  But you weren’t entirely sure if those men were capable of rational thought.  The Junkers were insane. Look what they had done to their own country.  You certainly didn’t want to invite them in but...

But the enemy of your enemy was useful to know.  

You went back upstairs to change clothes.  

**

It only took them a few minutes to reach your door.  But you were ready. You had changed into a simple black jumpsuit.  It was short sleeved and with a flattering cut, the fabric draped elegantly. You put on makeup, just enough to be a polished hostess.  You didn’t play a honeytrap any more.  Not if you could help it.  Your only jewelry was a thick white band around your left wrist.  It had a pearlescent glow against your dark metal arm.  You took a deep breath, checking the cameras and finding them loitering outside your door, Fawkes fiddling with a goddamn mine, Rutledge blocking the entire hall.

You opened the door, and stared coolly at Fawkes, wondering if he would really detonate the bomb right here.  He better not.  

“Eh?” Fawkes gaped at you, clearly shocked that you’d just opened the door.  

“What are you doing?” You sighed, one hand on your cheek.  You sounded more like an exasperated teacher than a security operative.  That was intentional.  

“Err...nuffink.” He shoved the mine behind his back like a child.  Up close, he was younger than you first thought, though life had not been kind to him. He was scorched and sooty, patches of hair missing, his clothing near rags.  It didn’t look like he cared.  

Behind him, Rutledge regarded you silently, possibly surprised that you had answered the door without attacking, possibly trying to identify you as the woman on the bike.  But with the mask in place it was too hard to tell.  

“You were-” Fawkes jabbed his finger at you accusingly.  

“Yes, I was there,” you said.

There was another awkward moment of silence as they tried to process your declaration.  Honesty was certainly the best policy, when it got you a tactical advantage.  

You regarded them politely.  “Well then, are you going to come in for dinner?”

There was another long stretch of silence as the men looked at each other trying to figure out if you were being sarcastic.  

Rutledge tilted his head back, and you realized he was sniffing the air.  

Fawkes blinked rapidly.  “I don’t like prawns.”

“Are you allergic?” You asked, stepping back to let them come in.  

He glanced back at Rutledge, panic on his face.  This was not how he pictured the encounter going.  You didn’t think most people he met invited him inside for a meal.  

“No,” Rutledge said. His voice was low and dangerous.  

“No, just don’t like’em,” Fawkes fidgeted, and then shoved the mine down his pants.  

You nodded.  “There are slippers if you want,” you gestured to the shoe rack by the door.  It was good manners to take off one’s shoes, though you weren’t going to press the matter with them. You walked back to kitchen, not looking to see if they used them.  You walked down the hall, half expecting a bullet or a hook in the back.  You fiddled with your bracelet, trying to keep your stance relaxed.  

There was a crashing noise, and you flinched, before looking over your shoulder, to see Fawkes trying to shove the broken shoe rack into some semblance of its previous shape.  Rutledge was holding up a very large pair of Pachimari slippers.  They would have fit Reinhardt. You had no idea if they would fit him, but your support staff stocked a broad range of sizes.  

There was a distinct rhythm as Fawke’s leg clicked against the wood.  But it sounded like he was wearing a single slipper.  Maybe one of those furniture leg felts would work on the peg-leg.  You had not considered that.  He followed you from the foyer into the kitchen.  You went to the freezer and pulled out the rest of the dimsum.  You could steam the dumplings, sticky rice packets, and bao, and maybe you’d have enough for Rutledge.  

“Whatcha making then?” Fawkes asked, looking around the kitchen in wonder. He sniffed the air a few times, his eyes bright.  He had terrible posture, shoulders hunched as he eyed the stove with distrust.  

“Fishhead curry and dimsum.”  The curry was still simmering.  “Would you like something to drink?”  Coffee in the jittery demolitionist would be unwise.  Alcohol might be worse. You checked the bubble tea machine.  “I have milk tea with boba.”  

“I would kill for some!”  He nodded vigorously, rubbing his hands together.

“Sugar?” You asked, your metal fingers twitching as you poured.  

“Half!” He did not have an indoor voice.

The machine dispensed bubbles, tea, and sweetener according to his order.  You offered him a cup with a metal straw.  

Squealing, he took the drink from you and then Rutledge reappeared.  Without a word, he snatched the cup out of Fawkes’ hands, popped off the lid, and sniffed.  Then he looked at you.

You poured yourself a cup and took a drink.  Using poison had definitely occurred to you, but with Rutledge’s clearly altered biology, there were too many variables. The tea was a little too sweet, but the tapioca bubbles were the perfect texture.  

“Come on, pig face!  If it ain’t poisoned, give it here!”  Fawkes grabbed for the cup. Rutledge let him take it back, apparently not bothered by the name calling.  

“Would you like some?”  You asked, taking another drink.  You had beer, but you purposefully did not want them drunk.  You didn’t need them rowdier.  

“Full sweetened,” Rutledge said after a moment.

You nodded and made him a cup as well.   You gestured to the round table.  “Please, have a seat.”   The chairs would probably hold.  Your boss got a kick out of making equipment way more durable than it needed to be, just for fun.  

Fawkes straddled a chair, slurping his drink and watching you intently like a feral animal.  

Rutledge carefully sat down, adjusting his mask so he could drink.  

“Fancy pad,” Fawkes said, clearing his throat while he looked around.  

“A friend’s place, I’m only visiting,” you said, not exactly lying.  You stirred the curry.  It was fragrant with spice and coconut milk, but needed to thicken a little more.  You checked the steamer, finding the shrimp dumplings and the soup dumplings to be ready.  You placed the metal steamer tray on a mat on the table and gestured to the cupboard.  “Bowls and plates are up there. Chopsticks and silverware are in that drawer.”  You returned to the stove.  The oil was hot enough for the deep fried taro pouches.   You tossed them into the oil, watching them sizzle.

“Ooooh,” Fawkes was suddenly over your shoulder.  “Wozzat?”

“Fried taro, with ground pork filling.” You paused, glancing over at Rutledge.  He was eyeing the steamer tray of dumplings.  He had not gotten up for plates or silverware. “The yellow and kind of translucent ones have shrimp,” you told Fawkes, gesturing at the food on the table.  “But the round white ones are pork.”  

“Eww,” Fawkes scowled at you.  “I don’t like prawns. Buggy little bastards taste like shite and are filled with-”

“You don’t have to eat them,” you said firmly.  “But where I grew up, there wasn’t food to waste.”  

Fawkes squinted at you.  “But here you are in this fancy city pad-”

You flipped the fried taro with cooking chopsticks.

“-Stealing work from honest Junkers, and acting like-”

You had to maneuver around him to get a plate for the taro. He was getting worked up.  You glanced briefly at your left wrist, wondering if you had made a mistake.  

“Get out of the way,” Rutledge barked.  “Can’t you see that she’s busy?”

You raised a brow, a little surprised by that reaction.  

Fawkes was too.  He blinked inquisitively at his partner.

“Be useful: set the table,” Rutledge said gruffly.    

Fawkes snapped to attention then, skittering over to the cupboard to grab plates and utensils.  You turned back to the roiling oil and began fishing golden brown taro cakes out of the pot.  You filled the plate, and set it down on the table. They were steaming hot and would burn your mouth. Rutledge sat there stoically, watching your every move.  He had not touched the food.  In the corner of your eye,  you saw Fawkes gracelessly slapping a handful of silverware onto a stack of plates.  

You set the rice cooker on the table and checked the steamer trays.  The sticky rice and bao were done.  And the fish head curry was a deep orange color, with pieces of okra, taro, and eggplant cooked soft in the sauce.  You would have liked to simmer the sauce a little longer, but you couldn’t help the timing.  You turned around to see Fawkes seated with two forks and a bowl.  It looked like you had two spoons, a bowl, and a plate, and Rutledge had two plates and pair of chopsticks.  

You brought the pot of curry to the table, and then went back to retrieve more utensils and rice bowls. You set them in the middle of the table, and started scooping rice. You passed the bowls around, noting that still none of the food had been touched.  Paranoia or manners?

Fawkes straddled his chair, surveying the table greedily.  

But Rutledge looked at you expectantly.  

“I am not religious,” you said, unsure if he wanted you to bless the meal. “But I do not offer the courtesy of my kitchen to my enemies.”  

He nodded.  “I am Roadhog.  That’s Junkrat.”  

Professional names then.  “I am known as Keres.”  

“Hooley dooley, Carrie, you got some fancy grub,” Fawkes, who was Junkrat, reached forward and grabbed a taro dumpling with his hands.  “Hot! Hot! Hot!”  He bounced it in his hand while you served yourself some curry.  Junkrat seemed like a more fitting name.  

Roadhog used his hands as well, carefully snatching dumplings and other appetizers, but setting them down on his plate. He wasn’t eating directly from the communal dishes, and you appreciated the courtesy.  

You raised a brow as Junkrat grabbed his own share of curry and began squirting Sriracha into it.  

“You might taste it first,” you said, because you had been liberal with the spices and the peppers.  

“I eat gunpowder for breakfast, Carrie!”  He jabbed his fork at you, eyes blazing.  “Don’t need no drongo telling me how to eat a fish head!”

You chuckled.  “All right.”  You sipped your tea watching keenly as Junkrat shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, grinning triumphantly at you.  It took a few seconds, but as he swallowed, his face began to redden, his cheek twitching.  Sriracha really wasn’t that hot.  But the peppers you’d used were pretty potent.

Roadhog spooned half the curry onto his plate, splitting the fish head and taking the larger portion of that as well.  

They were two different kinds of dangerous.  Junkrat needed to be balanced – too much stimuli and he flew into a manic episode.  Too little and he stirred up trouble to keep himself from being bored. Roadhog was a pressure cooker, holding it in until he hit critical mass.  Keeping them both calm took different strategies.  

Doing so was less difficult than it sounded. You were used to dealing with dangerous difficult people.  After all, back in Zurich you’d been so good with-

You stopped, mid-bite.  Yes, that’s exactly what the Junkers reminded you of.  Your goddamn Blackwatch hardcases.  Fuck.  The wheels of memory ground out another realization: Hell, when you’d first joined up, your manners were only marginally better than Junkrat’s.  That was such a long time ago...

The blonde man was still chattering about how the fish curry wasn’t that hot, while he piled more rice into his bowl and shoveled it down his throat.  Then he loudly drained his cup, still protesting that he had no trouble with spices.

Roadhog noticed your hesitation and slowed his eating.  

You took a drink and went back to your curry.  It could have used a little more tamarind.  The coconut milk mellowed the sharpness a little more than you expected.  

“Well, as long as you find it acceptable,” you told Junkrat when he finished his rant about his tolerance for spicy food.  “I’m still working on the recipe, so I understand if you think it’s lacking.”

He blinked.  “Oh, no.  ‘S good.”  He slurped down another bite and gave you a thumbs up.  

“I’m glad,” you said.  

“Meant to say, that’s some arm you got there,” Junkrat chirped, knocking on your metal limb with his own prostheses. “How’d you lose it? Shark?  Salty? Hamster?” He mimed biting motions with his hands.  

“Terrorist attack,” you said, taking another bite of curry, though in that moment you only tasted ash.  

“Bomb?” Junkrat asked.

“Yeah,” you said, though it had not been that straight forward.  

“Who?” He asked eagerly.

“Talon.” You took a sip of your tea, the sweetness bracing you.  

“Oh yeah, they’re absolute drongos,” Junkrat cackled.  “Keep inviting us around, like we want to join their stupid club with their dumb scrap metal lackeys.”  

“So they’re trying to recruit you?” You asked.

“Mebbe,” Junkrat gave you a sly look.  “Mebbe they’re after me treasure.”

You laughed a little too hard at that.  

“You don’t believe me?” He puffed up then, smacking his bare chest. “Me and Pig Face are rich! We could eat like this every day if we wanted to!”  Madness flared in those eyes.

Under the table, you rested your bracelet against your knee.  

“Shut up, idiot,” Roadhog grumbled.  

“She’s laughing-” Junkrat’s head snapped to the side, reminding you of a mongoose about to strike.  

“You told a joke,” Roadhog’s voice was dangerously low. “Sometimes people laugh at your jokes.”

Junkrat crossed his arms, looking sullen.  

Children with their delicate egos.  You gave a wry smile.  “I thought it was a pirate reference.”  You tapped your knee.  

“Oh,” Junkrat looked at you sideways.  “Of course it was!”  He laughed a little too loudly.  “I really had you two going! This is a dinner party, Roadhog!  You gotta be personable. And I am nothing if not a courteous house guest!”  

Even with the mask on, even if you’d never seen his face, you could feel Roadhog’s exasperation loud and clear.    

“They were really invested in grabbing you today,” you said.  “But there are a lot of cells in Talon,” you said.  They pulled off heists and robberies, though it was usually for things other than money: tech, hostages, an unsavory means to an end... “I can’t claim to know what their intentions are.”

“Of course they want us to work for them! You saw us out there! Regular professionals! We were on a roll!” He grinned at Roadhog, jabbing him with a bony elbow.  “Eh? Eh?”

“Stop that,” Roadhog growled, picking up his plate to drink down the curry sauce.  

“But you did steal our kill though.  He was worth more alive,” Junkrat said, narrowing his eyes at you.  

“Sorry, personal business,” you said with a shrug. “I lost more than an arm to those bastards.”  And given what you had learned from their dossiers, you probably could have left Barrett with them, confident that he wouldn't survive the experience.  They had no love of “suits.”  But you hadn’t known that back in that little electronics shop.  

“Yeah, I get it,” Junkrat heaved a dramatic sigh.  “There are some things money can’t buy.”  He grinned at Roadhog.  “But if that’s the case, you should still try the proper application of high powered explosives!”  

You laughed softly, in spite of the situation.  He was a crude, vicious, and dangerous child.  Maybe he reminded you a little of Vo, of Fitzpatrick, of Távio, and others. Maybe you were just getting old. “I know it’s effective, but I don’t have your talent in that field. Never picked up the knack for anything beyond the basics.”

“I could show you a trick or two,” Junkrat flashed you what had to be his idea of charming smile.  Somewhere between a leer and the awkward smile of a student portrait, he showed far too many teeth.  And he waggled his eyebrows at you.  

You were far too old for this shit.  But you put on hand over your mouth, trying to smother your snickers.  

Junkrat grinned at Roadhog, nudging him with his elbow.  “Suppose she fancies me?  She did invite us in for this real intimate dinner. Ladies don’t just roll out that hospitality for anyone.”  

Roadhog just shook his head.  

“Unless she’s interested in you,” Junkrat murmured a low shocked voice. “Hooley dooley, mate! You don’t think-”

“No, you don’t think,” Roadhog said setting his plate down.  “This is business.”  

Junkrat blinked.  “But dinner-”

“Friendly business,” you said.  “A simple “getting to know you” sort of event.  Though let me emphasize, I don’t share food with my enemies.”    

“Not government,” Roadhog said, utensils set at straight on his plate, indicating he was done.  “Not Talon.”  He looked around. “Corporate security? PMC?”

“Sort of,” you said.  

Junkrat scowled.  “We don’t work for suits.”

“I represent the Peaceful Life Society,” you said.  

Junkrat snorted.  “That’s a silly name.”

“I’m still not sure if it was meant to be ironic,” you said, sipping your tea.  “But yes, it is.”

“Triad business?” Roadhog crossed his arms.

“It could be,” you said.  “We can talk business.  We can talk about cake.  There is no pressure. I’m not here to try to strong arm you.”

“You wanna hire us, Carrie?” Junkrat asked.  

“I have work, if you’re interested.  I have cake, if you aren’t.”

“But we can only pick one?” Junkrat frowned.  

“No. We can just start with dessert,” you said and got up.  You brought the cake out of the fridge.  And when you turned around, Junkrat was hovering over your shoulder, flitting back and forth, staring at the cake.

“Look at that, Roadhog.  Just look at that beauty.  Just covered in chocolate, a goddamn mudslide of chocolate. It’s gonna be too sweet,” he moaned.  “It looks pretty, but they overdid it-”

“It’s dark chocolate,” you said, a little indignantly.

“And all that coating is gonna be gummy pasty sugar shit-”

“It’s not fondant,” you scowled, genuinely offended by the thought.  

“It can’t be as good as it looks, there’s no fucking way!” He wailed, clearly more interested in being dramatic than listening to a word you said.  

You glanced over at Roadhog feeling a growing respect for his levels of patience.  “Would you like a slice?”

He nodded.  

You almost asked if he wanted Junkrat’s slice, but decided to be the mature adult here.  You set the cake on the counter and cut two large slices for you and Roadhog, and one small one for Dramarat.  Against your better judgment, you made coffee to go with it, possibly making it half-caf because your guests were so excitable.  

“Let’s go in there.  I don’t feel like clearing the table right now.” You handed each man their own plate and fork, and poured yourself some black coffee.  You took a seat in a single chair, while the Junkers took the couch.

Junkrat poked at the plushies, giggling to himself as he tossed the pig at Roadhog, nearly missing the other man’s plate.  

“Watch it!” Roadhog snapped.  

You set your drink down on the glass coffee table and took a bite of the cake.  There was a generous spread of tart raspberry liquer filling between each layer of chocolate cake.  Smooth chocolate ganache replaced the frosting, with fresh raspberries adorning the top of the cake.  It was rich with just the right amount of sweetness.  Gabriel would have-

You did not finish that thought. It would have sat badly with your curry.  Instead, you set the plate down and took a deep swig of coffee.   When you looked up, Roadhog was delicately eating his slice while Junkrat was still staring forlornly at his own piece.  

“How is it really?” Junkrat tried to whisper, but he was about as good at it as Reinhardt.

“Find out for yourself.  Idiot.”  

“I’m not like you.  I can’t just eat anything. I’m a connoisseur!”  

Roadhog just shook his head in disgust.  

Junkrat begrudgingly took a bite, grimacing the entire time.  Uncertainly pinched his already pointy features.  He chewed, slowly relaxing as he tasted the cake.  The transformation was nearly instantaneous.  He went from pissing and moaning to an open mouthed quiet awe.  He stared reverently at his slice and then shoved the rest into his mouth.  

You sipped your coffee.  

“Hooley dooley that’s good shit,” he murmured, mouth full of crumbs. “Can I have more?  Before pig face eats it all?!”

You still couldn’t see much of Roadhog’s face, but you could feel the heat of the glare directed at Junkrat.  

