#Republicans sat by and let this shit happen

[squidyyy23]

for his honey 🍯

ian’s impressed when his husband’s business savvy helps them expand their farm. and he's going to make sure he knows it.

we all know @gallawitchxx is the queen bee of the birthday trope mashup ficlets. but what about her birthday prompt: alternate universe with characters who work together? so here you go, babe. a little something for your bee-day 🐝

rating: [be]e (<- "i was hoping for something a bit spicer". challenge accepted. 🌶) word count: 3.5k

and shoutout to sara @shameless-notashamed for the brilliant beta brain

read below the cut or on ao3 🍯🐝

Mickey’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It takes a moment for him to register the feeling against his leg out here surrounded by the familiar white noise of his bees buzzing away in their hives. He slides the frame back into the box, quickly removes his gloves, sets them beside his well-used smoker, and answers the call.

“He signed the contract!” an excited woman squeals through the speaker. He winces, holding the phone farther away from his ear. “I’ll swing by with a copy for you two to sign tomorrow.”

Mickey’s beaming when he hangs up. Victorious.

“Who was that?” Ian brushes the dirt off his hands and wanders over from where he’d been working in his garden.

It’s curiosity only, an interest in his husband’s life. Not an ounce of distrust or jealousy. They’d long gotten over all that shit. Solid for over a decade.

“Realtor,” Mickey answers.

“Realtor?” Ian repeats, confused.

“We got it.” Mickey doesn’t bother to hide his accomplished smile. Hell of a fight, but he did it.

“We got what?” Ian still hasn’t caught on.

“It. The land. The expansion.”

“Wait, what? I thought—” Mickey watches the realization wash over him. “How?”

“I have my ways.” Mickey smirks.

“‘Course you do.” Ian’s body language softens, excitement morphing into something else. Something notably hotter than even the warm summer air. “You always make shit happen.”

Damn straight he does.

Mickey looks around at all they’ve built. Their respectable plot of land. The couple acres of bee farm. The sizable garden they cleared last year for Ian’s crops. The small country store by the road where they sell their local, organic honey—and more recently, Ian’s produce and quickly-becoming-famous jarred tomato sauce—to tourists passing through on their way to their fancy-ass vacation homes in the mountains. A huge step up from the booth they used to lug around to every farmer’s market in a hundred-mile radius.

Ever since Ian followed his gardening passions to grow their business, he’s been whining about not having enough space to grow all the shit he wants. Nerdy ass motherfucker has all dozen of his beds mapped out in a goddamn spreadsheet trying to squeeze in as many things as possible.

They’d talked about trying to purchase the empty lot behind theirs. Called up a realtor. Paid a fucking appraiser to come out and give them an estimate of the land’s value. Sat down one very long night with the books and crunched the numbers. It was doable. 

Only stumbling block was the prick who currently owned it. Some old, rich, white, republican asshole whose family bought up half the town generations ago. Jackass in a suit with zero intention of ever using the land for anything other than stroking his own ego. 

So they made him an offer in line with said ego. Too generous if you asked Mickey, but Ian was so eager to make it happen that Mickey’d agreed. The response came back the very same day. No. Dickwad had refused to even consider it.

Ian wrote it off as a lost cause and sulked around for a week. But Mickey didn’t plan on letting it go that easily. If this guy thought he could bully them around just because he had a half-decent education and a pile of daddy’s money, he had another thing coming. 

Kind of shit Terry would have pulled if he’d had the power. The thought only pissed Mickey off and made him want to fuck the guy over even more. His fist-fighting days might be over, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still up for a good challenge. Don’t fuck with a man’s honey.

“Can’t believe you kept going after him.” Ian steps into Mickey’s space. Drapes his arms over his shoulders. “Thought we’d given up.” A familiar fire burns in his eyes.

Mickey looks up into Ian’s heated gaze. “My husband’s got eight hundred varieties of tomatoes to grow. Think I’m gonna let some jackass stand in the way of that?” He grins, a mischievous thing, knowing damn well what these kinds of things do to Ian.

In an instant, Ian’s lips are on his, his tongue slipping through Mickey’s smile. 

God, he fucking loves this man. All these years and it never gets old. Still that same rush. That same fluttering in his gut.

Ian’s arms slide down and wrap around Mickey’s back, those huge hands spread possessively across his rib cage. Mickey lets his hands fall from Ian’s waist to his hips where he slips his thumbs into the band of his dirty jeans and tugs. Not enough to pull them off, but enough to convey the message.

Hands drop to Mickey’s hips, pulling them forward and holding him steady as Ian grinds their already half-hard dicks together. Mickey swallows down the low moan breathed into his mouth before Ian pulls back, stepping away in his best effort to restrain himself.

“Not here,” Ian says.

“Jesus Christ. This again?” Mickey complains, wiping sweat from his brow, a combination of heat and arousal.

“I just can’t,” Ian whines. “The endless buzzing. Thousands of tiny eyes. Watching.” He makes a show of visibly shuddering at the thought.

“They’re bees. They aren’t fucking watching. Pretty sure they don’t give a shit to see us bang.”

“What if one stings your dick?”

“Seriously?” Mickey grouches. “Used to fuck behind the hives at the school almost every day. Never used to complain then.” But Mickey starts gathering his bee-keeping supplies into his toolbox anyway.

“Actually, yes. Yes, I did, but I put up with it ‘cause it was the only spot your dad would never come near.” Ian helps him pack up his tools.

There really was something funny about the fact that Terry—the big, tough, drug-running, child-abusing piece of shit—was terrified of some tiny, fuzzy insects. Maybe that’s part of what drew Mickey to bee-keeping. A quiet way to piss on his father.

Mickey hadn’t even known what apiculture was when he’d signed up for the high school’s agriculture program as his junior year elective. But it sounded like an easy class, and maybe he’d pick up some tips to up production from his weed plants. And of course Ian was there, damn hippie with a provider complex, eager to learn how to feed his whole family from a handful of seeds. 

Ended up being the only period Mickey never skipped. Surprisingly, some of the material still managed to sink in even if he did spend every class staring at silky red hair. 

They rush back to the store in record time, teasing each other the whole way. Mickey grabs at Ian’s dick, tickling his balls through his jeans. Ian slaps his ass when Mickey turns to run, a seductive waggle to his strut. Flirty and fun, always bringing out that youthful energy in each other.

Finally, they reach the back door, slamming it open as they bumble their way inside, practically tripping over each other on their quest to get behind the locking door of their office. But of fucking course, the bell chimes, and in walks an elderly couple, probably retired, traveling through in that giant-ass RV Mickey can see through the front windows.

And Mickey’s about to get real bitchy with these cockblocking customers, already sucking in a breath ready to blow, when Ian’s hand lands on his chest. Cool it, tiger. Can’t be scaring off the money makers.

Mickey lets it out, restrains himself just enough, tapping his foot while Ian goes off to greet the couple. He watches Ian show them around the store, offering samples of their most popular varieties of honey. 

It’s a small shop, but it’s nice. Theirs. Mickey ain’t ashamed to admit he’s proud of it.

After what seems like hours to Mickey’s impatiently pulsing dick, Ian finally rings them up. Managed to sweet talk them into three bottles of honey, a jar of his precious tomato sauce, and even one of Franny’s handmade bracelets on display by the register. Mickey’s always impressed by his husband’s salesman skills, but Jesus fuck, can he not be so fucking nice to everyone all the damn time?

Ian flips the sign on the door to “closed”. His eyes land on Mickey, fucking him up and down from across the room. Mickey’s ass clenches in anticipation. Then the tension snaps, the both of them darting toward the office in the same instant.

Mickey makes it there first. By the time he turns around, Ian’s locking the door behind them, shirt already stripped off somewhere along the way. Fucker really hates shirts.

Before Mickey can blink, Ian’s got him shoved up against the wall, his body pinning him hard against the old wood paneling. He smells like dirt and sun and tomato leaves. Up this close, Mickey can see the pollen dusting across his nose, hiding amongst the freckles.

“Now tell me,” Ian growls into the crook of Mickey’s neck, breath hot against his skin, “how you broke that bastard into selling you the land.” Mickey tilts his head back, exposing more flesh to Ian’s busy lips. “Into giving you what you wanted.”

“Told him— fuck.” Ian pulls the collar of Mickey’s shirt open with his teeth, revealing even more skin to be ravaged.

“Tell me,” Ian chides.

Mickey sucks in a shaky breath. “Told him if he didn’t hand over the land, the ABF, USDA, and EPA would be up his ass ‘bout fucking with an endangered species’ natural habitat. Went after the fuckers money. ‘Course he folded.”

Mickey leaves out the part about slipping his brother some cash to “look into the guy” just in case the legal threats didn’t pan out. But if he never had to use the blackmail, Ian didn’t need to know.

“Money’s all that prick’s got in his life.” Mickey hisses as Ian grinds their hips together at just the right angle. “Doesn’t have a hunk of a husband like I do.”

Ian smiles at him like Mickey just came home with the winning lottery ticket. 

“Fuck, I married the sexiest man on the planet.”

Ian reaches under Mickey’s ass and lifts his feet off the floor. Mickey circles his arms around his neck, holding on as their mouths crash together. Knocking teeth. Bruised and bitten lips.