“You both can have the rest.  I’m pretty full,” you said, picking up your plate.  There was three quarters of a cake left.  Maybe they could take it to go.  

“Are you sure?”  Junkrat squinted at you.  And then hopped up, bouncing into the kitchen with glee.  

...Oh, maybe you should not have given him that much sugar.  

But then Roadhog was on his feet, lumbering into the kitchen with heavy steps.

“Hey, back off! This is mine!  Carrie said I could have it!”  

“Fifty-fifty,” Roadhog said, pushing Junkrat out of the way.  He lifted the knife and made a sharp cut.  

“That looks more like sixty-forty!”

“Get your eyes checked,” Roadhog said, taking a slightly bigger piece.  

“Come on, don’t be such a pig!” Junkrat jumped, trying to snatch the cake out of Roadhog’s hands.

“We can always get more cake,” you said.  

“...Really?” Junkrat perked up.  

“Yeah, I don’t mind going for more dessert,” you said, even though the bakery was closed. If they pushed, you could get ice cream or something.  

“Oh,” Junkrat grabbed the remaining portion.  “I guess that’s OK then.” The importance of the distraction was to get them to disengage.  You did not want them coming to blows in the apartment safehouse.  Both men returned to the living room, Roadhog taking the far corner of the couch.  Junkrat sat closer to you, eating happily while he poked at the plushies with chocolate-smeared fingers.  

“Didn’t figure you for the stuffed animals type,” Junkrat said, turning over a pirate Pachimari in his lap.  He bounced it a few times, then looked around rapidly, then tried to act casual slinging it to the side.

“I didn’t decorate,” you said with a shrug.  “But they are really cute.”  

“I guess they are,” Junkrat jammed his hands into his pockets. “If you like that kind of thing.”  

Roadhog coughed.

“I mean, I don’t,” Junkrat sputtered.  “I’m a man of sophistication and means.  I just know that they don’t make the pirate one back home.  They were limited edition,” Junkrat said, staring longingly at the pile of plush.

You sighed.  This location was going to be metaphorically burned after this encounter.  You could make some good will offerings.  “My friend won’t mind if you take some.” You paused. “If you had someone back home whom you thought might like one.”

“Oh.” Junkrat perked up. “Really?  Because I think Little...James might like one.  Just some neighborhood kid,” he added quickly.

Roadhog just sat very still.  

“And his little sister...Jamie might want one too,” Junkrat grinned.  

“Go for it,” you said sincerely. “Think of them as...party favors.”  You glanced at Roadhog who  just sat there eating his cake.  

“Carrie, you throw the best dinner parties!” Junkrat squeezed an armful of plush, some of them squeaked. “If more people did it like you, dinner parties wouldn’t be so goddamn boring!”

“Thank you,” you said. “I try.”  

“But I don’t know about working for your Triad buddies.  We’re free agents!  We don’t like being tied down!”  Junkrat looked up from the plushes, expression grim.

“I understand,” you said.  “If you’re fighting Talon though, I’d like to collaborate some time. Or  at least not get blown up or shredded by the two of you in combat.  I’d extend the same courtesy, of course.”  

“Carrie, you’re a nice lady who owes us some more cake.  I would never-” Junkrat pressed his hands to his chest.  “Never ever ever.”  

“That’s a relief,” you said.  You hadn’t expected them to onboard today.  This was just first contact.  You could cultivate the ties over time.  

“Truce,” Roadhog said.  The cake was gone, but there was no trace of it on his fingers, lap, or mask.  

“Truce,” you said with a smile.  

**

Junkrat had stuffed his bag full of toys, though you didn’t miss the piggy tucked on Roadhog’s hip, almost completely hidden by the chain.  Junkrat was snoring now, draped across Roadhog’s back.  He

“If you’re interested,” you said, offering him your card.  “We can talk about it over cake.”  

Roadhog grunted, accepting it.  Those massive hands delicately placing it in a pocket.  He paused, looking down at the bracelet your left wrist. He snorted.  

“Hardlight projector?”

“Yes,” you said.

He nodded.  “Military grade?”

“Of course.”  Because you could be friendly and well-armed. Always hope for peace, but prepare for killing the shit out of your enemies.

Roadhog stared at it for another few seconds, clearly contemplating the other way this encounter could have gone.  “Thank you for the meal,” he said, ducking to go through the door.  

“I had fun,” you told him.  “We should do it again some time.”

**

You sat on the roof, admiring the brilliance of the skyline.  A shuttle would pick you up soon.  A local cleaning service would take care of the facilities.  The Junkers had come and gone with minimal damage. Cian Barrett was dead. Zee had access to his files.  Not a bad day’s work.  

Zee’s drone hovered by your shoulder.  “You still have a way with delinquents,” she said.  

“Takes one to know one.” You fiddled with the bracelet.  It wasn’t your best weapon, but you could use it well in close quarters.  “You can take the girl out of the bar-”

“That is such a crass statement with racist overtones,” Zee said, her tone frosty.  

“Sorry, you’re right.  I don’t need to be repeating that shit,” you said.  You tilted your head back.  You’d spent a couple months in Phuket before you had found Sakai.  You’d picked up some of the lingo, the ways to blend in.  You’d need to shed those habits sooner rather than later.  “How are things back home?” You asked.

“Settling.”

“That could mean any number of things.”  

“You know Feng was never mad about what you did.  She was worried about you.  She still is.”

“I know.”  You toyed with the a large bulldog plush that had somehow been left behind by the Junkers.  If Oksana didn’t want it, maybe Karalika would. “But Oksana...”

“She needed time to come to terms with what she saw you do.  She’ll get past it.  She adores you too much. This was an eye-opening experience about our line of work. Her father has always sheltered her.”

“Her father-” You scowled.

“Will get over himself when she calms down.  He exaggerates all faults. Honestly, all of you are so overwrought and emotional.  Presenting the On Sing Serial Drama: tune in next week for more shocking events and emotional fallout in a real time comedy of errors,” she said in biting tones. “Foolish children. These things take time.  You have to account for that, Lucky. Stop being so impatient.”  

You smiled wryly.  “Thanks, Auntie.  You really do know best.”

“I know, and while you are acknowledging my wisdom and experience, let’s talk about what’s going on with you.  You really need to talk to another professional about what’s going on in your life,” she told you primly.  “Don’t give me the “oh, who’s going to understand the psychological effects of brainwashing, and faked deaths, international conspiracies” speech.  That’s cult of exceptionalism foolishness. Conspiracies aren’t what’s sending you to therapy, it’s your manner of handling the stress. Psychologists understand complications, betrayals, PTSD.  That is what you are asking for help with, untangling your feelings and yourself.  This isn’t about politics or tech.  Your situation may be unique, but your reactions?  Textbook.”

You winced.  “You broke me down faster than I did Sakai.”

“Yes, well unlike you, I’m not playing around, or trying to draw out the suffering,” she said.  “And unlike the others, I don’t care what you did to her.  She earned it.  But I do care what it implies about your mental state, and how it affects the rest of the family.”

“I went too far,” you agreed after a moment.  “I’m not sorry.  Not yet.  But I know I went too far.”   Maybe not far enough to join Talon as a double agent, commit atrocities to win their trust, and then finally exact your brutal revenge.  And that was the best case scenario in a certain Reaper’s case.  

“Make sure you tell that to everyone else.  Ask for their help in keeping you honest.  It will go a long way in earning you some grace.”  

“Yes, Auntie,” you said with a heavy sigh.  You stared out over the city. The night was warm.  “I still have one question.  How did they locate me so quickly?”  You gave the drone a sharp side eye.  

“You need allies.  They have survival skills,” she said, telling you everything you needed to know.

“With friends like you, I definitely need more allies to watch my back,” you scowled, though you couldn’t muster any real ferocity.  

“I had full faith in you,” she said solemnly.  “And total control of the discretely placed turrets.”  

You just shook your head.  “Auntie-”

“You cannot slaughter your way through this, Lucky.  Not if you want to protect the others.  Do you think Oksana is ready for this war? Are you willing to risk it?”  She didn’t give you a chance to respond.  She already knew your answer. “No, you need to be smart and use diplomatic methods too.”

“You’re not wrong, but I think I just used up all my diplomacy,” you said dryly.  

“You should probably work get it back soon,” she said.  “Jesse McCree has just arrived in Shanghai.  He has...information. And he’s insisting that he tells it to you in person.”

****

Yes, you should know all the ally characters referenced, except Karalika.  I’m fine spoiling in the comments if you want to guess. 

My week was stressful.  10-11 hour shifts, a sick cat, cat had teeth extracted Friday and is high out of his mind (or had a stroke? I don’t know.)  I’ve had force feed him a feed a few times this weekend.  He keeps falling off things and walking into walls. He’s not using the litter box.  I am super tired. 

#Angst AU #Drabble #In Alio Loco #Roadhog #Junkrat #I lied-this is a way bigger than a drabble

[mikauzoran]

LuXY/Lukadrien/Lukadrienette: Welcome to La-La Land: Chapter Five

@luxyweek

Welcome to La-La Land: Chapter Five: Style Swap Part One

Adrien was still used to getting up at an ungodly hour from his modeling days, so he woke before Luka and hopped in the shower.

He’d brought his own clothes for the weekend in his overnight bag, but he raided Luka’s closet for a hoodie just for fun. He missed Marinette—currently in Milan on business—and the comforting scent of Luka’s clothes did wonders to calm his separation anxiety.

Adrien stopped to poke his head into the guestroom on his way to the kitchen. Technically, it was Luka’s music room, but they’d put a bed for Hugo in between the harp and the drum set so that their son could easily sleep over without advanced planning.

Hugo was sound asleep, his deep breaths audible from Adrien’s position in the doorway.

Satisfied that all was well, Adrien continued to the kitchen where he cut up some of the fruit that they’d bought together at the market they’d taken Hugo to the day before. Next, he set about preparing four slices of egg in the basket like he’d learned years ago from Anarka.

He divided the slices between two plates and partitioned the fruit salad into two bowls. He loaded it all up onto a tray along with cups of water and juice as well as a generous chunk of Edam for Plagg before carrying it all back to Luka’s bedroom to serve his lover breakfast in bed.

“You’re amazing,” Luka chuckled, running a hand through his already thoroughly tussled hair.

“I know,” Adrien snickered, leaning in for a kiss. “When I’m not busy being a heartthrob actor, I’m a good little househusband.”

“I wish you were my househusband,” Luka sighed.

“I could be,” Adrien hummed as he snuggled up next to Luka. “…if you would just move in with us already.”

Luka shook his head. “Marinette’s too worried about her public image. She thinks openly being in a polyamorous relationship would damage her career, and, honestly, I can’t say that she’s wrong.”

Adrien clicked his tongue. “She’s not right either. There are plenty of queer people in fashion. Maybe a little scandal would even help get her name out there more. I just…I want my family under the same roof. Whatever the media makes of it, we’ll deal with it together. It’ll be fine.”

“Maybe,” Luka agreed halfheartedly, imagining the simultaneous paradise and hell of being with Marinette and Adrien all the time.

Yes, he’d be with the two people he loved most, but he’d also be reminded of how much more they loved each other than they loved him all the more too, and he’d have nowhere to go to escape.

That wasn’t even taking into account the XY situation. Luka had been making out with the pop star with increasing frequency for three months, and he was afraid that he’d somehow caught serious feelings for XY.

Adrien deflated, seeing that he wasn’t going to win the war that day. “Think about it,” he pleaded softly. “I really want this, and if you think that it’s something you want too, I’ll talk Marinette into it.”

Luka didn’t respond right away, and Adrien took that as a rejection of the idea.

He sighed.

Luka leaned in, depositing a feather-light kiss on Adrien’s lips and nuzzling his hair. “I’ll think about it,” he promised, already knowing what the answer would be.

 After breakfast, they got Hugo up and fed, and then Luka headed for the shower while Hugo and Adrien watched Les Aventures de Ladybug et Chat Noir in the front room.

Hugo was curled up on the seat of the couch next to Adrien, asleep again before they’d gotten five minutes into the episode, but Adrien let the show keep playing for background noise in the otherwise quiet flat.

They’d just gotten to the part where legally-distinct-Nino got akumatized over legally-distinct-Gabriel not allowing legally-distinct-Adrienne to have a quinceañera (…because apparently Adrienne’s mother was from Mexico, so that was a thing…because artistic license? Adrien didn’t really mind. He looked gorgeous as a girl, and a quinceañera was just the kind of quirky thing Émilie would have done. She adored learning about other cultures and celebrating holidays Adrien had never heard of until she’d taught him) when there was a knock at the door.

Adrien frowned, pausing the TV and carefully getting up so as not to disturb Hugo. He peeked through the peephole and had to stifle a groan.

The other man was out in the hallway.

Adrien took a deep breath, pasted on his most agreeable smile, and opened the door.

“Good Morning. It’s Xavier-Yves, isn’t it? I’ve heard so much about you from Luka. I’m Adrien Agreste-Dupain-Cheng. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

XY stared at the other blonde dumbly, not taking the proffered hand to shake.

“It’s XY. What the hell are you doing here?” he finally growled.

Adrien contemplated slamming the door in XY’s stupid face, but ultimately decided to play nice for Luka and the children’s sake. “Marinette—my wife—is working out of town for the weekend, so Hugo and I—Hugo is my son—are staying with Luka.”

XY’s fingers curled into trembling fists, and his lips drew back to expose snarling teeth. “I know who Hugo is, and he’s not your son,” he snapped savagely, catching Adrien by surprise and momentarily knocking the pleasant smile off of his face.

Adrien quickly recovered, slapping his friendly expression back on. “I think I’ve changed enough diapers and cleaned up enough vomit and kissed enough boo-boos to consider myself a father, but thank you very much for your opinion,” he replied with false joviality through gritted teeth. “Would you like to come in?”

“This isn’t your house,” XY retorted indignantly.

Adrien almost said, “Is it not? Oh, gosh. How silly of me. I guess I can’t invite you in, then. Have fun waiting in the hall” before gleefully shutting the door with a vengeance.

But he controlled his temper and held his tongue, feeling very much like he had all those years dealing with his father’s moratorium on showing negative emotions.

“No, but Luka’s in the shower right now, so he won’t be coming to the door anytime soon,” he informed saccharinely, repeating, “Would you like to come in?”

XY pushed past Adrien, storming into the living room without a reply.

Adrien took a moment locking up behind him to regain his composure and wonder what on earth Luka saw in this brutish buffoon.

He turned around to find XY staring at Hugo, still asleep on the seat of the couch. There was a soft, gentle expression on XY’s face, a tender warmth and affection in his eyes as he looked at Adrien’s son…Luka’s son.

Adrien took a deep inhale and slowly let it out.

Okay.

If Xavier-Yves looked at Luka with even half that much love, maybe there was something there after all.

“May I get you something to drink?” Adrien offered quietly so as not to disturb Hugo.

“I can get it myself,” XY shot back in a hiss of a whisper.

Adrien put his hands up in surrender, going back to sit next to Hugo. “Go right ahead.”

XY did so, just to spite Adrien. He came back from the kitchen a minute later with a glass of water and slumped into the armchair cattycorner from the couch.

“Great. Now what?” Adrien wondered, mentally willing Luka to shower and dress quickly.

“Your son doesn’t look much like you,” XY remarked icily.

Adrien forced himself to keep his amiable façade in place. “He has my smile, my charisma. Other than that, no, but I view that as a good thing. I’d much rather my child resemble the two people I love most.”

XY snorted rudely, setting down his glass of water on a coaster on the side table and crossing his arms with a grunt.

Adrien sighed, letting the act drop. “You know, I’m trying really hard to like you, but you’re not making this easy.”

XY gave an amused bark of laughter. “I don’t give a rat’s—” He looked to Hugo and then back to Adrien. “—behind if you like me or not. You’re just some pretty rich boy. I don’t care what the—” He glanced at Hugo again. “—hell you think.”

Adrien’s mouth pulled into a tight, serpentine smile. “Awesome. Well, since we have some time while Luka’s in the shower, why don’t we chat and get to know one another? Let’s start with how we met Luka,” Adrien suggested, tone chipper and buoyant. “I was classmates with his sisters Rose and Juleka, and I came over to the Liberty for the annual music festival. I tripped on some wires and totally faceplanted. Luka helped me up, and our hands touched, our eyes met, and it was just like something out of a fairytale. Luka told me a few years later that it was love at first sight for him,” Adrien added cheerfully.

XY’s face was red with fury, and Adrien couldn’t help but think that if this had been five years prior, he would have been dealing with an akuma by this point.

Still, he pressed, fed up with XY’s attitude. “How did you and Luka meet?—Oh wait! I remember,” he laughed in a “silly me” sort of way. “You and your father ripped off his music, threatened my wife, and got Luka akumatized. Wow. What an interesting story to tell the kids, right?”

XY gave a soft growl. “You think you’re so great, Agreste, but you’re really not.”

Adrien was taken aback at the vehemence of the anger and bitterness in XY’s voice.

“You have no idea,” XY continued, “how often you and Marinette make Luka feel alone and unloved. You two don’t truly appreciate him, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of watching you break his heart. News flash, Agreste: he doesn’t need you anymore. He’s with me now, and I’m going to treat him how he deserves to be treated. He’s not even going to miss you.”

Adrien’s expression went glacial, and, suddenly, XY could tell without a doubt that Adrien was Gabriel Agreste’s son.

A cruel frost settled into Adrien’s eyes as he replied coolly, “Listen here, you homewrecking clown. I am not going anywhere. Luka and I have been together for eight years. Years. You’ve been making out with him for, what? A couple months? And you think you have this great bond with him, that you’re the one who understands him?”

XY had gone into the confrontation feeling confident, but now he felt very small and very squishable.

Adrien laughed, the noise raking XY’s self-esteem like a jaguar’s claws. “Luka and I have a child together,” Adrien rubbed it in. “Which of us do you think really knows him? Because Luka and I spent our adolescence together. We supported each other and helped each other to grow into adults. I’ve been there for him during some of his darkest times just like he’s been there for me. You think you know Luka? You don’t know anything. You can’t take Luka away from me; I’m a part of who Luka is.”

Adrien waited a beat, letting that sink in. “…Now…if Luka really were seeking you out to fill some kind of void in his relationship with Marinette and me…wouldn’t that mean you were just a stand-in for someone else?”

XY paled, looking down at the arm of the chair, unable to respond.