Then Ian’s moving. Stumbling backward. Mickey’s too lost in their fervid kisses to pay much mind, trusting completely in his husband. At Ian’s mercy, always.

The back of his legs hit the edge of the desk, and Ian sets him down. The perfect height to line their mouths up just right. 

Mickey’s hands work their way into Ian’s hair, tugging at the strands and scratching at his scalp. Ian clasps Mickey’s cheeks, his thumbs rubbing soft circles along his jawline, a stark contrast to the way he sucks Mickey’s lips between his teeth and pinches.

They’re both panting when they finally part for air. Ian’s fingers frantically unfasten Mickey’s jeans. Mickey uses his arms wrapped around Ian’s neck to pull him up enough for Ian to slide them off, exposing his bare ass to the polished wood. 

He hears seams popping when Ian yanks Mickey’s shirt over his head. Ian wraps him in his strong arms and moans when their naked chests press together.

“You showed that asshole who’s boss,” Ian says, stepping back and stripping out of his own pants. “Now let me show yours.”

He rounds the desk. In one fluid movement, he swipes everything on its surface to the ground. Pens scatter, papers go flying, but it’s just a mess. They learned long ago not to keep anything fragile on there.

The handle nearly tears off the drawer Ian pulls it open with such force. He grabs the bottle of office lube and slams it on the cleared surface.

He stalks back in front of Mickey. Grabs his chin for one quick but all-consuming kiss before turning him around by the shoulder. A rough shove to Mickey’s upper back and he’s bent over the desk. His exposed asshole clenched, waiting. 

“Fuck,” Ian whispers behind him. Raspy. Reverent. Fingertips trail down his spine. “Gorgeous like this. Still can’t believe I get to have this.”

A swift palm to Mickey’s left cheek has him gasping in surprise. He melts further into the desk, surrendering to the sweet, sweet sting on his skin. 

So that’s how this is going to go. Mickey closes his eyes and curls his bottom lip between his teeth. He mentally runs through the possibility of buying up all the neighboring land if this is the reward.

Ian must have lubed up while Mickey was lost in his thoughts because suddenly he’s being filled, Ian crooking his finger into that perfect spot right off the bat. 

“Ah, fuck. Holy fuck,” Mickey moans, burying his face in his arms. 

His back arches into the pressure, his legs already starting to shake. From one finger. Fuck, his husband owns him. 

One finger quickly turns into two, Ian scissoring them open for that achingly good stretch. He folds himself over Mickey’s body, planting soft kisses on the still-warm flesh of Mickey’s slapped cheek, Ian’s lips buzzing against skin when he moans into it.

He’ll never get over the sounds of his husband getting off to Mickey’s pleasure. From Mickey just being. Just submitting. Riles Ian up just as much as having his dick in Mickey’s mouth. 

Then he adds a third finger to the mix. Fucks them into him good and hard while his other hand snakes around to stroke Mickey’s cock, his lips never leaving Mickey’s skin. Never enough to push him over that edge, just enough to keep him teetering right on it.

And then, fuck, then another. A glorious fourth finger that has Mickey drooling over the desk, his mouth hanging open as frankly inhuman sounds escape his lungs. His hips sway on his shaking legs as he adjusts to the sensation. 

Spread. Stretched. Stuffed. 

By his husband.

“Fuck,” Ian purrs and Mickey can feel him stand up behind him. “Take it so good, baby. Doing such a good job for me.”

Even with his eyes closed, Mickey can picture the look on Ian’s face as he stands back and soaks in the view. Half his hand buried in Mickey’s slick ass bent over the table.

Ian twists his fingers inside Mickey’s pulsing hole and they both groan in unison. Mickey’s not sure which one of them is enjoying this more.

“Love it when you let me use this perfect hole of yours,” Ian goes on, his voice sending shivers up Mickey’s spine. “Let me treat you like the queen you are.”

And Mickey’s preening under Ian’s attention, his body opening up to accept whatever Ian wants to give him.

It took him a while to get used to this, to get comfortable with it—Ian showering him in praise and affection—after a lifetime of hurt and neglect. Never learned how to process such positive words. 

But now he loves it. Has learned to relish in it. Sometimes even beg for it. The assurance of how much his husband loves his body, loves him, all of him, soothing like warm tea and honey. 

Ian keeps up his sensuous torment—fucking his fingers into him, spouting words both sweet and filthy into his ear—until Mickey’s legs can barely hold him up any longer.

Finally, Ian takes mercy on him. Reluctantly removes his digits, leaving Mickey empty, his cheeks clenching down hard in search of something, anything, to get that feeling back.