“Hm,” Adrien patronized. “I wonder…. I’m willing to share, XY, if that truly makes Luka happy, but you are never going to steal Luka from me. It’s better if you get that through your head now. Marinette, Luka, Hugo, and I are a family, and decent people don’t just go around breaking families up. If Luka wants you to join us, fine, but drop the attitude, you uncouth swine.”

XY didn’t respond. He couldn’t respond.

It was like Adrien had taken a scalpel and cut out his larynx, taking away his power to defend himself. It was just like when XY’s father yelled at him, harsh words cutting through him as if he were made of paper, leaving him helpless.

Adrien’s words flooded XY with doubt.

“Daddy, you paused Ladybug,” Hugo noted sleepily, waking to find the show was no longer playing.

“Because you fell asleep, My Sweet One,” Adrien cooed, voice warm and kind once more as he ruffled his son’s hair.

“Daddy, who’s dat?”

XY looked up to see familiar blue eyes gazing at him with curiosity. Hugo wasn’t an exact copy of Luka by any stretch, but the shade of the eyes, some of the gently angular facial features, and the feathery hair were there.

Adrien got up and shepherded Hugo over to XY, saying, “Come meet Papa’s friend.”

XY stood, whispering, “I’m not your friend.”

Adrien rolled his eyes and hissed back, “I’m not ‘Papa’. What do you want him to call you?”

“Uh…XY is fine,” XY replied, a little thrown.

Adrien crouched down to Hugo’s level. “Gogo, this is Papa’s best friend, XY. What do you say?”

Hugo stared the long way up at XY and looked slightly intimidated.

XY copied Adrien, crouching down to be at eye-level with the two-year-old.

Hugo took a deep breath and recited, “Hello. My name is Hugo Agreste-Dupain-Cheng. Enchanted to meet you, Monsieur XY.”

“Awesome job, Gogo,” Adrien whispered, giving his son an encouraging pat on the back. “That was perfect.”

XY took Hugo’s outstretched hand and shook it carefully. “Hello, Hugo. It’s nice to meet you. You can just call me XY. My real name is Xavier-Yves. I’m…uh…I’m a friend of your papa.”

Hugo’s face lit up. “Xavier-Yves? Papa talked about you,” he announced proudly, happy to feel like he was in the loop.

XY’s mouth dropped open. “O-Oh? He did? Really?”

Hugo nodded. “You like cars! Wanna pway cars with me?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” XY agreed with a shrug, not yet certain what to make of the fact that Luka had told his son about XY. Surely that was a good thing, right?

Hugo ran over to the corner where a child-sized backpack sat on top of the large plastic tub that usually occupied that spot. Hugo wrapped both arms around the backpack and toddled back over to XY.

XY wondered if he should offer to help the little guy, but Adrien didn’t seem concerned as he got up and took a seat back on the couch, watching the scene play out.

Hugo set the backpack down and carefully emptied the contents onto the floor.

Out spilled nearly thirty little toy cars in all different makes and models.

XY’s eyes went wide.

Hugo grinned. “Papa and Daddy don’t know about cars, but Papa said you did. He said you could pwobably tell me about my cars. Like this one.” Hugo held up a red racecar, a Ford GT40 with the number fifty-five stamped on its sides and hood. “This one’s my favourite because it’s got my name on it.” He pointed to the fifty-five. “In Japanese, ‘five’ is ‘go’, so you can write my name as ‘five-five’. Gogo.”

XY nodded slowly. “You’re gonna be scary smart like your papa, aren’t you?” he chuckled.

“Mmhm!” Hugo beamed, glowing with pride. “I’m pwecocious.”

XY shifted from his crouch to take a seat on the floor by the pile of cars. “And you want me to tell you about the cars while we play?”

Hugo nodded enthusiastically, eyes going wide and hopeful. “Pwease!”

“Okay,” XY acquiesced. “Sounds like fun.”

Adrien watched as his son and his partner’s boyfriend wheeled the cars around the floor, making appropriate sound effects. Periodically, XY would mention some fact about one of the cars they were playing with, its name, its year, something about the way it was built or the parts, what made it special.

Every other minute, Hugo would stop playing to ask XY a question, holding up a car and asking his new friend to, “Tell me about dis one!”

Adrien was legitimately impressed. It was obvious that XY knew a lot about cars on a very technical level, but the vocabulary he used was very age-appropriate, his explanations simple, and Adrien could tell that Hugo was actually absorbing much of what XY said.

Maybe the “other man” wasn’t all bad after all.

Adrien could forgive many personal slights if a guy was patient and kind to Hugo. Adrien could tell it wasn’t just for show either. XY genuinely seemed to be having fun pushing cars around and making them do somersaults in the air while sharing facts about the cars and producing silly car noises.

They just needed to do something about XY’s jealousy and poor attitude. Adrien didn’t have the mental energy to deal with a repeat of their conversation prior to Hugo waking up and redeeming XY.

…Maybe Adrien needed to do something about his own jealousy and poor attitude as well…but XY had definitely started it.

…They obviously had some work to do if this was going to be a long-term thing.

“Hey, Adrien,” Luka called as he walked into the living room with a towel slung around his hips. “Have you seen my—Xavier-Yves! Uhhh…”

Luka stared in horror at his lover, son, and the guy he was making out with all in the same room.

XY raised a hand unenthusiastically in greeting. “Surprised? I was too.”

Luka sucked in a breath and let out a whispered curse in what XY assumed was Russian.

“I’m not supposed to repeat dat,” Hugo reported conspiratorially to XY.

Despite himself, XY laughed, though, it came out sounding a little miserable.

“Orpheus, you should probably go put some clothes on,” Adrien advised, and XY bristled at the nickname.

He’d forgotten for almost fifteen minutes that Adrien was even there, but, then, of course, Adrien had to find some way to rub in how close he was with Luka, how much history there was between the two of them.

“Right,” Luka sighed, spinning on his heel. “Sorry. Back in five.”

Luka had never dressed so fast in his life. He came back two minutes later and was greeted by Adrien saying something in Russian that XY couldn’t understand.

Where did pretty boy learn Russian? Did all smart people know Russian? XY obviously needed to learn if Luka and Adrien were going to be having secret conversations that should be held behind XY’s back in front of his face like this.

Luka replied to whatever Adrien had said tiredly, sounding like he was lightly scolding.

XY felt like a pane of glass had been lowered between them, firmly placing Luka and Adrien on one side and XY on the other.

He looked at Hugo and whispered, “You don’t know what they’re saying, do you?”

Hugo shook his head. “Daddy said something mean, and Papa told him to be nice.”

XY quirked an eyebrow at the incredibly sharp young boy. “How do you know that?”

In the background, Adrien was shooting off a long, indignant string of Russian at Luka, pointing accusatorily at XY, and then crossing his arms.

Luka paled, muttering a disjointed apology.

Hugo shrugged. “Papa and Daddy talk Russian when they don’t want people to understand. I hear them talk Russian, and I ask what they said. Uncle Victor teaches me too.”

XY nodded slowly. “Cool. So…what did your daddy say? More mean things?”

Hugo shook his head. “He said you were mean to him. Why were you mean to Daddy?”

XY winced, searching for some kind of answer that a two-year-old could understand. “We both want the same thing, but only one of us can have it.”

Hugo frowned at this. “You can’t share?”

“Gogo,” Adrien called gently, distracting the boy. “Let’s get your toys cleaned up. You and I are going for a walk.”

Hugo stuck out his bottom lip. “But Xavier-Yves and I are pwaying.”

“You can play some more when we get back from our walk. We’ll only be gone thirty minutes,” Adrien cajoled, kneeling down on the floor and starting to return the cars to the backpack.

Hugo pursed his lips and looked like he might protest or cry but then seemed to decide against it. Reluctantly, he started to help his father put away the cars. “Are we going to the Bois de Bouwogne?”

“That’s right,” Adrien confirmed.

“Can Papa and Xavier-Yves and Pwagg come with us?” Hugo inquired, looking up at Adrien hopefully.

“Plagg can come, but Papa and XY are staying here. They have to take care of some adult business,” Adrien explained.

Hugo did not look satisfied with this answer. “Do you have any cheese for Pwagg? Pwagg will get hungry if we’re gone a long time.”

“I’ll go get some out of the fridge,” Adrien assured, zipping up the bookbag and taking it back over to the corner. “You go get your shoes on, okay?”

Hugo nodded, pushing himself to his feet and toddler-running over to the door to get his shoes.

XY stood as well, looking to Luka and whispering, “Who’s Plagg?”

Luka smiled sheepishly. “Uh…Plagg is a flying, talking, magical entity who looks like a black cat. He was Adrien’s friend growing up, and now Plagg and Hugo are friends. Plagg likes cheese. A lot.”

XY nodded, taking this in stride. “I had imaginary friends growing up too, but all of mine were people.”

Luka nodded agreeably, thanking his lucky stars that he didn’t actually have to explain Plagg.

“Okay. I got some Cheddar for Plagg to snack on,” Adrien reported as he came back into the living room. “Ready to go, Gogo?”

Hugo frowned. “Cheddar isn’t his favourite. He thinks it’s boring.”

Adrien grimaced. “I know, Sweetie, but sometimes he just has to make do. He can’t have Camembert all the time.” He held out his hands to Hugo, and Hugo obediently came over to be picked up.

Adrien turned back to Luka, eyes bypassing XY. “We’ll be back in thirty.”

Luka nodded and gave a little wave.

The door closed behind Adrien and Hugo, leaving the flat in a state of intense silence.

#LuXY #luxyweek2k20 #Lukadrien #Lukadrienette #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Luka Couffaine/XY Roth #Luka Couffaine #XY #Xavier-Yves Roth #Mikau's Writings #Welcome to La-La Land

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me -Chapter 55

Warnings: none

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

They arrive in Mumbai at three thirty in the morning. Checking into a hotel just on the outskirts of the city; a simple and unassuming place owned by an ‘informant’ of Anil’s. An inside man with access to both Mahajan and the higher ups temporarily in charge of running his business and carrying out his dirty work. While their true identities are known only to the owner and a handful of his most trusted staff, they register under the fake names given to them prior to boarding the plane. There is to be no trail leading back to them and who they really are; using cash only for all purchases, given different cell phones with unlisted and untraceable numbers to communicate amongst each other with, signing the passenger manifesto before the flight with entirely different monikers. Assured that everything during their stay will be kept low key to avoid any suspicion from ‘the wrong crowd’; two guards in casual clothing assigned to the lobby, monitoring everyone that comes through the front doors. Granted use of the establishment’s personal conference room for all planning and strategic meetings, and for Yaz to set up his command post.

Anil’s money and influence are quite prominent; his dealings and interactions with those he comes across are always friendly, but remaining professional. He’s well liked. Respected. And perhaps more than a little feared. A man that presents himself as calm and level headed but whose tone and facial expressions never leave a doubt that he’s not to be crossed. There’s an edge to him; a grittiness just under the businessman in designer clothes and linen suits and silk ties that suggests a tough and checkered past. Tyler has done his research; digging up some of the truth behind Anil’s departure from Special Forces. It isn't as cut and dry as he led them to believe; it isn’t just vengeance for his brother that saw him and the military parting ways.  Multiple complaints of ‘excessive force’ against apprehended criminals -most drug and human traffickers- leading to an honorary discharge and no access to a pension. He knows there’s more to it than that; through his own experience with the SASR  and the tales of others who’d served in various branches of the military world wide. Most war machines and police forces turns a blind eye to roughening up -and even killing- more hardcore offenders like child molesters, traffickers, and terrorists. But the further he dug into Anil’s past, the most questions he walked away with. His search for the full story only led to heavily guarded military pages that even all the tricks Yaz had taught him over the years couldn’t get past.

He doubts it’s anything serious or scandalous. His money on involvement in missions kept under the radar and out of public knowledge; most likely involving top officials in the Indian government. He’s worked a handful of those jobs himself; everything kept on the down low, his true name and identity kept a secret; nothing more than a ghost or an urban legend behind a high profile assassination.

The room is far more spacious and inviting than the bland and sparsely furnished front lobby. Two queen sized beds and a large walk in closet, burgundy walls adorned with paintings encased in thick, highly polished gold frames, natural wood furniture and a small table with two chairs nestled in the corner by the balcony doors. It’s twelve stories up and he pauses momentarily to look out at the city in the distance; brightly lit skyscrapers and the glow of random lights in apartment buildings, the flashing red of stop signs.  The last time he’d ventured to Mumbai, Millie had been just turned two and a half months old and they were a week and a half away from finding out they were having another baby; staying in Mahajan’s cold and pretentious mansion, discussing how they couldn’t -in good conscience- leave Ovi behind.  They couldn’t -and wouldn’t- allow him to be raised in such a sterile and unloving environment; no one to protect him from his father’s enemies, never feeling the touch of someone who truly cared for him. It was inhumane; expecting any human to live like that, never mind a scared and impressionable kid.

They hadn’t even had a home themselves.  A situation beyond their control making it impossible to return to that small, two bedroom apartment just outside of Sydney.  But they’d made the best of it, taking Ovi with them when they’d headed for Colorado with nothing more than the clothes on their backs and whatever money was in their bank account.  

For now, this is home; no telling just how long he’ll actually be there. All that really matters is that there’s a bed to sleep in and hot, running water, and a toilet that actually works. The rest is just window decoration; needless trimmings and frills that he’ll either never touch or even acknowledge. Living on the job is the best way to do things; no true comforts, nothing to distract you from the seriousness of the mission. And he thinks of Dhaka and how well things had done there, until they didn’t. That squalid hotel room with its dirty walls and cold water and view of the crowded and chaotic street. As desolate and dreary as it had been, for five days it seemed like a paradise. The outside world -and the job at hand- ceasing to exist the moment they locked themselves inside. It seems like forever ago. He’d been a different person then. So had she. Both fractured and damaged, bonding over their empty and meaningless lives.

He’s unsure if his exhaustion is mental or physical. Or if it’s perhaps a mix of both. But the five hours of restless and pain filled sleep he’d managed during the flight has done little to ease the head to toe weariness. Feeling as if his body is running on autopilot as he completes even the simplest of tasks; locking the door, toeing off his boots, placing his own stash of weapons and ammo and other tactical gear in the closet and securing them with a heavy chain and padlock. He feels  numb. Empty. As if the emotional well has been bled dry and there’s just nothing left to give. The Tyler that existed before he stepped onto the plant almost gone; replaced by a darker, more savage and vengeful version. His finger longing for a trigger to pull; that long simmering rage finally reaching its boiling point. It's all he DOES feel now; the desperate seeking of revenge and carrying it out through whatever means necessary.  Pushed to a near breaking point and determined into something useful; the feel of blood on his hands and the terrified, haunted look on another’s face as he stands over them and watches them die.

It should bother him. Wanting to kill. Enjoying the thought of it and knowing he’ll get satisfaction out of doing it. He’s never felt that before; a want and a need to take a life. Before killing had always been a means to an end; a way of securing his own survival. Now it’s a longing. A way of proving two things. That he’s more capable of chaos and violence than Mahajan ever expected, and that even a reformed and changed man will go to any length to protect what’s his.  

It’s justified. The things he needs to do. And it will be easy. He won’t have a guilty conscience. He’ll experience no shame. No regret. No remorse. He’ll feel nothing but relief and satisfaction. And IF he manages to survive, he’ll go on with his life; not once thinking back to things he’d been forced to do in Mumbai.

He checks the time on his phone before tossing it onto the nightstand between the beds. With the four and a half hour time difference between India and Australia, it’s peak insanity time for getting the kids ready and out the door in time for the school bus.  And just like that the feeling of emptiness...and nothingness...briefly lifts; a sudden tightening in his chest and throat and the bitter sting of tears. Actually missing -despite often grumbling about it- that morning routine; the race to get lunch pail paced and stuffed into backpacks, the madness that ensures when three kids all attempt to find missing shoes in the disaster that is the hall closet, often finishing Millie’s hair while standing in the driveway while the boys sit on the curb and watch YouTube videos on his phone. Those moments that most people would take for granted yet he always feels so lucky to even be experiencing. Almost seven years ago he’d been on the brink of death; only to be snatched back and given a second chance. To do something good with his life; one again be a husband and a father but this time get it right.  Experience the ‘boring’ and the ‘mundane’ instead of nothing but danger and self sacrifice. Instead of taking jobs and checking into cheap, shitty hotels, spending his night on the couch with his wife; suffering through her love of reality television while they eat ice cream straight out of the carton.

THAT was supposed to be his life. It’s what they had planned on when they decided to uproot the kids and move back to Australia. Be just another ordinary family; just a mom and ad raising five kids and enjoying their own slice of paradise after years of stress and worry and fear brought on by the job. And he thought he’d be happy with that LIKE that. But the past always finds a way to sneak up on you; reminds you why you’d ever got into it in the first place and convinces you that you aren’t complete without it. The adrenaline, the fast pace, the unpredictability. He’d somehow let himself fall prey to all of that. Once again going back on every goddamn promised he’d made; ruining every good intention he’d started out with.

If one thing has accompanied him to Mumbai, it’s the guilt. It’s deep and it’s painful and it makes him feel physically ill. That he would ever willingly get back into the game when he has so much to lose. The job is draining. Soul crushing. An unfair existence to spouses and children.  Yet he’d brought them into it. He’d gotten close enough to someone to trust them -with his life- and had fallen in love with them and had desperately hung on to her when everything should have been telling him to push her away.  And then he’d brought kids into it. Innocent little beings that are totally dependent on him for their survival and who would be the ones to suffer if anything happens to happen.

It WAS selfish; his reasonings behind not forcing her out of his life and back to Colorado. IT was the first time since Austin...since he’d made the terrible decision he had...that he felt alive again. That he actually allowed himself to feel. Finding someone that was equally as broken and damaged; connecting with them through their experiences with the job and their tortured pasts and horrendous life choices. He hadn’t wanted to lose that. He hadn’t wanted to lose HER. Even though it should have been painfully clear that her life would have turned out so much better without him in it.

He forces those thoughts out of his mind. Concentrating instead on the pain inhabiting his body and the need for a hot shower. Maybe even something to eat. It’s been close to twenty hours since he last ate, and he can feel the pang of hunger that accompanies the guilt and regret and gnaws at his stomach.  And he strips off his clothes as he heads for the bathroom. Letting them fall where they may, planning to gather them later; wincing at the agony that accompanies even the simple task of removing his shirt.

Like the sleeping quarters, the bathroom is spacious; clean and modern with its subway tiles and infinity tub and a glass enclosed shower. And the water is hot...almost punishing...when he stands underneath it; pressure pounding and stinging. A form of self flagellation; punishing himself for both the selfish choice he’d made almost seven years ago and for feeling that way in the first place. Eyes closed, chin dropped to his chest and his palms flat against the tiles. Losing the battle against the threatening tears; allowing them to trickle freely down his cheeks and the sides of his nose, the droplets mixing with the soapy water that gathers at his first before swirling down the drain. It’s the first and only time he’ll let this happen; the open expression of emotion, the loss of control.  It can’t happen again. Not on this job. He can’t allow it to. Not when there’s so much to lose.

His body is still damp damp and a towel is wrapped tightly around his waist when the confusion first hits. Distinctly remembering where he’d dropped each item of clothing on his journey to the bathroom; shirt having been the last item abandoned, left just on the threshold.  Yet it’s no longer there. The door is cracked open to allow some of the steam to escape, and he can hear the sound of the tv -a laugh track for some shitty sitcom- drifting through the suite.  He knows for a fact that he didn’t turn it on. And that he’d shut the bathroom door long before stepping into the shower. It isn’t a threat; no one is going to break into his room and gather up his dirty clothes and watch some television before attempting to kill him. Yet he still moves cautiously towards the door; years of being in a job where you have to expect the unexpected.  Bare feet quiet against the tiles and then the dark, plush carpet. A scowl spreading across his face when he rounds the corner of the wall that separates the sleeping area from the bathroom and finds Koen sprawled out in the middle of the spare bed; clad in just a pair of boxers, hands behind his head as he watches tv.

“Just what in the fuck are you doing?” Tyler asks.

Koen nods towards the television as a form of response.

“Why are you doing it here and not in your own room?”

“Figured you wouldn’t mind having a roomie.”

“Actually, I do mind. So…”

“I picked up after your lazy ass. Were you born in a barn? Or are you just too used to someone picking up after you?”

“Why are you here? And how the hell did you get in here?”

“Front desk gave me the spare key card. Everyone is bunkin’ together; I thought why not the two of us?”

“Have you ever thought I like being alone?”

“You spent way too many years being alone and miserable,” Koen reasons. “Now I know I ain’t as pretty as who you’re used to sharing a room with, but…” he looks up at Tyler limps past him. “...well holy shit…” he drawls, and issues a low whistle. “...I think I’m questioning my sexuality.”

Tyler doesn’t respond; dropping down onto the edge of the bed closest to the window and digging through the old army rucksack for a pair of sweats.

“I could tell you had a pretty good rig under all those clothes, but I didn’t think you looked like THAT. Now I see why she doesn’t leave you. Or is the real reason she doesn’t under the towel?”

Tyler smirks, then shoves his legs into the sweats, towel still around his waist when he stands and pulls them on the rest of the way.

“Don’t be shy on my account. Be proud of what the good Lord gave you. Must be something extra special if your ugly mug manages to keep such a good woman around. Ain’t you ever worried about breaking a tiny little thing like her in half?”

“Fuck off,” Tyler grumbles, then yanks the damp towel from around his waist and tosses it at his friend.

“Humble, are we? I already know what it looks like, remember? How many times did we have to piss standing next to each other when we were in Kandahar?   I’d be lying if I said I wasn't a bit jealous. Still don’t understand how you don’t hurt her, though.”

“I’m not discussing my sex life with you.”

“Never shied away from it before. Used to tell Rata and I all about your lady ‘friends’ stashed all over the world.”

“Yeah? Well I’m not that guy anymore, am I. And this isn’t just some piece of ass. This is my wife. So if you don’t mind…”

“Easy, tiger, easy. I know how defensive you get when it comes to her. And I don’t blame you; I don’t hold the overprotectiveness thing against you. I mean she’s cute, she’s tiny, you’ve almost lost her a couple times already…”

“Thanks for reminding me for that,” Tyler snarls, snagging his phone off the nightstand. “As if I haven’t been thinking about that every second of every fucking day since this Mahajan shit started.”

“...but she’s a grown woman with children and she knows how to take care of herself.” Koen finishes. “Ever think of easing up on her a bit?”

“You ever think of fucking off?”

“All I'm saying is that you don’t need to worry about her so much. She’s more than capable of handling things; taking care of herself and those littles.”

“Not against someone like Mahajan she’s not. And why are you even here? I don’t need company.”

“Hell you don’t. You gonna call home? She’s probably worried about you.”

“Get off my ass and go back to your own room.”

Koen ignores him. “You know this place has twenty four hour room service? We’re a far cry from eating army rations, ain’t we? I took the liberty of ordering both of us a little something. They didn’t have vegemite for your steak,though. What kind of savage bastard does that to a steak?”

“The kind of savage bastard that might kill in your sleep if you don’t fuck off and leave him alone.”

“Nope. Can’t do it. You’re stuck with me. No getting rid of me. Unless you DO kill me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Call home. I know you’re missing her. It’s  okay to admit that; that you need to hear her voice. You’re a lucky bastard that you have a voice to call and help ground you. Don’t take shit like that for granted. Treat her right. ‘Cause there’s probably a lot of guys willing to take your place on her dance card.”

“How about you leave giving relationship advice to someone who is actually in a relationship?” Tyler retorts.

Koen smirks, then gives him the finger before he slides open the balcony door and steps outside.

****

“Job Tyler” is quick to assess his surroundings; considering what could go wrong and how he’d carry it off if he was the one targeting someone. If Mahajan’s people have been tipped off that he’s in Mumbai and they’re either keeping an eye on him or have been sent to take him out, the only way they could achieve it is from the apartment building to the right. It’s nothing but one story single family homes and empty lots in the other directions, and with  his room being on the twelfth floor, there is no possible way even the best of snipers could manage a decent shot from that angle and distance. So instead of standing at the railing and possibly giving someone a chance at him, he stays behind the cement partition that separates his balcony from the one belonging to the room next door.

What a fucking way to live.

It’s nine in the morning in Australia; the kids will have already arrived at school leaving her with just Declan and Addie. It’s easier this way; not calling when the three oldest are around. It will only make things harder on them. And him.

She answers on the third thing; both dogs barking in the background, along with the faint sound of waves.

“Hey,” Esme greets, and her surprisingly cheerful voice brings a smile to his face. “I was wondering if you’d fallen asleep on me,”

“I wanted to wait until the kids were at school. Didn’t want to make things harder on them. They’re okay?”

“Better than they usually are when you leave. Millie and TJ are all about going on a trip and seeing where Ovi came from. Tanner…well you know Tanner...he’s so intuitive and so sensitive and he’s become so close to you since New Zealand. He’s having a hard time. But I knew he would. He’s so much like you. More than anyone...even you...realizes. He feels so deeply and so powerfully.”

“He’ll be alright.” Tyler assures her. “He’s got a pretty amazing mom loving on him.”

“I don't know how amazing she is. She puts herself at mediocre.”

“Well tell her she’s delusional and she’s a fucking rock star and her husband worships the ground she walks on.”

“Her husband sounds like a very smart man.”

He grins. “He has his moments. You okay? What’re you doing?”

“Declan and I are down at the water with Saju and Mac. Kyle’s in the house with Addie. I’m okay, I guess. I’ve been better. I feel...I don’t know...like I’m in some kind of daze or a fog. Like I’m just going through the motions. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. But are you? Okay?”

“Not really,” she admits. “It’s real now. Not something we just talk about or plan. It’s so real and I’m worried and I’m scared and I’m trying so hard not to be. And I miss you. Already.”

“I miss you, too. So much.”

“You usually wait a couple days before admitting it,” Esme teases, and he can’t help but smile.

“Well I’ve gotten used to being around you all the time. Six months of just being about you and my kids. Hits a little deeper now. A little harder. Being away from home.”

“I’d gotten used to you being around all the time, too. I know sometimes I bitched about it, but I really DID like it; having you here THAT much. And I like my brother, don’t get me wrong, and he’s a huge help, but he’s not you. It was weird waking up and you not being there. I’ve been spoiled, I guess. I took it...you…for granted. I hate myself for that.”

“Don’t, baby. Don’t ever feel like that. We’ve both done it. Not just you.”

“I did wake up to four little ones in the bed, though. I don’t know how they take up so much damn room. And Declan is freaking tall and so heavy!”

“Kid’s a tank. Gonna be six seven and weight three pounds and be solid as fuck.”

“Even with the red hair, he looks more like you every day. You have some seriously strong genes, Tyler Rake. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Are you really okay? Or…?”

“I’m okay now,” he says. “Now that I’m talking to you.  I needed to hear your voice.”

“And you say you’re not sappy,” Esme chides. “There’s a lot of people here. That Anil has sent. It’s making me even MORE nervous. And they’re not subtle. They're armed. Heavily. And they’re not making an attempt to hide it.”

“How many?”

“A dozen so far. There’s two of them watching Declan and I right now. We DON’T need this. This isn’t helping.”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Tyler reasons.

“Our kids aren’t stupid. They notice everything. And they’re going to notice them and they’re going to start asking questions and they’re going to get scared. Can’t you get them to scale it back? Just a little? I don’t want the kids stressed out. I’m stressed out enough for all of us.”

“I’ll talk to Anil,” he says. “See if he’ll tone things down.”

“The kids do not need to know what’s going on. You know what Millie gets like when she thinks too much about you going after bad guys. She gets anxious and panics and then we’ll have a six year old that will start sucking her thumb and wetting the bed again.”

“I’ll talk to him. You’re right; there’s no need for all of that.”

“Do you think something’s happened?” she asks. “That maybe the threats have gotten worse? Or maybe Mahajan’s people are on the move?”

“What I think is that you need to NOT think so much. I’ll take care of it. And you guys are leaving tomorrow, so…”

“I wish you could be there,” she sighs. “When we arrive.”

“So do I, baby. Nothing I wouldn’t give to be there. But…”

“I know. I know it’s not safe. It’s just me being selfish and wanting to see you. It must be really late. Or really early.”

“Almost five.”

“You should rest. You sound tired.”

“I am,” Tyler admits. “I’m going to have something to eat and then try and sleep. There’s nothing to do until early afternoon. Just a team meeting to go over shit. I’ll call later. After dinner, your time. So I can talk to the kids.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself, please. ��You NEED to.”

“I know. I’ll talk to you later. Give Declan and the baby a hug and a kiss from me. Tell them I love them.”

“I will. We love you. Your little peanut misses you most of all, I think. She wouldn’t settle for her feed this morning until I wrapped her in one of your t-shirts from the dirty laundry basket.”

Tears prick his eyes, but he manages to hold them back. “Why would you do that to my little peanut?” he teases. “Traumatize her like that? That thing probably stinks.”

“It smells like you. And that’s the best smell in the world. I miss you. So much. And I can’t wait to see you. I hope it’s sooner rather than later."

“I hope so, too. I miss you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Tyler. Take that with you, okay? Wherever you go, whatever you get mixed up in.”

“I will,” he promises. “Talk later.”

“Be safe. Please. Be smart. You’ve got this. I know you do. You’re strong and you’re tough and nothing Mahajan throws at you is too much.”

“You’re good for my ego, you know that?”

“I’m in your corner. No matter what. We’ll talk soon,”

“We will,” he confirms, then waits for her to disconnect the call before hanging up himself.

****

“Well?” Koen asks when he steps back into the room. “Everything good on the home front’?”

“Best it can be, I guess.”

“Felt good, didn't it? Being able to talk to her. Hearing her voice like that?”

Tyler smirks, dropping his cell onto the bedside table.  “When the fuck did you get so sappy?”

“There was a time where I did love all my ex wives, you know. When I liked hearing their voices. Now all I feel is a cold chill if I hear even the slightest peep from those three hens. Nice seeing you this way. All head over heels, a fool in love for someone. Considering I know what you were like when you were with Sarah. Back when you THOUGHT you were in love.”

“Do we have to talk about her? Nothing good ever comes from talking about her.” He stretches out in the middle of the bed, pillows behind his back as he leans against the headboard. “When is the food showing up? I’m fucking starvin’.”

“Soon. And all I’m saying is that there’s a huge difference between the guy you were with Sarah and the guy you are with Esme. Back then, you thought you were in love. Now you really are. It’s written all over your damn face. Every time you look at her, it’s right there. How you feel. And you can’t tell me you don’t see the difference. FEEL the difference. Between the two.”

“Of course I do. It’s night and day.”

“You two are still so loved up on each other. I know I complain that it’s nauseating and annoying, but it’s actually really nice. Seeing you like that. Loving someone; them loving you. You deserved it. Finding that. Finding HER. It’s changed you. SHE’S changed you.”

“For good or…?”

“Of course for good, don’t be a dumb ass. She’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to you.  Her and those kids. She made you a daddy again. You ask me, she deserves you worshipping the ground she walks on. And you’re a good daddy. A damn good one.”

“I’m just doing whatever I can do to make up for the shitty I mess I made the first time around.”

Koen frowns. “Don’t do that, mate. Don’t compare those kids to what you lost. They’re not a replacement for Austin. Don’t talk like they are. And don’t treat them like they are. They deserve better than that. You did a crappy thing; we all do crappy things. But that’s a long time ago and you’re a different man now and them kids aren’t holding the past against you. You’re doing that all on your own. You have this uncanny ability to fuck your life up without even trying. Those kids don’t care who you were back then. Just who you are now.”

Tyler sighs. “You talk a lot of shit, you know that?”

“I’m talking the truth.  You just hate hearing it for some reason. You hate when other peoples’ narratives don’t match your own. When they don’t see you as the shitty human you see yourself as. Knock that shit off. You’re better than you think.”

“Maybe,” Tyler agrees. “Maybe I am. But sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. If I should have forced her to leave; when I woke up after Dhaka. If I should have found a way to get her to take off.”

Koen scowls. “You’re taking shit and you know it.”

“I was selfish. I wanted her to stay. I liked the way she made me feel. Not just the sex part of things. I mean everything. I liked having her around. I liked hearing her voice and seeing her smile. I liked how she looked at me. She didn’t look at me with pity or disgust. She looked at me like I was worth something. Like I wasn’t just a big fucking mess.”

“She saw the potential.” Koen reasons. “We all saw it. Just took her to get out of you.”

“But I kept her there for me. I didn’t think about what it would do to her; being mixed up with someone like me. And I should have. I should realized I’d only make her life a big fucking mess.”

“If she wanted to leave, she would have. You didn’t force her to stay.”

“I didn’t make her leave, either. And I should have. Especially after she found out about the baby.”

Koen’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck you going on about?”

“She would have been better going back to the States and having the baby on her own and  never bothering with me again.”

“That’s horseshit and you know it! You really think you could have lived like that? Knowing you had a kid out there? Yet never knowing if it was a boy or a girl or even their name or what they looked like? You wouldn’t have been able to live like that; knowing you had blood out there So quit talking crazy. Look at that little girl. Think about her. How much she loves her daddy.”

“I’m a selfish fuck,” Tyler insists. “For getting married. Having kids. Dragging them all into this.”

“You didn’t drag anyone into anything,” Koen argues.  “Esme stayed. She chose to be with you. And no matter what you could have said or done to push her away, it wouldn’t have worked. Her mind was made up. She wanted to be with you. For some fucking reason,”

“She deserves better than this. So do those kids.”

“Those kids wouldn’t even exist without you! They’re just as much yours as they are hers. You know what they deserve? They deserve to be on this earth.  They have a mom and a dad that love them. That take damn good care of them. You know what’s selfish?  You thinking FOR them. You’re their daddy. And you sit here talking about them like they’re mistakes?”

“I never said that.”

“You might as fucking well! You deserve a normal life. A wife and kids. People that love you no matter how big of a mess you think you are! And you know what? Fuck you for questioning that. Questioning their existence!”

“I never…”

“You’re the luckiest fucker I know,” Koen continues his rant. “I’ve seen you at your lowest. I’ve seen you in the gutter, practically. And this beautiful, selfless woman comes along and gives everything of herself to you. Gave up her old life to have a new one with you. And that’s how you think of her? Just to hell with the last seven years? To hell with five kids? All you think is ‘I should have pushed her away’? That’s what she gets after everything she’s done for you? Fuck you, mate. Guys would kill for what you have. Stop looking at what’s wrong and look at what’s right! You have a great life. That you deserve. So get your head out of your ass and appreciate it before someone comes along and does it for you. Yeah, you're a selfish prick, alright. Not even thinking about what pushing her away would have done to her and the baby she had in her belly. How none of those kids would even exist. THAT makes you a selfish prick.”

Silence descends on the room; Koen’s harsh words and accusations hanging heavily in the air. He’s right, of course. Even if Tyler hates to admit it, even to himself. Had he pushed her away, he would have spent the rest of his life drinking himself stupid and dwelling on what could have been and thoughts of what his kid turned out to be; what they looked like or what their name was. Did Esme give them his last name or did she just go with her? Was she with anyone? Did she ever think about him and those five days in Dhaka or did she hate him enough to never think of it...or him...again?

How would her life have turned out? Who would she have  ended  up with? Would she have been happy? Or would part of her always be back in Australia? His child serving as a bond that would always keep them connected. Millie would exist,but none of the others would. No TJ with his fiery temper but a propensity to love with his entire heart and soul. No Tanner with his dad’s old haircut and his huge emotions and his sensitive, old soul. No Declan with his red hair and his strong, solid build, so affectionate and loving. No Addie; impossibly tiny with a headful of dark hair and those enormous dark eyes. And that’s a reality he’d never want to face; a life without any of his kids.

“You love her, yeah?” Koen speaks up.

“Of course I do. With everything I am. Everything I have. What..?”

“You love her and that’s enough for her. And she loves you. Or she wouldn’t have stuck around after Dhaka or after any of the shitty times. She’s given herself willingly to you. Given you five kids and a damn good life. Don’t ever talk about her or those kids like that again, or  I WILL beat you ass. Understand me?”

Tyler nods.

“No that we’ve got all that worked out,” Koen sighs. “Food’s gonna be here soon. You gonna eat?”

“I could definitely eat.”

“Gotta take care of yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you don’t. What do you wanna watch?” He gestures towards the tv with the remote. “Probably got some good adult channels on here.”

Tyler smirks. “I am not watching pron with you in the room.”

“I ain’t gonna like while you’re jerking off if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You’ve got issues, mate. Why are you so obsessed with my dick?”