A strong hand wraps around his waist, stands him up, supporting most of his weight, and lowers both of them to the ground, Mickey coming to settle on his sore ass between Ian’s spread legs. Ian’s twitching cock presses against Mickey’s back, smearing wet slickness across his sweaty skin. 

His tongue licks a heavy stripe up Mickey’s neck ending in sharp nibbles to his ear. “So fucking proud of my man,” whispered so soft Mickey’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. But no, he didn’t. Ian’s just like that.

Then Ian’s flipping them, pinning Mickey on his back on the plush carpet—the first and only thing they’ve remodeled in the place. 

Ian straddles him, hovering painfully close but not close enough over Mickey’s thighs. He stares down at him. Pupils blown. Lost to the sight.

Mickey’s body writhes beneath him, hips bucking sky high in an attempt to find something to grind against. Friction or pressure or fucking something before he implodes under Ian’s gaze.

“You have no idea how sexy you look right now.” Ian has the audacity to smirk at him. Like he isn’t torturing the man in the most beautiful of ways.

“Please. Please, Ian,” Mickey begs, his voice hoarse and shaking. Full of desire and lust and need he’s long since stopped trying to hide.

He loves his husband. Loves the way he makes him feel. There’s no shame in that.

Ian smiles. A devious thing. Victory.

Mickey doesn’t even care. 

Then he dips his head, marking his way up Mickey’s body. A trail of both teeth and suction bruising over his stomach, his chest, even the soft underside of his arm, that ultra-sensitive spot Mickey never knew he loved until Ian explored every inch of him. Ian finishes up his warpath across his neck, leaving hickies Mickey knows he won’t be able to hide.

Mickey thinks briefly of the third graders Ian invited to tour the farm tomorrow. “Come on, Mick. We’ll make it educational. Gotta get the next generation interested if we’re gonna save the bees.” Hopefully, the swarm of eight-year-olds will believe the marks are bee stings. A simple workplace hazard.

Someone sure is a hazard around this workplace, alright.

Finally, Ian’s lips make it all the way to Mickey’s. Tongues tangle in search of that familiar taste. 

Ian’s splayed out against him, the full length of their naked bodies pressed against each other. Mickey squirms, rutting his cock against Ian’s, but it’s not enough. He’s still so achingly empty he’s convinced his body will turn to dust if he doesn’t get his ass filled soon.

“Ian. I need— I need—” His brain is too lost to get the right words to his mouth, but Ian understands.

His husband reaches under Mickey’s weakened legs and helps him wrap them around his waist. He lines them up. Mickey’s nails dig into Ian’s back as he braces himself. 

Then, Ian’s pounding into him in one swift motion. He sinks to the hilt on the first thrust, Mickey’s hole already so stretched and ready for him.

Mickey registers the feeling of the scream leaving his chest but can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. Finally. Filled. Perfectly. By the perfect one.

Ian keeps up the relentless rhythm—good and hard, just the way Mickey likes it—until Mickey’s close. Right back on that edge. He mutters incoherent sounds until Ian gets a hand on his dick and grants him that long-awaited orgasm in three solid strokes.

Fucking ecstasy right here on the office floor. Anywhere Ian is.

Ian drags his come-slick hand up Mickey’s chest, rubbing it into his skin. Mickey hisses, all the sensations too much on the comedown.

Ian slows his thrusts, not ready to separate just yet, but eases up on Mickey’s pleasure-wrecked body.

“God, I fucking love you.” Ian’s eyes lock on Mickey’s, boring through him as he rocks his cock inside his still pulsing hole. “Fucking perfect. No one else I’d want to do this with. All of this.”

And with that, Ian’s face screws up, his eyes slamming shut against his will as he spills inside of him. 

Ian’s arms shudder, his elbows give, and he collapses on top of Mickey’s chest where they stay. It takes a solid minute for the buzzing in Mickey’s ears to fade out. For his vision to clear. The tingling in his fingers and toes to subside.

He swallows. His throat feels raw. Must have been too lost to realize just how loud he’d gotten. One of the perks of being out here in the boonies. Not that neighbors would stop Mickey anyhow. Nothing a shot of homegrown honey won’t soothe.

When they’ve finally recovered, Mickey crawls his way over to the desk and opens the bottom drawer. The one where they keep the financial shit Ian avoids at all costs.

He watches Ian’s face as Mickey pulls out the supplies he’d stashed there days ago when it looked like the deal might actually go through. A picnic blanket. A grocery bag of Pringles and Snickers bars. A couple joints, the good shit from their buddy’s farm. And, even though Mickey thinks it’s disgusting, a bottle of champagne because he knows Ian loves that kind of sappy crap.

Ian’s eyes well up, soft motherfucker, and he smiles.