“Gotta be a reason she sticks around, I figure. I’m just trying to piece together what it is. Something’s keeping her happy. Unless…” Koen’s eyes narrow. “...you’re a giver and not a taker, aren’t ya. You’re going above and beyond down yonder to get your woman happy.”

“I already told you; I’m not talking about my sex life with you.”

“That’s it, isn’t it. You’re spoiling her THAT way.”

“My wife has no complaints. I’ll leave it at that.”

“Atta boy! You’ve your priorities straight! You must be something right; she sticks around.”

“Have you ever thought maybe she just loves me? That’s all it is?”

“No doubt in my mind she does. But I’m proud of you; doing what it takes to make her happy. She reciprocating or..”

“Mate, we are not having this conversation.”

“Just give me a sign that she is. Some kind of hint. Give me a thumbs up if she’s doing her bit, too.”

Tyler smirks, then gives two thumbs up.

“You fucking bastard!” Koen snarls. “I don’t know whether to be jealous or you or hate you right now. Maybe a bit of both. No wonder you always got that goofy grin on your face whenever you’re around her. You’re getting yourself some. On a regular basis.”

“Probably get more in one week than you get in six months.”

“Now THAT’S harsh.”

Another silence descends on the room. This time far more comfortable. And Tyler lays his head back against the pillow behind him and closes his eyes. He feels better now. Slightly, at least. Koen’s tough love and hearing his wife’s voice and picturing her down at the water-with the sun capturing the natural red highlights in her dark tresses and that little burn she always gets on her nose and under her eyes- doing wonders to alleviate the guilt and regret. Loosening some of that tightness around his heart.

“You’ve got a good thing,” Koen says. “A good life. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I won’t,” Tyler vows.

But the confidence is lacking. It isn’t himself he doesn’t trust. He has the skills and the strength to complete the tasks at hand; his instincts and abilities strong. HE isn’t the problem. It’s everything...everyone...else around him. There’s no control over the situation . He’s at the mercy of his environment; unfamiliar surroundings working as a weakness. His kryptonite.

Mahajan holds all the cards. And it’s time to take them away.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #chris hemsworth character #extraction

[plsbyallmeans]

Hillary Clinton on Her Surreal Life and New Hulu Doc: “I’m Not the President, and I Got More Votes! It’s So Crazy!”

The former candidate looks back and laughs. What else is she gonna do?

Hillary Clinton sat serenely before me, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. That was my first surprise as I was ushered into a room at a Pasadena hotel to talk to the former Secretary of State and the woman who won the popular vote in the 2016 election about Hulu’s four-part documentary series, Hillary (premieres March 6). Although she’s been accused of being plodding and dour, Clinton exuded buoyant warmth. And then there was her laugh. At first I was convinced that it was deployed for effect. (Politicians get media training; is laughter training a thing?) But gales of it tumbled out so regularly and recklessly that it seemed clear Clinton was just relaxed—maybe for the first time ever?

Sure, sometimes her laughter sounded rueful, but a lot of us feel rueful these days. And while she has stopped ascending the political ladder, Clinton’s name still sparks both adoration and loathing, as well as generalized post-traumatic stress. Some people wish she would withdraw into media exile rather than shadow the current election like the ghost of campaigns past. That gave some pause to Nanette Burstein, the documentary filmmaker behind The Kid Stays in the Picture and American Teen who took on this project in 2018. Burstein knew the Clinton defeat was still a raw wound for liberal America. But it was a cross she was willing to bear, given the complete editorial control and 35 hours of interviews with her subject she was granted, along with leeway to pose any questions she wanted.

I started to ask Clinton how it felt to participate in this legacy-defining project after so many years of having her life’s narrative framed by others, but the word “framed” triggered an explosive howl of laughter. “By all definitions of that word!” she said, eyes flashing, before collecting herself again.

“I decided to do it because I’m not running for anything and I think my life and my story has parallels with women’s lives and stories and what’s going on in politics,“ Clinton told me resolutely. (This was several weeks before the rumor circulated that Mike Bloomberg was considering asking Clinton to be his running mate.) “Thirty-five hours sitting in a chair answering questions is grueling but I felt like if I didn’t tell my side of the story, who would?” she added with a shrug. “At least there’ll be a baseline: Here’s what actually happened in my life. Here’s what I actually said about it.”

That led to some very uncomfortable conversations about the many scandals that engulfed the Clintons, including her husband’s affair with Monica Lewinsky. (“It was awful what I did,” Bill Clinton tells Burstein, barely able to look at the camera. “I feel terrible about the fact that Monica Lewinsky’s life was defined by it.”) “I had to ask the ex-president of the United States about the most personal thing in his life and why he would make such a decision,” Burstein recalled. “It was very intimidating! But it was about: How did this affect Hillary and her marriage and the repercussions of that, which followed her 20 years later, into this last election.”

The series flickers back and forth between Hillary Clinton’s youth and the present, weaving together a complicated and flattering (if not quite hagiographic) portrait of a woman who’s provoked admiration and abhorrence for much of her life. Sometimes she seems like a real-life Zelig, popping up near the center of American culture for the last half century. But Zelig was a bystander, whereas Hillary got right in the thick of the action, sometimes changing the course of events and others times being swept along by them.

Clinton came of age at the exact moment that the women’s liberation movement was rising, and her 1969 Wellesley commencement speech landed her a spot in Life magazine. As a young lawyer, she wrote briefs as part of the staff for Nixon’s impeachment hearings (decades later, in a savage irony, she saw the process from another angle when her own husband was impeached). After following Bill to Arkansas, she confronted good old boy sexism, encountering judges who thought women shouldn’t be lawyers and constituents who felt the first lady of Arkansas should take her husband’s name. When Bill cheated on her in the White House, some women were furious with Hillary for standing by him. Conversely, when Bill entrusted her with the daunting task of devising a universal health care plan 16 years before Obamacare, right-wing rage, and revulsion boiled over. Footage in the Hulu series features protesters brandishing posters with slogans like “Hillary makes me sick” and “Heil Hillary.” At a Kentucky rally, they even burned her in effigy.

“I was threatened when I went around the country talking about it,” Clinton told me of that heated Hillarycare moment, shuddering at the mention of the burning effigy. “The Secret Service made me wear a bulletproof coat at one event because they had taken guns and knives off of people trying to get into the outdoor event. I thought, Shit, I’m trying to get people health care! It’s not like I’m stealing your firstborn here! What is the matter with you?” she shrieked, howling with laughter. “It was so weird—like, what’s happening here? Were they paid? A lot of them were riled up by talk radio…. But yeah, I had a lot of very unusual experiences.”

In the Hulu series, former adviser Cheryl Mills recalls “Hillary hater sessions” during Clinton’s 2008 campaign for the Democratic nomination: Women complaining that the candidate was too power-hungry or that she’d been weak for staying with Bill. “It was like watching The Exorcist: The bile would just keep coming up,” Mills said. Clinton herself told me that before she ran for president, a psychological researcher warned her she’d have problems with white women “because they don’t want any conflict with their husbands, their fathers, their sons, their brothers, their boss. And white men are not going to vote for you—they didn’t vote for your husband, they didn’t vote for Obama, et cetera. So there was a lot of pressure on these women.”

Whatever your view of Clinton’s politics, Hillary reminds us that she was voted the most admired woman in America in the Gallup Poll for 16 years in a row. (Michelle Obama knocked her off the top slot.) Clinton fervently believes she had the white woman vote nailed down in 2016 “until Jim Comey dropped that letter on me,” she said. “I was going to win, I am absolutely convinced of that…. What happened is that white women left me, because their husbands or their bosses or whatever said, See? See? She is going to jail! It was a very effective assault on me.” The series points out that not only was Clinton’s career shaped by her own husband’s infidelity, but it was derailed once again by the sexual misbehavior of Anthony Weiner, husband of her top aide, Huma Abedin. The FBI probe into his sexting a teenage girl ultimately led to Comey’s announcement that they were reopening the investigation into Clinton’s use of a private email server. This reignited the frenzied right-wing smear campaign and, she believes, turned off enough vacillating voters to throw the election to Trump.

Burstein didn’t want to lean too heavily on the gender angle because there are elements at play in Clinton’s turbulent trajectory that “have nothing to do with that,” she said. “They have to do with politics. With her own personality. But there are also things that are very specific to being a female when you’re trying to do something no one else has done…. You really see that play out in her story over and over again.” The documentary shows how the battery of conflicting public expectations and right-wing vilification over several decades caused Clinton to build up defenses, which made her seem ever-more guarded and humorless. That armoring process started as early as law school, where she learned to put her head down and work hard “despite whatever obstacles were put up. And when you fast-forward into an age where everybody wants to see what your emotions are and how you respond and all that... It’s really a different environment in which we find ourselves now.”

Clinton first sat down with Burstein for interviews just a few days after the 2018 midterm results came through with their record number of women elected to Congress. The former first lady and Secretary of State regards the anger-fueled impetus that drove so many women to run for political office as the silver lining to her 2016 defeat. “She doesn’t feel that it’s a tragedy, so why should I depict it that way?” said Burstein. “She’s not bemoaning her existence every day. She’s like: Okay, what’s next?”

Sitting in front of me in a nubby tweed blazer, Clinton said she tries to be realistic about the progress women have made during her lifetime. “A lot of legal barriers have disappeared, and that’s a big step. So now we deal with all of these pent-up stereotypes and judgments about what women should and shouldn’t do or should and shouldn’t be. And we have all these forces—political and ideological and religious and financial—arrayed against further progress. And we have a president who is a willing tool. He doesn’t believe any of this stuff. He has absolutely no core beliefs whatsoever.”

Clinton won’t endorse anyone in the primary, she told me: “I just want whoever can beat him to get the nomination. Beat him in the Electoral College. That’s all I care about. I’m not going through this again!” she said, dissolving into laughter once more.

I asked Clinton if she ever thought about what she’d be doing in a parallel world where she hadn’t moved to Arkansas and married Bill. She evaded the question, telling me she moved there because she wanted to decide whether to marry and just fell in love with her life there. But then I mentioned to her William Gibson’s new novel, Agency, which takes place in a world where Hillary is president.

“Oh, I’d love to read it!” she gasped, asking for more details. In our own reality, “I’m not the president and I got more votes. It’s so crazy! So I’m interested in somebody writing something about a different ending.” She smiled and wailed, “I want to live in that world!”

(Link)

#Hillary Clinton #Eek so she's going to read the alternative universe Hillary Clinton and I am living for it

[heartslogos]

executive assistant to the batman [51]

“I met with an interesting reporter today,” B says in that considering tone of voice that usually leads to a unique and probably illegal by the codes of the Geneva convention punishment. Dick immediately runs through a mental checklist of things that he might have done that would lead to a possible life changing and ruining experience about to unfold in the next ten minutes. He can’t think of anything B would be unhappy about. He’s kept his nose clean for almost a full month. The last thing he did B already chewed him out over and it’s not like B’s going to do that twice and a month apart.

He’s probably okay. Probably.

Dick turns to his left and sees Jason doing a similar mental run down before turning to his right to look across the table at Cassandra. Cassandra is looking at Damian. Damian is looking under the table at the dog.

“Alright, and?” Jason prompts when the four of them, plus Titus, realize that none of them are going to fess up to anything.

“And he seems to think that I’m suffering under elder abuse,” B continues, taking a small sip of water as he glances up towards the ceiling in thought, “I wonder where he got that impression.”

There’s a vivd bruise just peeking out of the collar of B’s turtleneck from when he was almost strangled to death three days ago. That could probably be it. He’s also got two fingers taped together when he got them jammed between some steel beams. That could also be it.

Cass said that she saw B walking funny earlier. Again. Probably because he fell three stories onto a closed dumpster.

“Did he blame the demon over there?” Jason jerks his chin in Damian’s direction. Damian glowers at Jason, taking a savage bite of pork off of his fork and then slipping the bone underneath the table for the dog.

A sign that B is getting soft in his old age is he doesn’t even say anything about it.

“No.”

“I bet he blamed you,” Dick says, “Wasn’t there an article a few years back when someone saw you taking a swing at B at a party?”

“It was a light hearted swing. It never would’ve hit.”

“I think Tim was going to take a swing at you for getting that caught on camera,” Dick muses, “Or, you know. Throw you under the bus and have you take care of the entire thing yourself.”

“That would imply that he thinks I could take care of the entire thing myself without digging the hole deeper. Pretty sure he doesn’t trust anyone here to do that. Except maybe Cass, but she’d be digging him deeper.”

“The reporter thinks Tim’s the culprit behind my suffering.”

The four of them exchanged baffled glances.

Is this Christmas come early?

“I have a follow up interview, set up away from W.E.. I think this is what they call a welfare check. Would any of you like to join me?”

“Are we playing along with it?” Jason asks. “I mean. It’s blatantly untrue, but. But listen. What if we just went along with it?”

Damian glares at Jason.

“Do not damage Drake, Todd. I cannot afford risking losing him because of your machinations.”

“I didn’t know you two were so fond of each other.” That’s a lie. Dick knows that Tim and Damian have a very special bond that they never talk about.

“That man is the only one ensuring that my inheritance is right where it should be and in proper condition,” Damian says, “Without him W.E. would be a decrepit shell of a building without a penny to its name.”

“I think I was running the company quite fine before Tim.”

“You can think whatever you please, Father.”

“I’m going,” Cass says, pushing around the last of her mashed potatoes, “I won’t say anything. But I’m going.”

“Would it be too much if all of us went with you?” Dick asks.

Bruce shrugs, “The more the merrier. And I’m sure that having us all in one place for a set amount of time would take a burden off of Tim’s shoulders.”

“Are we debunking the elderly abuse thing?”

“Let’s play it by ear. It’s not like there’s any real evidence to support it. And of all the problematic rumors to circulate, this is probably ranking pretty even on there. It’s not some kind of sex scandal or drug ring thing this time,” Dick points out. “How did Tim react? Did you tell him?”

“He seemed surprised, but otherwise indifferent to the situation. He is leaving this up to my discretion since it’s such a low priority,” B answers. “I don’t think Tim is aware of the kind of…atmosphere he sets when he’s in the room with me.”

“Ah, you mean the one where it feels like every time he looks in your direction shaving off of his soul peels away and dissolves, slowly turning him into a more demonic presence?”

“Eloquently put, Dick.”

“I was just going to say the way he looks at you like he can imagine puppeting you like a flesh suit,” Jason says, “But sure, that works too.”

Damian wrinkles his nose. Cassandra laughs.

“He also smiles like he wants to skin you alive whenever you’re interacting with someone he doesn’t trust you to behave around,” Jason says. “Like…reporters.”

“I think Tim’s smile is perfectly normal.”

“That’s because you’re so used to people wanting to beat you up that your self preservation withered away.”

“Do not antagonize Drake,” Damian says, “I do not care how much of a fun sport you think it is. You are jeopardizing my future.”

“But what about our future?” Jason needles, ‘The one where we get to laugh and feel happy again because life is short and opportunities like this don’t come up very often? Carpe diem.”

“Someone should warn Tim to move this higher up on his list of priorities,” Dick says.

“Not me,” Cassandra says, standing up and kissing B on the cheek, before ruffling Damian’s hair as she walks past him. “Let me know when it is arranged. I will be there.”

“You going to nark on us?” Jason asks Damian who rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to warn him that you lot are planning on being difficult. It is in my best interest, after all.”

#heartsfic #c: unwanted and enduring knight #c: a star going red giant #c: uncompromising victor #c: icarus rising #c: the children's champion

[guiltypleasurefandomface]

Do you know about Paul O’Grady?

Paul O’Grady is a British television star originally from the Wirral. He started off as a drag act (alongside many other jobs) and is now presenter of the show, For The Love of Dogs.

This man is not without his many, many problems but he’s a voice who is regulalry missed in the conversation of British Pride history. He’s written four autobiographies which cover every aspect from his childhood, his family, his nervous foray into the drag circuit, his toxic relationships, the AIDS/HIV crisis as he lost many friends to AIDS/HIV, struggling with his sexuality, his rise to mainstream fame as a drag act star before retiring the persona, and his love of animals.

There’s been a lot of criticism for what he’s written, from his family saying the portrayals of certain relatives and friends were inaccurate, his use of dated terminlogy (although other people who were in the LGBT community at the time have come out in his defence saying he was using the appropriate terminology that they, as a community, used at the time, and he only uses it for those eras and not now) and romanticising his toxic relationship.

Some say he’s notoriously difficult to work with, but also other people say he’s brilliant to work with.

And damnit, he’s naturally funny. I know that sounds dismissive of all the legitimate criticisms, especially in this day of cancel culture, but I grew up watching Paul O’Grady as drag act Lily Savage on game shows, on The BIg Breakfast, appearing on other shows to be interviewed or part of the game, and then after he put Lily into retirement, I watched him on his ITV show of his own where he interviewed celebrity guests and did a whole pantomime at Christmas. I really think, despite of his problematic ways, he’s a valuable source of information not to be overlooked. It’s not just his own story he tells in his autobioraphies, he was there through raids and justice uprising.

On his own show, he was in his element when things went wrong, and I wish I could find a video of when he fell of his piano the FIRST time, because you can only find the video when where he fell off his piano for the FOURTH time and it’s a different piano. The first time, it was a revolving piano and he just... slid off as it went around. The second time wasn’t as funny either and actually looked quite painful for him, and I’m convinced the third time was a set up. There’s also the famous video where he fell off his wobbly chair and Matt Lucas and David Walliams (Anita Dobson is also on the couch and was the first person to jump up to help him) thought he’d had another heart attack. Sounds awful, it’s actually hilarious.

But his books have all this range. His life, if you take him at his word, was not all that easy going. He was a young man struggling with his sexuality in the 50s, 60s and 70s, so of course it wouldn’t be! He doesn’t offer a different perspective on what that’s like, I just think his experiences from his first two books, even if you take them with a pinch of salt, are worth reading about.

Although WARNING for talks of abuse:- At one point he worked in a disabled children’s home in the wirral, where he looked after a bunch of lads with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Not only does he mention about the short life span of the children, he talks about the abuse scandal surrounding the home. It came to light years after he left, it goes without saying that he had nothing to do with it, and he expresses survivor’s guilt over how none of the kids in his care felt able to tell him what was happening to them. If that would distress you to read, I would recommend you give it a miss. I can’t give you the specific chapter, because I can’t remember which or which book it’s in.