“For the official celebration,” Mickey says, holding up the bottle.

“You…” Ian trails off, for once at a loss for words.

“Here,” Mickey grabs one last thing from the drawer. A packet of seeds. “Let’s go plant some fucking tomatoes. As many as you want.”

Ian grabs Mickey’s face. Presses their lips together again. But this time they’re soft and slow. An I love you and thank you. 

Sweet as honey.

#little sweet. 🍯 little spice. 🌶 #who knew we needed beekeeper!mickey in our lives? #content warning: excessive bee-related content 😂 #fuck this went off the rails somewhere #but you know i can’t resist a good bee pun #i’m just sticking to your brand okay?!?! #sticking. like honey. #alright alright. i’m done now. i promise. #happy birthday sweet thing! hope you have the most excellent of days. 😘 #shameless fanfic #gallavich fic #ian x mickey #squid words 🦑

[stormcrow513]

Tw for death and suicidal thoughts

Even more sure now that Bailey isn't going to make it much longer and I'm very very fucking familiar with dogs deaths, the youngest I was 4 and brother dog knocked up his sister, there were puppies most were born dead but two lived at first I was there when the one Raccoon died, his brother Socks died much later when I was a teenager and I was there for that death as well,

I've walked the death road so many times with all sorts of animals but none so much as dogs,

I know dogs so well I could probably make one,

One thing some people who've had dogs die mostly around 7,8,9 when dogs get into their teens they are basically a human in their 90s,

Their tough son of a bitches but any little thing they could once shurg off their so old now it's easier for it to kill em, they are running out of heads in a coin toss,

My last dog to go was in 2020 or 2021 can't think right now to fucking high and hurting to think dates,

So where we're at that February got a horrid cold, while it was warm inside it was cold outside below 0 we would have gladly let him pee on the floor, but he wouldn't he would strain and cry to hold it and go outside what else could we do? we let him out, then he started going down we had to carry him, then the night I knew he was going I sat on the floor with him til he took his last wheezing breaths,

And no we didn't take him to be put down the stress of the car ride he hated cars would have killed him rather he end wheezing at home with me loved the scared out of his mind,

Two options only and only you can decide

I don't need the trolley question because I've lived it enough to know you can only make the decision in the moment and you'll never be sure you were right after wheather anyone agrees with you or not,

So Bae my beautiful girl is 15 and she was absolutely going to make it to the end of the year then this mother fucker basically in my backyard the ONLY place I can let my dogs pee he dumps fucking pesticide all over on weeds he'd just hired someone to mow,

Now my babies dieing cause that shit has made everyone in my house sick,

It's okay for this guy to do this,

He can pour poison into my space as surely as if he were smoking tobacco or vaping in my living room small beings always hot hardest,

But people in some areas can't put a big metal dinosaur statue in their yard (real thing saw it in local Colorado news,

People can dump known acknowledged in court of law poison all over me and mine cause it's his house right in mine,

This is all right cause he's getting rid of weeds cause the fucking slow tape and murder of the land means it's okay to kill my baby girl my family I've had her as a puppy and it was love at first sight,

I kept poison out of this land for two months off six fucking years but some asshole who owned the land behind us that went to his house and was empty land, he didn't like my dad or other people here he bragged how he cut his land in three this guy who bought the house wanted the land with it to store cars which would have been perfect they were good neighbors, they guy refused then sold to Clayton home who at first was going to put one house in middle and then put two house there putting one right next to my fence,

The city council allowed this to happen everyone's sure they got slipped some money,

All this shit is a fucking ok, if I put a rainbow flag up here at my house my gun owning republican neighbors would likely shot me or or as has fucking happened to me throw rat poison into my backyard, hey look how we are right back to the star,

Poison in my yard dieing dog,

I'm so fucking tired right now guys so damned tried and I know myself now I know who I am in this time I am not going to ever kill myself once I thought it meant taking control over my life from my father and sister now I know that I wouldn't be winning I'd be losing,

That's just how I see it now for me not saying suicides have lost maybe for them in that moment they won their fight we can never know what they felt then, just like we can't determine what is winning and what is losing for another person,

But I know what it is for me, I can't go that way,

If this world wants me gone it's going to have to kill me itself,

But now there's no break to think I could rest I could close my eyes and be done I can make that choice,

I don't have that little comfort anymore,

And I no longer can take any breaks now, I am just being hot over an over increasingly so over the years

I can't take a break though every thing keeps telling me to,

I can't the second I stop to float something grabs my ankle and pulls me underneath,

I have to keep swimming or it's going to drown me,

It's why I'll never be able to be anything but a witch my need is so great magic is all I can turn to,