#Paul O'Grady

[mrepstein]

The Guardian Review (The Guardian - December 18, 1998)

‘The secret life of the real fifth Beatle’ by Jon Savage

'No one else had the flair, the panache, the wit that Brian had,' says Paul McCartney. So why did he die miserably and alone? 

Jon Savage describes how Brian Epstein fell victim to drugs and the pressures of being a secret homosexual 

From the day that he first experienced the Beatles at Liverpool's Cavern - "a vast, engulfing sound" - Brian Epstein devoted his life to their success and well-being. "He just had this vision," says Alistair Taylor, with whom Epstein made that lunch-time visit on December 9 1961. "Within half an hour, he wanted to manage them. He could see what they could become." 

From that meeting came a cultural and social revolution. The Beatles changed everything and Epstein was the architect of that change. The statistics are staggering. By the end of December 1963, Epstein's acts - the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Billy J Kramer - had spent more than 30 weeks at number one in the 1963 UK charts; four months later, the Beatles held the top five places in the US top 40 - a hitherto unthinkable feat, and a coup not repeated since. 

You'd have thought that managing the biggest group in the world would be enough - Elvis's manager, Colonel Tom Parker, couldn't believe that the Beatles' manager had more than the one act - but, during the next three years, Epstein continued to manage the enduringly popular Pacemakers and Cilla Black; he expanded NEMS (North End Music Stores, the Epstein family firm) into dozens of companies; he managed the bullfighter Henry Higgins; he produced the West End premiere of James Baldwin's Amen Corner; he ran a West End theatre, the Saville, which showcased Jimi Hendrix, Little Richard, the Four Tops and a wide range of rock and soul talent. 

For all this achievement, history has not been kind to Brian Epstein. As a result of his premature death in August 1967, people regard him as a prime example of that old adage - "money can't buy you happiness". When his homosexuality became public after John Lennon's excoriating, 1971 Rolling Stone interview - the gloves came off. Subsequent accounts - most notably in Albert Goldman's book, Lives Of John Lennon - promoted ideas that have stuck; that Epstein was lousy at business, dominated by the Beatles, sad. Even Joe Orton had a pop in his diaries: "A thoroughly weak, flaccid type." 

Yet, as ever, you have to consider who is doing the telling. Epstein rejected Orton's Up Against It script for a possible Beatles film, and Goldman's source for some of his factoids was Nicky Byrne, who was in litigation with Epstein for two years. The problem for anyone rash enough to approach the Beatles' story yet again - no matter at how oblique an angle - is that the myth has become so encrusted with assertion and counter-assertion that when you couch it in book form you have a problem of who to believe that is library-sized. 

So, in making The Brian Epstein Story for Arena, director Anthony Wall and I decided to forget about all the books except Epstein's own A Cellarful Of Noise, published at the height of Beatlemania in August 1964. We didn't want theory; we wanted to talk to people who had been there, who had known Epstein. Because, for all the media fuss surrounding the Beatles, their manager has emerged as little more than a cipher in their story - yet his was a central role: as Paul McCartney says, "If anyone was the fifth Beatle, it was Brian, you know."

Our first port of call was Epstein's ghostwriter on A Cellarful Of Noise, Derek Taylor, who, despite his grave illness, received us with perfect grace. Taylor had been through the full white light madness of the Beatles' August 1964 US tour as their press officer; his own writings contain the most incisive accounts of the Beatles and their myth. "Brian was undoubtedly very impressive," he remembered, "A very soft appearance. He didn't look as though he did any exercise, but then a lot of people didn't then. I certainly didn't, and I was very thin. Cigarette smoking. So was he, nervy. Very well dressed, very good suit, lovely shirt: these were what made people different. The detail. 

"It is extraordinary that he could be almost immediately acceptable to those four. The only way it could have worked is if it was absolutely right. It was on, in other words. It's no good pretending it works if it doesn't. But thinking big: that's what bound Brian and the boys together. They all did think big. When he signed them up in that office in Whitechapel he told them: "I think I could help you." He actually believed he could, and he was prepared to sit it out with them, with all their cheek and impudence. In a way they had a lot in common: just the vernacular was different." 

To Epstein, the Beatles arrived as the answer to a question that had been gnawing at him for his whole life. Born on September 19, 1934, he was the eldest child of a prospering merchant family. Brian was mercurial, obsessive, and stubborn in pursuing his own path. His school days were disrupted by war and anti-semitism. His ambition to be a dress designer crumbled under family pressure. His dissatisfaction led him to an unsuccessful stint with RADA; his national service had ended prematurely with his discharge on "medical grounds". 

By 1961 he was making a success of the family business, but was, by his own account, "a little listless and bored". The shadow here, which could not have been admitted when A Cellarful Of Noise was published, was his sexuality. Taylor explains: "He wouldn't have had anything in there that implied or hinted at homosexuality, because of the danger of jail after the Lord Montague thing (a prominent gay scandal in which three men were jailed in March 1954), which was a frightening, horrible witch-hunt only 10 years before. But he told me this after only a morning: and how well did he know me? Not well, but a bit. It was a risk." 

It’s easy to forget now - when, despite pockets of resistance, there is greater public tolerance - just how off the map homosexuals were in the fifties and early sixties. Epstein's own thoughts on his life are contained in a document written for his then solicitor in the late fifties, notes for a defence against a charge of importuning: "I believed that my own willpower was the best thing with which to overcome my homosexuality. And I believe my life may become contented and I may even have attained a public success. I was determined to win through the horrors of this world. I have always felt deeply for the persecuted: for the Jews, the coloured people, for the old and society's misfits." 

The truism is that Epstein's interest in the Beatles was fuelled by sexual attraction, and this may well be the case. A persistent rumour which can be neither proved nor disproved (as both parties are now dead), is that he had an encounter with John Lennon while on a spring 1963 holiday together in Barcelona, as imagined in the film The Life And Times.* Yet this is an essentialist argument: even if Epstein did feel a sexual pull, it could easily have been transmuted into the care with which he managed the group. Not every sexual desire has to be physically acted upon. 

There was another element in their mutual bonding: for the first time in his life, Epstein felt as though he belonged. "A lot of stress has been laid on Brian fancying John Lennon," says pop manager Simon Napier-Bell, who encountered Epstein at the end of his life; "But I think it was far more being a loner and suddenly finding he was part of a group. I think that was much more what he was interested in, and that brought him into a broader group again than the Beatles." 

According to McCartney, this theatricality was the key: "We had been playing together a little while and we were starting to feel that we were getting good. But we needed someone to push us and give us a few clues as to how we might go further. It became obvious that Brian was that person. He had a theatrical flair, having gone to RADA. He knew a lot of people. He was a great networker, so it became clear he would be very good for you. It is always very helpful having someone theatrical out front; there's got to be someone out there who says: 'That was really good" or 'When you moved over, they lost you. Don't do that next time.' It's a director: that's really what he was." 

When the Beatles hit in the way that Epstein had predicted in 1962 - "One day they will be greater than Presley" - his showbusiness connections worked conclusively in their favour. Part of a London circle that included Lionel Bart and Alma Cogan, Epstein picked Alun Owen - well known for the play No Trams To Lime Street - to write the script for A Hard Day's Night, an inspiration for a whole generation of rock groups and still one of the best pop films ever. But then Epstein was already on record as saying that he thought pop music was an "art form", and he totally supported the Beatles' instinctive attempts to make it so - that empathetic quality which makes him the doyen of pop managers to the present day. 

By the time it was becoming absolutely clear that the Beatles were like no other pop group, success had brought the problems of over-expansion. "He found it impossible to delegate all the time that I knew him," says Taylor. With this increasing pressure came crippling anxiety: as Epstein states in A Cellarful Of Noise, "When a disc goes badly or a business venture fails, I am the one that suffers most, for I hold myself responsible. It isn't the money that worries me; it's the failure." 

"Brian was obsessed with controlling a situation," says his US attorney and close friend Nat Weiss, who met him in summer 1964. "Anything done outside his area of control brought a tirade of abuse. I think the image of Brian as a sort of very soft, sensitive person is not the case. He was very strong-willed. I remember one occasion when John Lennon refused to do an interview during a tour and Brian went nose to nose with him. He took his tie and said: 'John you're soft', and stared him down. And John backed away."

In the run-up to a famous death, it is possible to see signs of impending doom everywhere. Yet in Epstein's case, the storyline is finely balanced right up until the final act. "Brian was a man of many moods," says Weiss. "He was a very multi-faceted person. With the advantage of looking back 30 years now, I would say that he certainly had all the symptoms of someone who was manic depressive." This emotional roller-coaster was slowly exacerbated by the use of prescription and illegal drugs: principally amphetamines and barbiturates, doled out by doctors ignorant of or careless about their dangers. 

By late 1966, several factors had put Epstein into a downward spiral. The Beatles were maturing and, after their decision to stop touring, had far less need of protection. The Seltaeb Beatles merchandising deal had gone horribly wrong and was dragging through the courts. His close friend Alma Cogan had died of cancer in October. And Epstein's one personal relationship, with a young bisexual called Dizz Gillespie, had ended in robbery and blackmail. "He began to feel like a liberated person but he was never able to sustain a long-term relationship," says Weiss. "He'd become depressed by the fact that he'd believe it was not him they wanted, but who he was." 

Despite a suicide attempt in autumn 1966, Epstein remained positive and forward-looking. His musical interests were still acute: he boosted the Who, Cream, and Jimi Hendrix to Murray the K (a New York DJ) in early 1967, when all three were little known in the US. Friends disagree about its effect, but there is a case for saying that he found LSD - which he publicly admitted taking in June 1967 - beneficial. He was worried whether the Beatles would re-sign with him when his contract came up in September 1967 but, according to McCartney, "there was no question in our minds that we would stay with Brian. We didn't want another manager." 

Epstein died alone in his bedroom at Chapel Street, Mayfair, on August 27, 1967, one month after the Sexual Offences Act partially decriminalised homosexuality, and one month after the death of his father, Harry. There is no reason to doubt the verdict of the inquest: "poisoning by Carbrital, caused by an incautious self-overdose". Little was known about the dangers of prescription drugs at that time: indeed, Epstein's is the forerunner of all those sixties drug deaths - when the limits of freedom were finally tested. It was a ghastly accident, the effects of which were immediate. 

"It was a great loss to us and I know it really frightened us," says McCartney. "John got particularly frightened. I think he thought, 'Right, this is it. This is the end of the Beatles', and it kind of was. Brian's death opened the floodgates. It gave other people the possibility to come in, whereas before there had been no possibility. I think one or two of the other guys got quite enamoured with Allan Klein, but I never liked the idea, partly because I'd seen how Brian did it and no one else was going to stack up against Brian in my mind. No one would ever be able to do it as good because you couldn't have the flair, the panache, the wit, the intelligence that Brian had. They would just merely be money managers. Brian was far more than that."

* The Hours and Times

#Brian Epstein #Jon Savage #The Guardian #1998 #90s #newspaper

[coeuroses-blog]

            a  JENNIE  KIM  lookalike  was  strolling  down  broadway  street  in  their  sonia  rykiel  floral  print  espadrille  wedge  sandals.  rosalie  ‘rosie’  lim  just  had  a  birthday  bash  for  her  twenty-first  birthday.  she  has  been  living  in  new  york  city  for  her  whole  life.  i  hear  she  tends  to  be  audacious  at  parties,  but  also  kind  of  beguiling.  (  cisfemale  &  she/her  )

            hi  ,  everyone  !  my  name  is  evie  and  i  am  already  in  love  with  this  rp  .  i'm  twenty  one  years  old ,  i  live  in  eastern  standard  time  near  the  beach  ,   and  this  is  my  first  tumblr  rp  (  i’ve  missed  group  writing  )  in  a  while  so  please  bear  with  me  .  rosie  is  an  oc  that  i've  been  wanting  to  write  for  ages  so  i  can't  wait  to  love  y'all  .  also  ??   discord  is  super  new  to  me  but  i  made  one  just  in  case  :  jennie looks like squirtle#6295 . 

♡   .   ❩  THE  BASICS  !

birth  name  .  ga-yeong lim . 

ATTENTION  :  was  adopted  when  she  was  two  years  old  by  an  american  couple  .  her  birth  mother’s  only  request  was  to  give  rosalie  a  similar  name  if  they  were  going  to  change  it  from  ga-yeong  ,  which  means  beautiful  flower  .  not  only  did  they  honor  her  mother’s  request  but  they  never  changed  her  last  name  so  she  could  always  honor  her  roots  and  heritage .

full  name  .  rosalie  ga-yeong  lim   . 

nicknames  .  rosie  ,  rose  ,  petal  ,  bambi  .

age  .  twenty  -  one  years  old  . 

birthdate  .  october  16th  .

(  coincidentally  ,  the  same  day  that  the  first  color  photograph  appeared  on  the  front  page  of  the  new  york  times  .  the  only  other  bit  of  excitement  in  the  world  ,  aside  from  rosie’s  birth  ,  her  mother  claims  ) 

gender  /  pronouns .  cisfemale  &  she/her  .

nationality  .  american  .

ethnicity  .  korean  .

muse inspirations  .  carrie  bradshaw  ,  tahani  al  -  jamil  ,  london  tipton  ,  lottie  labouff  ,  cher  horowitz  ,  and  elle  woods  . 

vibe  .  spoiled  sweet  .  the  taste  of  sugar  on  your  teeth  after  you  have  a caramel  apple  .  well  -  meaning  ,  a  heart  of  gold  hidden  behind  gold  earrings  ,  diamond  necklaces  .  she  possesses  an  overwhelming  sparkle  ,  a   savagely  kind  glitter  . 

languages learned . thanks to  an  amazing  tutor  and  her  own  natural  abilities  as  a  polygot  ,  rosie  can  speak  english  ,  mandarin  ,  korean  ,  spanish  ,  &   french  . she  is  learning  japanese  and  portugese  in  her  classes  now  . 

occupation  .

former  childhood  starlet  .  got  her  big  break  on  a  days  of  our  lives  -  esque  television  show  .  she  played  the  main  character’s  cute  -  as  -  a  -  button  daughter  from  the  time  she  was  four  and  on  .  luckily  ,  the  show  (  hawkin  place  )  was  actually  quality  and  received  numerous  awards  .  rosalie  received  her  first  award  at  the  age  of  six  and  her  adorable  acceptance  speech  is  still  floating  around  .  

current  socialite  .  after  hawkin  place  ended  after  fourteen  seasons  ,  rosalie  was  at  loss  as  to  what  to  do  .  should  she  try  and  make  it  in  hollywood  ?  her  mother  thinks  so  .  and  rosie  knows  she  can  do  it  but  she  hasn’t  quite  gathered  the  courage  to  leave  the nest  and  the  protection  of  her  home  .  so  she  is  taking  college  classes  and  wasting  her  time  .  

♡   .   ❩  THE  PHYSICAL  !

faceclaim  .  jennie  kim  of  blackpink  . 

height  .  five  feet  ,  two  and  a  half  inches  .  

fun fact  :  when  she  went  to  get  her  driver’s  license ,  she  begged  them  to  add  the  half  inch  to  her  height  .  they  didn’t  .  so  officially  ,  in  the  eyes  of  the  government  ,  she’s  five  two  .  and  that’s  what  it  says  in  her  google  results  too  .

build  .  slim  &  small  but  curvy  in  the  hip  and  chest  area .  has  the  hardest  time  finding  pants  unless  she  gets  them  especially  from  the  petite  section  .   hates  her  height  because  she’s  always  wanted  to  be  taller  .  wears  heels  to  overcompensate  . 

distinguishing  features  .  her  eyes  .  they’re  what  made  her  famous  when  she  was  younger  and  they’re  what  she  plays  up  now  .  she  has  an  incredibly  pert  nose  that  she  spent  forever  learning  how  to  wiggle  like  samantha  stephens  .  

style  .  she  dresses  like  the  best  part  of  the  nineties  .  she  has  a  soft  spot  for  crushed  velvet  and  silk  ,  since  she  is  especially  sensitive  to  the  texture  of  her  clothes  and  how  they  feel  on  her  skin  .  she  loves  to  emphasize  her  curves  so  while  her  clothes  flow  ,  they  also  cling  to  her  in  the  best  way  .  usually  in  heels  so  that  they  (  and  her  personality  )  can  make  her  seem  taller  than  she  is  .

♡   .   ❩  THE  PERSONALITY  !

negative . absolutely  desperate  to  fit  in  and  be  accepted  .  has  the  bad  habit  of  not  being  a  leader  and  laying  down  and  taking  whatever  is  given  to  her  .  she’s  flighty  and  indecisive  ,  she  finds  it  easier  to  let  other  people  decide  for  her  instead  of  worrying  .  gives  off  the  same  vibe  as   a   swooning  maiden  .   attention  -  hungry  .  it’s  because  she  was  famous  for  so  long  and  just  knew  that  the  whole  world  revolved  around  her  .   super  naive  .  she  believes  in  the  good  of  people  but  she’s  also  insanely  sheltered  .  impulsive  as  hell  .  will  do  anything  if  it  will  gain  her  a  good  reputation  .  she  also  has  the  habit  of  not  thinking  before  she  speaks  and  then  immediately  regretting  opening  her  mouth  .   vain  .  she  loves  how  she  looks  and  is  mostly  unashamed  of  that  fact  .  really  bad  about  forgiving  people  .  she  can  be  petty  as  hell  and  gets  hot  over  the  littlest  transgression  .  also  ,  super  desperate  for  love  . 

positive .  insanely  optimistic  and  kind  .  she  is  too nice  for  her  own  good  and  tends  to  get  taken  advantage  of  because  of  that  .  however  ,  she  is  super  genuine  and  that  has  always  helped  people  like  her  ,  since  she’s  ....  well  ,  not  as  shallow  as  a  kiddy  pool  but   close  .  diplomatic  to   a  fault  .  absolutely  hates  conflict  .  such  a  romantic  .  she  loves  romance  and  also  sex  .  pleasure  is  pleasure  in  her  eyes  and  she   prefers  to  be  on  the  receiving  end  but  doesn’t  mind  giving  as  well  .

♡   .   ❩  THE  TL;DR  !

so  this  is  gonna  be  a  short  biography  until  this  weekend  when  i’ll  have  the  time  to  type  up  something  longer  .  anyways  ,  rosie  was  born  in  america  since  her  birth  mother  moved  to  america  with  rosie’s  american  -  born  korean  father  who  had  been  visiting  some  relatives  when  he  met  and  knocked  her  up  .  rosie’s  father  promised  to  take  care  of  them  so  he  brought  her  home  to  his  parents’ house  and  he  was  freaking  out  and  he  promised  to  take  care  of  her  .  they  were  in  love  tbh  and  he  thought  that  the  best  way  to  support  his  newborn  daughter  would  be  to  enlist  in  the  military  .  but  unfortunately  ,  he  died  while  in  afghanistan  .  rosie’s  mother  was  at  a  loss  since  they  hadn’t  married  yet  and  she  spiraled  ,  trying  to  find  someone  to  take  care  of  her  and  rosie  . 

she  found  someone  .  but  he  was  not  a  nice  man  . he  got  her  addicted  to  drugs  and  after  a  while  ,  child  protective  services  came  and  took  rosie  away  before  sending  her  mother  back  to  korea  .  as  a  result  ,  rosie  was   adopted  by  an  insanely  wealthy  and  intelligent  couple  who  had  previously  been  unable  to  have  children  .  rosie  was  spoiled  rotten  and  she  was  spotted  by  a  talent  scout  at  a  park  one  day  .  and  they  allowed  her  to  be  in  hawkins  place   and   the  rest  is  history  . 

anyways  ,  famous  childhood  and  all  that  jazz  .  she  has  an  impeccable  reputation  with  the  tabloids  (  since  her  parents  covered  up  the  few  scandals  that  she  was  involved  in  )  and  now  she  has  this  beautiful  apartment  and  this  giant  hole  in  her  life  where  the  show  used  to  be  .  now  ,  she  travels  ,  writes  ,  paints  ...  does  everything  that  she  can  to  see  if  she  can  make  herself  feel  fulfilled  without  taking  the  leap  of  faith  that  rebranding  her  film  /  tv  career  will  take  . 

#death tw #war tw #wealthyhq:intro #i talk too much

[do-you-want-mawr-blog]

A beginning of a new chapter

After the years that followed Gilneas’ downfall, not everyone escaped with the evacuation to Teldrassil. Feral Worgen, corrupted wildlife, Blight. All remained behind after the population left. Those, and Rhodri Savage with his meagre pack trying to survive them all.

(This is quite an old, old story when Rhodri was first created! Whilst I’m no longer as proud as I was at the time, it would be a disservice to the character to not post this along with the other shorts I plan to write.)

With a snuff and the gaping yawn of an old, sleepy wolf, Rhodri awakens. His blissful mid-afternoon nap had greeted him to the thousands of slapping splashes made by the rain in its tireless war on the Headland’s prisoning crevice walls rising from the land in violent defiance. Sleepy, Roman silver eyes, contrasting against his fur the same colour of the storm clouds outside, blink into focus, groggy and old.  

Scarred lips smacking obnoxiously as his monstrous head, along with the rest of his gargantuan body, stretches from the curled position on the dreary cavern floor. An eruption of tremendous applause from cracking, aged bones that notifies the others sharing the area with him of his arrival back in the world of the conscious.

An unfortunate wind sends a battalion of the cloud’s soldiers off course, likely costing them a concise victory, to instead disrupt the Worgen’s waking ritual by soaking his shifting back muscles in shivering water. Such is the price of guarding the entrance of their den. The leader has to make sacrifices, after all, even the smallest ones. 

His rusting, horrendously homemade armour wasn’t faring much better as it laid distraught beside him. The freezing downpour getting into the crevices of its weathered, painted copper pieces, all caught embracing scraps of steel in a scandalous display of inter-metal relations and quickening the mould that had engrossed the worn leather strips that bound it all together.  Even worse still, the same fate occurred to the weapon that made everything happen, the decision to pick it up that changed their lives, his poorly smithed Claymore. A weapon that was only meant as a training exercise for Kelsie’s husband to attempt to smith his biggest blade yet, one that only the largest of soldiers would be able to wield. Or one oversized butcher, as Rhodri proved.

His memories of their change were disrupted by the reality of it. Vicious snarling and snapping coming from behind him, only moments before the whimpering of an injured, young male. A pathetic yelp that caused his wistful mind to react on instinct and set him up for his daily wrestle to keep his position of leadership. 

Even without any of his stolen or salvaged items, there were no Worgen, whether sane or feral, that could pose much threat to the beast that the Alpha had become, and that includes those that were meant to be part of his animalistic family. 

Irritated eyes swivel around to land solely on the cause of the ‘lovable’ bullying, and they unsurprisingly find the two brothers picking on Charlie as they always do. Eamon and Logan Hall, the pair always needing to fill their lives with hostilities and bitterness, and such emotions are always directed to the easiest target they can find, either prey or, as they were doing now. The ‘runt’ of the pack, Charlie Reynolds, laid cowering beneath the two, arm hugging close to his chest dripping with his crimson blood that started the beginning of an unwanted paint job in their cliffside home.

Now was not a time for thought, bargaining or begging, now was the time for punishment, which Rhodri meted out with swift justice towards the brothers. A mere cracking of tired leg bones in action again was Logan’s only warning before the brunt, brutal impact of his leader’s uncovered shoulder against the brother’s sinewy side, sending the smaller male scraping his claws for anything to latch onto to halt his progress towards the cave’s jagged wall. Attempts that were evidently fruitless as the second collision was almost as pain-inducing as the first and left him joining Charlie in the whimpering choir as he collapses to the welcoming comfort of the stone floor. 

Eamon wasn’t as dim as his sibling and swiftly caught on that they were in serious trouble, but pride wouldn’t allow him to cower, only to turn on his brother’s assailant even if that meant sharing his fate. While the wrecking ball of an Alpha Worgen had his side towards him after his barreling manoeuvre, the junior took his defiance of being unable to attack who he wanted and poured it into his resolve to leap at the uncovered, naked leader and do as much damage as possible. 

The result, perhaps, wasn’t as significant as he had hoped. The older brother plummeted towards Rhodri, landing on a rugged back stretched tight like a canvas, smothered in multiple scarring from previous assaults. Like a proud artist, Eamon eagerly added another stroke to the masterpiece as chipped claw raked through toughened flesh and yellowed fangs found a weak grip near the nape of the trunk that supported the alpha’s head, but that’s where his success ended. 

Whilst the assailant merrily gnawed on Rhodri’s back, sounds of furious howling spelling vengeance bounce off the den’s compact, slick walls as the huge Worgen recovers for a counter-attack. 

Throwing his weight into his tirelessly worked arms, the seasoned fighter shoves his bulk backwards and launches Eamon off his vulnerable, weak stance. The pup swiftly finding himself scrambling under the sudden, bone-breaking pressure of a monster crushing his rib cage by sheer weight alone. 

After a sudden thwomp against Eamon’s snout with fisted claws as he clambers off the trapped brother, Rhodri helps the beaten challenger gather his bearings behind the bloodied nose whilst he’s dragged across the dirtied floor to be tossed into the shameful pile that Logan makes the foundations of.  

With brother’s whimpering mercy in unison, Rhodri rises over them on his back legs, dominantly displaying everything his nudity allows, before erupting the outcome with a victorious howling that rivals the storm raging outside. 

As this announcement draws on, three other, slender Worgen come scampering from crevices deeper in the den to add their unique, feminine voices into the fray of their Alpha’s. All of the females slimmer, smaller than the other males of the pack, yet none of them share the lack of modesty that the others seem to insist on, draped in tattered clothing as they continue their sporadic outburst of wolven singing. 

As the song dies down, one of the latest arrivals pads her way to the side of the boisterous Alpha Worgen, her sleek, distinct steel fur glistening under the stormy-lit skies brightening the cave enough to reveal her strikingly similar set of silver eyes as she glares down to the defeated brothers.

“Dad, they’ve got the message. They start up again, I’ll ‘andle ‘em. Get yourself cleaned off at the shores.” comes a rough proposal in her canine dialect, Silvia always the one to make sure that her father didn’t neglect his own well-being. 

As the Worgen’s words catch Rhodri’s ears, there’s a grunt of agreement as he falls down to all fours, giving a final growl of a farewell before he skulks off to gather his armour whilst abandoning the absurd and clumsy weapon at the entrance. The pack left behind in the care of his daughter as he ventures into the wilderness of the headlands.

Roaming a short distance away to equip his rag-tag grouping of plating that make his clothing of choice, Rhodri enjoys the pattering of rain against his skin as he observes the thunderous war above. His outer legs loosely draped by the unrespectable attire thanks to an overworked belt stretched across the waist and strained leather strips around the thighs. The choice intentionally failing to hide the proportionally sized testicles, acting as a clear display of his status as the dominant male in the area. 

His shoulders sharing a similar fashion of armouring using a harness around his upper torso, leaving him looking like an abandoned, old castle whose roofing is desperately hanging on for grim life, subjects to the will of the weather, or in this case, Rhodri’s movement. Begrudgingly dressed as an unemployed teenager asked to adventure outside by his parents after several days of lying about, Rhodri sets off in his skulking hike towards the shore after his less than graceful scramble down the dangerously soaked rocky outcroppings beneath the den’s only exit.  

The lupine man is soon meandering through the decaying ruins of the headlands, destroyed portions of ancient housing still standing despite the local downpour. Their existence almost reflecting the people that once inhabited the landscape of Gilneas, resolute in their purpose despite all the odds, with the relentless vines and moss smothering them that would eventually cause its downfall. Such as the Forsaken and the Horde would do with their own actions to the peninsula that jutted from the landscape in southern end of Silverpine Forest.

Travelling without distraction, the Worgen was left to his thoughts. Distant whispers that fell back towards the drastic change of his entire world only a few short years ago.

The assaults of the feral Worgen across their lands after the Court Archmage Arugal unleashed them to combat the mindless scourge, only to then have their ‘saviours’ turn on the population to add to their savage ranks by infecting them with the transformative curse. 

The Forsaken followed next under the leadership of Sylvanas Windrunner, a faction of supposedly willful living corpses that allied with the Orcs, both intent of breaking down the stalwart Greymane Wall. 

They were left broken as a nation whilst caught in the jaws of war and violence that enveloped the land, that was until the Kaldorei, the Night Elves, made their appearance known. With the help of their wizened druids who had knowledge of the curse that plagued them, they taught them how to control the form that Rhodri now wore like a second skin. Their ships came as well, allowing evacuation of the citizens to distant lands he never learned the name of. Lands that he and the rest of his kin were meant to escape to, but not before the Horde made their next push from the ocean. The would-be pack split off from the crowds and forcing them to flee into the wilderness to hide from the renewed assault against their capital.

Abandoned and cut off from the evacuation routes, Rhodri led the few trusted survivors to his butchery’s storage warehouse that an old friend owned and kept stocked for trading, supplying them with dried meat and locations across the headlands where the wildlife could be hunted. Luckily Rhodri remembered where he kept the maps hidden away in the hunter’s personal cabin nearby, no sign of the owner ever seen since. 

Such is that they embraced their change, some more than others, but they survived. Within a few months, the band of sane Worgen uncovered the destruction of war upon their homeland, a contamination of plague as a parting gift courtesy of the Forsaken. It’s revolting, stomach-churning gases and slime spreading through the heart and city of Gilneas, leading to Rhodri making the decision of scraping by on the outskirts as the beasts they had become.

Coming to the end of the ruins, Rhodri found his eyes drifting to the skyline of the withering city caught in the same rainstorm as he was. The odd, suffocating stench that his nostrils picked up from the billowing winds reminded him that it still reeked of death even as far out as he was.It wasn’t long until he saw something new on the horizon. A lone sail towering over the docking of Keel Harbour, the quaint harbour town once acting as the first stop for the fisherman to unload their catch. 

This ship wasn’t a forgotten remnant of those times, though. It was sitting there, proud, boastful, elegant in craftsmanship and ability to resist the abysmal weather, a behemoth of Human origin as far as Rhodri knew. 

In the distance amongst the collapsed houses, the vessel, as well as the oncoming shouts of crewmen floating towards his grey-tipped ears, were all unknowing of the effect they were having on the Worgen’s mind as it filled with hope. Perhaps, this time, they might make the evacuation, if only a lifetime too late.

#Rhodri #Savage #Short Story #world of warcraft #Gilneas #Worgen #OC #literature

[castingdirect]

ONLYFANS: Has The Pandemic Been Responsible For A New Sexual Revolution?

The new revolution It's safe to say that no one is more surprised that Sonja Morgan is the fourth most popular star on OnlyFans than Sonja Morgan. After all, she's 57-years-old and most famous as longstanding 'Real Housewife of New York.' Not the sort of person you'd expect on a platform comprised mainly of nudes and homemade soft-core porn. But Morgan, who is always looking to expand her empire (toaster ovens and even a Nigerian football team are among the doomed enterprises known to 'RHONY' fans), thought there might be room on OnlyFans for her brand of middle-aged flooziness. 'I'm known on the show as "Sexy Sonja" or "Sexy J",' she told the Post: 'I'm always the first to go naked in the pool. I date younger guys. I have all these videos running around naked at swimsuit parties.' When Morgan first joined OnlyFans, which was July 2020, after she had recovered from a neck and facelift, whilst that detail alone makes her a softcore outlier, consider that RHONY audience consists largely of high-income, highly-educated white women and gay men. Morgan explained this in the only way she knows how: 'I walk into Cipriani, and it's people who went to Harvard or Yale - that's who's watching the show. I'm well known internationally, for my lifestyle, as a model and a philanthropist who was married to JPM.' She is relating to John Adams Morgan, the banking icon known as JPM to his intimate friends. In other words, selling one's sexuality online is becoming a side hustle without the stigma and once upon a time, a reality star under contract to a high-profile cable network would likely be fired for sex work on the side. It wasn't all that long ago that Vanessa Williams, the first Miss Black America, was stripped of her title for having posed nude pictures, which were purchased and published by Penthouse. At the time the US gasped, but if released today, the nation wouldn't bat an eyelid. Now major movie stars such as Michael B. Jordan creates an OnlyFans account with close-ups of him biting his lower lip to bait you in to subscribing to zeros scandal at all. Beyoncé even name checks OnlyFans in Megan Thee Stallion's 'Savage,' and the site gets a 15% uptick in traffic within 24 hours. Then the likes of Blac Chyna, Cardi B, Tyga, 'Teen Wolf' star Tyler Posey - all top content creators sexualizing their content as little or as much as they choose to - there isn't any precise rules of what people should or shouldn't do with their accounts, within reason. But the celebrities are just a tiny fraction of OnlyFans users, as it's attracted college students, housewives, even married couples, and the average people who will show you everything to those who offer more of a tease. Since the lockdown, OnlyFans reported a spike of 7.5 million users in November 2019, and in December 2020 it was 85 million global users with a total payout of $2.7 billion to its content creators - it's like the Guardian says - 'Everyone and their mum are on it'. Where once make gatekeepers determined who and what was sexy - from strip clubs to burlesque dancers to Playboy bunnies and nude  models - Now there were no barriers to entry. Women, men, trans, gender fluid, any age, race, weight - if you want to be on OnlyFans, all you have to do is sign up, and unlike OnlyFans' nearest competitor Pornhub, all the content you create belongs to you; the site takes only a 20% cut of the creator income. We are in the midst of a new sexual revolution, this time ignited by the collision of technology and a generational shift in attitude, with the power that women especially derive from online sex work, from setting their own parameters and prices, has transformed our ideas of who participates and why. Not to mention a global pandemic that has left many financially strapped, ready to take advantage of audiences still mostly confined to their homes. Kirsten Vaughn ,25, launched her OnlyFans account in January of 2020, and at the time she was on track to become the first female master technician at her Honda dealership in Indiana, with her take home page of around $450 a week after taxes. It wasn't enough. 'Six months before joining OnlyFans, I was trying to find a second job,'  she said, stating that she decided to join the site and quickly averaged an additional $1,000 a week in gross income, which is $800 after the OnlyFans commission. 'When I first started out in the industry, I was always getting questions about being female: 'Why are you even here?"' Vaugh found herself trying to 'eliminate parts of her femininity' as she puts it, in a quest to be seen as neither male nor female - just an employee, one particularly good at her job, if she did say so herself. It didn't work, and when she got the idea to join OnlyFans, it wasn't just a way to make money, it was a way to enjoy wearing 'make-up and cute clothes, being girly and feminine.' Her parents, she said, don't have a problem with it, for her dad, it was simply a matter of delivery systems changing, his generation had magazines; her generation had the internet. Then came the day a salesman at her dealership approached her saying that he had seen more of her than he ever wanted to see, 'no offense' in his words, and apparently he said he was pretty disgusted, she said: 'And I was really scared that what would happen, happened' and she was let go. Vaughn still doesn't understand why she was fired while two salesmen who viewed her content at work weren't punished equally: 'They told me they didn't care that their salesmen were watching porn on the floor during work hours,' Vaughn said: 'I was a distraction in the shop.' General manager John Watkins said that Vaughn was fired for 'violations of company procedures and policies,' but declined to specify what they were. Vaughn's firing made headlines - especially as the world over, out of work due to the pandemic, turned to OnlyFans as a money-making venture, and to Vaughn, there was no shame, only anger: Just how many of her critics, she asks, watches porn? Why the double-standard - that it's okay for men to consume porn, and as much and as often as they like, but the women who create it should be ostracized, vilified and made to suffer? That said though, Vaughn would warn anyone planning to join OnlyFans, or to pursue any line of sex work at all, that everyone in your life will eventually find out, because she's part of a generation who will not just need to explain social media histories to future employers - or who may be fired for decades-old tweets - but who will have online sexual histories as well. So when Vaughn interviewed for hew new job at another dealership, she openly spoke about her OnlyFans presence, and no one cared. Her main concern, she said, is her personal safety: Yes, sex work online, whether it's a cam girl, often not nearly as profitable, or an OnlyFans creator, protects one from strange people and places and physical harm, be it violence or STDs. But that very technology also makes it easier for strangers to stalk her. Vaughn said: 'I'm in the public eye to a certain extent, and in a way, I don't have any anonymity. If some creepy guy wants to find me, all he has to do is show up.' On the other hand, Vaughn is her own boss - a role that women in sex work have never had before. 'OnlyFans is no different tan the peep shows,' says Marina Adshade who is a Professor that specializes in the economics of sex and love. But with peep shows there were still owners, typically men, who controlled the hiring, salaries, frequency of work and hours, to say anything of some of the abysmal unsanitary conditions. Any sex worker in 2021, liberated by modern technology, would ever put up with any of that. 'OnlyFans and cam girls can only bee seen as a good thing,' Adshade said: 'If someone is a sex worker of their own accord - I see now downside to this.' Stephanie Michelle has been on OnlyFans for about four years, after her former platform Patreon stepped back from sexual content, and she said the pandemic has been more profitable than she could have predicted. 'I'm like, "What's happening?" I'm just posting my boobs on the internet, but business has been booming, and all of us are at home bored out of our minds.' She won't divulge her age (because when you're a sex worker over 30, you lose half of your clientele), or her monthly income, but her base rate of $14,00 per month has helped support her husband, who is an out of work cinematographer, as well as their three cats. 'I don't do penetration,' she says: 'But then I learned you could literally crochet scarves on OnlyFans.' Which then brings us onto Bella Thorne, and though you can post whatever you like to OnlyFans, from cooking to decorating videos, it's known for it's sexual content. So obviously, when Bella Thorne joined, fans flocked thinking they will get to see the former Disney star gone bad in the nude, but she remained fully clothed. In the wake of a really big backlash to what some users had considered false advertising, OnlyFans put caps on what creators can charge, as well as what the user can tip, per day as well as other restrictions. As of August 2020, $50 is the limit for exclusive content per month (Its like paying for an additional streaming service), with $100 cap on tips. 'Bella Thorne made promises and didn't deliver, and that makes sex workers look bad,' Michelle says: 'She's making us look like we don't care about our fans, or that we're liars and cheats. The price cap didn't affect my business - however, that doesn't make me any less pissed off about the cap. I'm very upset for my friends' - other content creators who suffered as a result of the caps. Michelle sees OnlyFans as a net positive, one that is forcing society to reconsider what it means to sell one's image, likeness, or body. She said why is it, that it's more harmful to sell oneself virtually than in the real world, and why do we consider some forms of commodification valid and good, but not others? 'Athletes sell their bodies,' she argues: 'Footballers and boxers get brain damage. In my opinion that's more harmful than me putting my tits online. No one is forcing me to post nudes or make content that I don't want to make. I'm basically an entrepreneur.' Michelle also has direct conversations with individual subscribers, many of whom, she says, are looking for a way to feel less anxious and lonely in lockdown. Relationships have been stripped from us for a full year, said Michelle: I'm so thankful I was able to help people de-stress in a year that was only stress.' And as for Morgan, who has a new season of RHONY due to premier on 4th May 2021, OnlyFans has become part of her brand: 'Bravo is my lifeline, but I do OnlyFans for the same reason I get on Twitter every night - I like to connect with my viewership. And I can tell you: you make good money.' Plus by 2030, OnlyFans will seem quant to the point of innocence, what, with the rise in sex robots... Read the full article