If I don't get myself out and pull ma up with me then it's all over,

I understand stand others experience otherwise but this is my experience

And I came to know it through abilities that came naturally to me,

But I'm just so tired and I feel like it's just pulling me down so hard I can't even try to swim I'm caught in a net right now,

And I'm sorry if some of you get oppset with me for writing this down,

I need it

And once I needed to read others messages like this

So to teenage me you are not alone

No matter what others are out there

Same and different

I love you I'm sorry you hurt cause I've hurt and it sucks and it's never ever fair

Edit also I am not typically the type to punch first I tend to let people hit me or someone I care about before I tap in, and even then I might think thwice before I swing,

So I won't tolerate being punched on this post

Therefore if you are rude to me on this post I will immediately block you unless I've talked to you enough to check you meant it badly, otherwise I'm blocking immediately if treated badly on this post

[super-unpredictable98]

A Royal Spooky Fuck Up | Misfits Timeline Anomaly’ verse

An oc x oc collaboration between @seanfalco​ & @super-unpredictable98

Word Count: 4,7k

Warnings: Strong language, ghost stuff, mention of death

a/n: Soooo we ended up forgetting to tell you guys something lol we thought it was pretty dehumanizing to call each of the Nathans "Lyddie's Nathan" or "Win's Nathan" so we gave them nicknames. Lyddie's Nathan is now Nate and Win's Nathan is Nats. Hope it's not confusing and that you enjoy our second quad adventure for the @sheehalloween

(Masterlist)

The year was 2022, life was just starting to look normal again, as normal as it gets. It was the end of a long eight show week in Six, where Lydia had been playing Anne Boleyn for a few months and she was rewatching The Crown. 

"Oh my God," she sobbed. No matter how many times she watched the scene where King George VI was found in his bed, she always cried. "And she wasn't there, Elizabeth wasn't there!"

"I thought you were anti-monarchy?" Win said as she walked through the living room to find her wife in tears in front of the telly.

"I am! I'm very anti-monarchy, I'm practically an anarchist," she wiped her tears with her sleeve. "I mean, King George got us through World War II, he was a great person. It's just a hobby, but I don't support it, our money pays for their luxury while everyone is struggling with the energy bills... horrific!"

"Yeah, no kidding, it's disgustin'," Winnie scoffed, though she plopped down next to Lydia on the couch. 

"Oh shit! Did yeh hear?" Nats cried, skidding into the room. 

"Hear what?" Win asked, frowning at him.

"We just saw it online, the Queen kicked th'bucket," Nate tilted his head seeing his wife's red puffy eyes. "Oh shit, bad time?" 

"THE QUEEN DIED?" Lyddie screamed. "She was okay a couple days ago! What happened? She can't just die! What the fuck? Out of nowhere?" 

"Well, not exactly out of nowhere, love, the woman was nearin' 100..." he murmured.

"So much for anti-monarchy," Win grumbled, rolling her eyes. 

"Yeah, she was good and old, one foot in th'grave an all, y'know? People have been waiting for this for a while..." Nats added.

"Everybody knows you can be a republican and still like the Queen! It's the Queen! The only one I've ever known, the only one my parents ever knew..." Lydia tried to work through the shock. "And what's the alternative? Carrot finger Dumbo and his mistress?"

"Th'alternative? Uh, I dunno, abolish th'whole bloody monarchy?" Win muttered. 

"Don't know if y'know Lyds, but um- back in Ireland we're not her biggest fans," Nate sat down, stroking her back. "Pretty sure the chants in the streets now are Lizzie's in a box... but we're all here, we love ya."

"Yeah, course we love yeh. It's gunna be okay," Nats assured, sitting down on her other side.

"They've been here forever, they're not going anywhere," Lydia clung to Nats. "Oh no! The corgis..." 

"The corgis will be fine," Nate murmured. "I think you're still gettin' over Betty White and Sond-" 

"Don't say Sondheim or I'll cry..." she breathed, nearly a whisper. "I was gonna meet the Queen next month, the Royal Variety Performance."

"Maybe we should turn off Th'Crown," Win suggested, grabbing the remote and turning off the television while the boys comforted her. 

"Hey, would it make y'feel better if we tried t'conjure th'Queen?" Nats exclaimed, snapping his fingers as he thought of it.

"You're gonna... conjure Queen Elizabeth? Won't she be angry at us? I mean, our flat is a dump next to her lavatory, let alone the rest of her palace," Lydia pouted. 

"Well then guess you'll just meet the new King and Queen when you're singin' next month..." Nate teased. 

"Queen consort! Camilla could never! And the new King is a self-proclaimed tampon, no way! I wanna meet the OG." 