[newstfionline]

Saturday, November 21, 2020

Biden turns 78, will be oldest U.S. president (AP) President-elect Joe Biden turned 78 on Friday. In exactly two months, he’ll take the reins of a politically fractured nation facing the worst public health crisis in a century, high unemployment and a reckoning on racial injustice. As he wrestles with those issues, Biden will be attempting to accomplish another feat: Demonstrate to Americans that age is but a number and he’s up to the job. Biden will be sworn in as the oldest president in the nation’s history, displacing Ronald Reagan, who left the White House in 1989 when he was 77 years and 349 days old. The campaign has made the case that Biden isn’t your average septuagenarian. His physician, Dr. Kevin O’Connor, reported that Biden works out five days a week. The president-elect told supporters that during the pandemic he has relied on home workouts involving a Peloton bike, treadmill and weights.

C.D.C. Pleads With Americans to Stay Home on Thanksgiving (NYT) Faced with a seemingly unstoppable surge in coronavirus infections, officials at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention on Thursday urged Americans to avoid travel for Thanksgiving and to celebrate only with members of their immediate households—a message sharply at odds with a White House eager to downplay the threat. The plea, delivered at the first C.D.C. news briefing in months, arrived as many Americans were packing their bags for one of the most heavily traveled weeks of the year. It is the first time that the agency has warned people away from traditional holiday celebrations.

California enacts coronavirus curfew for majority of state's 40m residents (The Guardian) California is imposing a curfew affecting nearly all of its 40 million residents beginning this weekend, as the state tries to control a surge in coronavirus cases. The state’s governor, Gavin Newsom, announced what officials are describing as a limited stay-at-home order on Thursday, saying that all nonessential work and gathering must stop from 10 pm to 5 am. The order will apply to the 41 counties currently in the most restrictive tier of reopening rules, which accounts for 94% of the state’s 40 million residents. The order will last until 21 December, but could be extended if infection rates and disease trends don’t improve.

Mexico tops 100,000 COVID-19 deaths, 4th country to do so (AP) Mexico passed the 100,000 mark in COVID-19 deaths, becoming only the fourth country to do so amid concerns about the lingering physical and psychological scars on survivors. José Luis Alomía Zegarra, Mexico’s director of epidemiology, announced late Thursday that Mexico had 100,104 confirmed COVID-19 deaths, behind only the United States, Brazil and India. Besides the trauma of the deaths, many coronavirus survivors say the psychosis caused by the pandemic is one of the most lasting effects. With little testing being done—Mexico tests only people with severe symptoms and has performed only around 2.5 million tests in a country of 130 million—and a general fear of hospitals, many in Mexico are left to home remedies and relatives’ care.

They Championed Venezuela’s Revolution. They Are Now Its Latest Victims. (NYT) The host of a popular radio show, “The People’s Combat,” had always diligently praised Venezuela’s governing Socialist Party, even as millions sank into penury under its rule. But when acute gasoline shortages paralyzed his remote fishing town this summer, he strayed from the party line. On his show, the host, lifelong Socialist José Carmelo Bislick, accused local party chiefs of siphoning fuel, leaving most people queuing for days outside empty gasoline stations. Just weeks later, on Aug. 17, four masked, armed men burst into Mr. Bislick’s house and told him he had “run the red light,” before beating him in front of his family and hauling him away into the night. He was found dead with gunshot wounds hours later. His death appears to be part of a wave of repression against leftist activists alienated by President Nicolás Maduro, who seems intent on consolidating power in parliamentary elections in December. Longtime government supporters who in recent months flooded the streets of provincial towns to denounce the collapse of public services have been suppressed by security forces. Public employees who denounce corruption are charged with sabotage. Members of the ruling electoral alliance who decided to run as independents are disqualified. Those who persevere are harassed by the police or charged with spurious crimes.

Black man’s death after savage beating by security guards outrages Brazil (Washington Post) A Black man died after being savagely beaten by two supermarket security guards in southern Brazil late Thursday, igniting widespread outrage in a country increasingly grappling with structural racism and the violent treatment of Black Brazilians by security forces. Video shows a man identified as João Alberto Silveira Freitas, 40, being held by one of the security guards as another struck him repeatedly in the face outside the entrance of a Carrefour grocery store in the city of Porto Alegre. The man can be heard crying out, and he is forcefully brought to the blood-slicked ground and restrained. Video afterward shows emergency responders failing to resuscitate him. In a country increasingly reckoning with racism and the enduring imprint of its history of colonialism and slavery, the grisly beating of an unarmed Black man by two security guards reported to be White was met by rage and horror. It immediately dominated newscasts and the homepages of the country’s biggest newspapers. Activists planned protests. Politicians on both the left and right expressed condemnation. Many said it was disturbing that the death occurred on the eve of Brazil’s Black Consciousness Day.

Lawmakers seek to buttress post-Brexit Britain as a financial centre (Reuters) Britain’s lawmakers launched an inquiry on Friday aimed at ensuring its financial services remain globally competitive after the country’s full departure from the European Union next month. Britain left the EU last January and full access to the bloc under transition arrangements ends on Dec. 31, with 7,500 jobs and assets worth around a trillion pounds having already left the City of London for new EU financial hubs.

Vatican seeks answers (Foreign Policy) The Vatican has appealed to Instagram for answers after the account belonging to Pope Francis appeared to click “like” on a racy picture posted by Brazilian model Natalia Garibotto. “We can exclude that the ‘like’ came from the Holy See, and it has turned to Instagram for explanations,” a Vatican spokesperson told the Guardian. Divine intervention has been ruled out in the case of the mysterious like; the Pope is, however, known to have a social media team that assists in his earthly outreach efforts. Garibotto herself has seen the lighter side of the mini-scandal. “At least I’m going to heaven,” she said.

Trump and Pompeo embrace Israel’s one-state reality (Washington Post) Secretary of State Mike Pompeo laid the capstone this week on the Trump administration’s four-year ideological project in Israel. Pompeo made an unprecedented visit to settlements located in the West Bank and the Golan Heights, marking the first time a U.S. secretary of state has appeared at such sites, which much of the world views as illegal and, in many instances, a direct obstacle to a viable Palestinian state. At an event alongside Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu in Jerusalem, Pompeo also said the Trump administration would be taking further measures aimed at “countering” the boycott, divestment and sanctions movement, or BDS, which seeks to pressure companies and governments to avoid doing business with Israel until it offers more concessions to Palestinians living under occupation. “The Trump folks have done all sorts of things to blur the lines between Israel and the West Bank and effectively adopt a one-state policy,” tweeted Michael Koplow of the Israel Policy Forum, “but this may be the measure that goes the farthest in that regard.”

Deadly Protests Erupt in Uganda After Arrest of 2 Opposition Figures (NYT) The national police in Uganda said Thursday that at least 16 people had been killed and hundreds arrested in protests that erupted across the country after two presidential candidates were arrested while campaigning ahead of a highly anticipated January election. The violence began Wednesday as word of the arrests spread in the East African nation, where President Yoweri Museveni is vying for a record sixth term in office. The unrest in Uganda echoes recent election-related violence in other African countries, including Guinea, Tanzania and Ivory Coast, where opposition figures accused entrenched leaders of having manipulated the rules and rigged the polls in order to extend their stay in power. Although Mr. Museveni is credited with bringing peace, promoting economic growth and reducing rates of AIDS, his government has faced criticism over growing corruption, widespread surveillance tactics and intolerance of dissent.

Bad Passwords (Vice) The password manager NordPass released its annual report about the state of passwords, and things are not great on the creativity and innovation front. The most popular password was “123456,” which was used 2,543,285 times per the analysis. Of the 275,699,516 passwords in their database, 44 percent were unique—showing up just once—though users alone are hardly at fault for the abysmal situation of passwords on the web. The average user has 25 percent more passwords now compared to earlier this year, as a shift to life online means that in-person events like school, work, and Dungeons & Dragons now necessitate password-protected user accounts for online services.

In multiple countries, alarm over hunger crisis rings louder (AP) U.N. agencies have warned that some 250 million people in 20 countries are threatened with sharply spiking malnutrition or even famine in coming months. The United Nations humanitarian office this week released $100 million in emergency funding to seven countries most at risk of famine—Yemen, Afghanistan, South Sudan, Ethiopia, Nigeria, Congo, and Burkina Faso. But David Beasley, head of the World Food Program, says billions in new aid are needed. Without it, “we are going to have famines of biblical proportions in 2021,” he said in an Associated Press interview last week. In multiple countries, the coronavirus pandemic has added a new burden on top of the impact of ongoing wars, pushing more people into poverty, unable to afford food. At the same time, international aid funding has fallen short, weakening a safety net that keeps people alive.

#headlines #news

[ruminativerabbi]

Ghost DNA

Joe Biden seems clearly to have won the election and, barring the unimaginable, will become our nation’s next president in January. But the election itself is worth considering in its own right, and particularly in terms of what it has to say about our riven nation. No matter who you personally supported, after all, not millions but scores of millions of Americans voted for the other guy. And if President-Elect Biden, with more than 76 million votes, is now the presidential candidate with the most popular votes in U.S. history, President Trump, with more than 71 million votes, is still the candidate with the second most popular votes in the history of the nation. (By way of comparison, President Obama won in 2008 with 69.5 million votes. Abraham Lincoln won with a mere 2.2 million votes in 1864, fewer than the number of people who voted for Ralph Nader in 2000.) So to focus solely on who won and to ignore the fact that both candidates cleared the 70 million vote barrier, something no one in the nation’s history had ever managed previously to accomplish, is really to focus on the simple part of the story and to ignore the complicated part. Yes, there are way more eligible voters now than there were in 1864. But that’s not really the point.

Both Democrats and Republicans took to referencing this election as a kind of battle for the nation’s soul. Neither side provided a clear definition of what that actually meant, however. And so, a few weeks ago, I wrote to you about a long poem by Walt Whitman in which the poet attempted clearly to say what he considered to constitute the parts of the soul of the American republic. His answers—individualism, mutual respect, friendship untied to social class or race or ethnicity, and a shared sense of national destiny—were stirring but also quaint: I doubt if many readers would have come up with those precise things, and particularly not the last one, if challenged to answer that same question. But if we reject Whitman’s answer as too rooted in nineteenth century romanticism to resonate much with Americans today, then that leaves us challenged to say what precisely we do feel is motivating the intense feelings on both sides of the ballot. Is it just the issues themselves that divide us? Or is there something else tugging at our national heartstrings and pulling us off in different directions?

As readers know, I generally grant Whitman the last word on more or less everything. But this time ’round, I found myself pondering how an entire nation can look at the same television screens and wonder, as one, how those people can feel that strongly about the candidate of their choice and his running mate. Nor did it seem to me that it was the differences of opinion about specific issues that was moving us forward to Election Day, but rather energy created by the intensity of the disrespect for the unchosen candidate and the angry, intemperate scorn directed at his supporters. It struck me almost as though there were unseen players in the room, a raft of ghostly presences just off camera influencing the demonstrators and the slogan-chanters, the disaffected and the jubilant, and also the rest of everybody sporting their pasted-on “I Voted” stickers. And that thought—that there were more people here than I could see on my screen—that thought led me off in the direction I’d like to write about this week.

When Joan and I were in Maine last summer, I read a series of truly intriguing articles about something called “ghost DNA.”

To understand the concept, you need to know that there was a time when different species and subspecies of human being wandered the earth. (This is not at all how things are today when the sole variety of human being is us, Homo sapiens.) Those different species interbred with each other too, as a result of which scientists have determined that modern Europeans—or at least the kind whose ancient ancestors lived in Europe and whose families have remained rooted to that continent ever since—that that kind of modern European has a few dollops of Neanderthal genetic heritage in their DNA, just as native Australians and Polynesians have some traces of the Denisovans, another type of ancient humanoid species. (For more on the Denisovans, click here.) And now Arun Durvasula and Sriram Sankararaman, two computational biologists at the University of Southern California, have taken the idea one step further by analyzing the DNA of four different groups of West Africans (two from Nigeria and one each from Sierra Leone and Gambia), and concluding that they almost universally carry the genetic heritage—ranging from 2% to 19% of any specific individual’s genetic code—of an unknown group of archaic human species. And since nothing is known of this subspecies, the researchers used the term “ghost population” to describe this humanoid species that appears to have to have existed but who have left behind no trace of any sort other than their “ghost DNA.” (For more about Durvasula and Sankararaman’s work, click here and here. For their own essay on the topic, written in scientific jargon that will be difficult for most to decipher, click here.)

When considered carefully, this really is a remarkable idea—that human beings have two kinds of genetic ancestry: the kind they can identify (e.g., the Finnish ancestors of the Finns and the Samoan ancestors of the Samoans, etc.) and the ghostly, spectral kind that survives today only as genetic code that had to come from somewhere but about the origins of which nothing at all is known. And that led me to the idea that the reason we are so divided—to the point at which we seem unable to develop even something as inarguably essential as a unified national approach to the pandemic—that the reason we are so riven has to do with the ghost DNA bequeathed to us by people long gone from the scene and present now only as part of the national genome. But who are these people that are present and absent in our national psyche as we try to negotiate these strange straits in which we suddenly find ourselves?

There are lots of candidates.

There are the original native peoples of North America, decimated by disease and the victims of a kind of malign colonialism that was willing to allow them some tiny piece of the pie if they would be so kind as to abandon their own native culture, forget their native languages, convert to their oppressors’ religion, and not to mind having their land stolen out from under them. (For an eye-opening expose of just how highly developed the native civilizations of North America were before the European occupation began, I recommend Charles C. Mann’s 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus. Spoiler alert: the picture fed to everyone my age in elementary school of brave and adventurous Europeans coming to an almost empty continent inhabited solely by a handful of naked savages eager to sell their land for brightly colored beads and a few flasks of whiskey is completely false. Read Mann’s book and you’ll get the picture.)

Then, of course, there are the descendants of the 388,000 slaves taken from their native lands in Africa and sold on this side of the world starting back in 1525, a group that that had burgeoned to about 3.5 million when the Civil War began in 1861. The single greatest blot on our national escutcheon, the institution itself of chattel slavery was abolished in 1865 by the Thirteenth Amendment. The fate of the emancipated—who were in most cases illiterate and untrained for work other than what they were used to doing on the plantations on which they lived—is its own horrific scandal. But what of the millions of slaves who didn’t live to see emancipation, who were dragged onto slavers’ ships in Africa after being purchased from people who didn’t own them, then sent across the sea to serve masters who felt they did own them because they had, after all, purchased them—what about the millions of souls who lived and died deprived of hope, of any rational sense of confidence in the future, of even the faint promise of a better future for their descendants in future generations? They too have left their imprint on the national genome. How could they not have?

And then there are the 20,000 Chinese immigrants who built the Transcontinental Railroad in the years following the Civil War, people who were exploited in every imaginable way, being paid salaries less than half of what white workers received and charged for their food in the labor camps that was provided free of charge to white workers.

All of these groups—the left-out and the left-behind, the downtrodden and the enslaved, the exploited and the oppressed—these long-gone groups are as invisible as the ones identified by Durvasula and Sankararaman but their presence in our national DNA is, I think, precisely what is dividing us so evenly into two sub-nations: those who feel threatened by the ghosts in our national genome and those who feel challenged by it, those who seek resolution and those who fear retribution, those whom history chastens and those whom history enrages.

The challenge facing the nation, therefore, is not to wrangle around endlessly about who won Georgia. It won’t change the outcome, anyway, so let it be figured out, certified, and moved past. The far greater challenge facing Americans is to encounter our own genome and to allow the ghosts we find there to make us into sensitive and caring citizens of a truly great republic. No more than that! But also no less.

#ghost DNA #Durvasula #sankararaman