“Well, maybe we won’t conjure her physically,” Nats mused, tapping his bottom lip in thought. “What if we used an ouija board just t’talk to her?” 

“How would you even know if you were actually talking to Queen Elizabeth?” Win snorted.

"We ask? Ghosts don't really have a reason to lie, do they?" Lydia watched as Nate made her a neon pink board. 

"I guess that one time Jamie just omitted the fact that he was dead... he didn't lie," he sighed heavily.

“Or if they’re evil spirits,” Win said, pitching her voice low for effect while wigging her fingers ominously.

"Don't be silly... we can all see ghosts, if there were evil spirits roaming around I think we'd know. The ghosts we see are the ones we attract," Lyddie scoffed, trying not to think too much about that possibility.

“Serve yourselves then,” she shrugged. 

“Aw c’mon, Winnie, at least come out your fingers on th’plancette,” Nats said, gesturing for her to join them around the coffee table.

"Please stay with us, just... don't move it around on purpose," Lydia asked, somewhat scared of what could happen. She didn't wanna end up like the Exorcist girl or another stupid child who misused the board. 

"She wouldn't do that, it's okay, none of us would... maybe me, but I'm givin' you my word," Nate assured.

“I promise I won’t take th’piss,” Winnie said, holding her hand up solemnly before grinning at her wife and placing her fingers on the edge of the planchette. “So, how d’we start this thing?” she asked, looking at Nate.

"Oh, this is exciting, it's like The Craft... only hopefully with a better ending," Lydia cleared her throat before closing her eyes.

"When you're done don't forget t'say goodbye," Nate warned. "Okay okay. Hello spirits," she nodded and he covered his mouth not to laugh. "We are holding this seance to reach a very special person, we hope you all understand. Only positive energies are allowed in this circle and we humbly ask Queen Elizabeth Alexandra Mary of Windsor to come forward."

For a long moment, nothing happened, and the four of them held their breaths, their fingers trembling on the planchette, but it didn’t move.

"I guess I should explain... your majesty, I'm Lydia Young, I was about to perform in the royal variety show with my wife Win. My Irish husbands are here too, but no hard feelings." 

"Well, some hard feelin's, my family... sorry we can talk politics later, Lizzie," Nate shook his head just as the planchette moved to hello.

Win’s brows rose and she nearly pulled her hands away. “Holy fu—“ she breathed. “It’s actually moving.” 

“Ask her somethin’ else, Lyds!” Nats urged, excitement coursing through him. He half wondered if it was only working because of his and his twin's medium powers.

"Um... your majesty, did you attend your son's second wedding reception wearing white as retaliation for when Camilla wore white to his first wedding?" Lydia asked. 

"Seriously? That's your question?" Nate chuckled and for a long time, nothing happened again.

“Did we lose her?” Win wondered aloud, watching the board for any tremble of movement.

Instead of drifting towards the yes or no, the planchette vibrated slightly before moving to the letter S. 

"S? what does that mean? I, M..." Nate watched it in confusion. 

"Simon? Why is she talking about him?" Lydia felt another shiver, but instead of excitement, this time it was fear.

"Guys, I don't think we're talkin' to th'dear departed Queen," Winnie whispered, her mouth going dry. She wanted to pull her hands away or yank the planchette to the 'goodbye' scrawled in the corner, but she couldn't move.

"Oh well, I think we have the wrong person, so... we respectfully ask to end this seance and say goodbye," Lyds stammered, but her hand was pulled as the spirit started to spell another word. 

"Oh shit... MU... MUR... Murder, that's just great," Nate grimaced, shaking his head and regretting every decision he made that day.

"Simon and Murder," Win mused. "Oh fuck... I think we're talkin' to--" her exclamation cut short as the table beneath the ouija board began to vibrate.

"Sally? Is that you?" Lydia asked and the planchette surged towards the yes. "Oh, for fuck's sake, we know he killed you, you were gonna send us to jail! For a self-defense murder!" 

"Wait who's Sally?" Nate asked before his mouth fell open. "Oh... the corpse bride lookin' cunt who gave me shit for that brick on her windshield!"

“Yeah, our probation worker,” Win added.

Nats opened his mouth to ask what to do next when the lights began to flicker ominously and the planchette began to move again. “What’s she spellin’ now?” he yelped, hoping no one could hear how freaked out he was.

"Justice... oh please! You're dead!" Lydia cried, but she didn't want to upset the spirits. "I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. It's just that he had to do it." 

"We're good people! We never killed anyone cause we wanted to. Please fuck off," Nate pleaded.

“Let’s hang up, this call is goin’ nowhere,” Win said, dragging the planchette over to the ‘goodbye’ in the corner. “See ya, y’frigid bitch,” she muttered, wiping her hands. 

“Guess she’s still pissed at us, even after all that time,” Nats mused. “Y’d think she’d mellow out after findin’ her boyfriend in th’afterlife.”

"Maybe they went to different places," Lydia pointed one finger up and one down. "I mean, Tony wasn't amazing, but he didn't do that to us cause he wanted to either. He was possessed." 

"Maybe," Nate shrugged. "Can't see her anywhere, so it's over. Don't worry." 

"I'll call Simon to put a Greek evil eye on his door," she jumped in search of her phone.

"I don't think Tony woulda turned violent unless he already had violence in his heart," Win murmured thoughtfully as she picked up the ouija board to put away. "But I'm glad that's over with, it gave me the skeevies."

"Probably, think we all got powers that had to do with who we are. I've always felt really vulnerable, so I got a shield. Nathan is dumb so he can't die..." 

"Hey!" Nate laughed. "Don't think that's why!"

"I was afraid of bein' seen as a leech, so my power's leechin' other peoples'," Win muttered, still kinda sore about that one, even if it did come in handy.

"Don't say that, your power saved us so many times," Lyddie emerged from their room with her phone to give her wife a hug. But just as she took the other woman in her arms, the bedroom door slammed shut

Yelping in surprise, Win jumped into her arms. "D'you think...? It couldn't have been Sally, could it? We ended the seance..." she whispered, a chill running down her spine.

"She never said goodbye, but... Nate said he couldn't see anyone," Lyds held her protectively. "It was probably the wind, I left the window open."

"Right, yeah. The wind..." she agreed hesitantly, shaking her head, her voice trembling slightly. "C'mon, let's go make something to eat."

"Yeah, there's some leftover curry, I can toast some bread," Lyddie tried to not freak out for everyone's sake. 

"Yummy! I'm starvin', all the supernatural shit really drained me," Nate hopped on the stool and leaned over the counter.

“Are you really not even a little rattled?” Win asked the boys as she pulled the dish of leftovers out of the fridge for Lydia. 

“Nah, what’s she gunna do?” Nats scoffed, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug.

"Your mum and our brother have t'make the biggest effort t'visit. What makes Sally so powerful that she could haunt us?" Nate agreed. 

"Don't worry baby, nothing is gonna hurt us, I'm here," Lyddie smiled reassuringly.

Lydia’s words placated Win for the time being, but by the time they were getting ready for bed, more strange things began to happen. 

“Nate, did you filch my clean pyjamas from th’bathroom?” Winnie huffed, emerging in her towel, her hair still dripping.

"That would've been a great idea t'see you naked, but no... someone got there before me," Nate gave his brother an accusatory glare. 

"I can find something for you to wear," Lydia offered, opening the top dresser drawer and screaming when the bottom one opened as well, hitting her legs.

“What, it wasn’t me!” Nats cried, his exclamation turning into a sharp shriek of alarm as his wife cried and jumped back. “Oh shit! Lollipop, you alright?” 

He quickly rushed to her side and kicked the dresser door shut. Suddenly the lights began to flicker faster and faster before the door slammed shut with a whoosh leaving them in darkness. 

“I’m fairly certain that wasn’t th’wind this time!” Win exclaimed, having jumped into Nate’s arms atop the bed. 

"Yeah, we might have a problem," Lydia murmured, letting Nats embrace her. "How can we banish her? She's so salty for no reason! She took my brother's phone, he was just trying to get it back." 

"I don't know, I'd call my priest uncle, but things were a little awkward after the... y'know, fake possession stunt," Nate shared a look with his twin before loosening Winnie's towel to get a peek at her goods. "Ooh, nice, never gets old." 

She gave him a halfhearted smack to the shoulder but didn’t bother recovering herself. 

“I’m gunna ignore th’bit about a fake possession, though I’m definitely curious,” she said, looking between the two. “Maybe we should call a priest though? Not your uncle, but a priest?” she asked, her gaze going to her wife.

"Do you know any priests? I've never even been to a church, my mum's a former Catholic turned atheist and my dad's a Jewish hippie," Lydia covered them all in a force field as one of her Tony awards was launched from the shelf. 

"I don't know, maybe there's some 0800-priest. Do we know any pastors maybe? Or monks? Maybe your dad knows a rabbi!" Nate asked.

“No, sorry. My family never went t’church either.” Win shook her head. “Maybe we could call th’local parish? See if they can help us?” She suggested, wincing as several books exploded from the shelf.

"We can't sleep like this! Let's go over there right now, I'm not letting this cunt hurt you. Nate, get us dressed, we're leaving," Lydia demanded. 

"Right now? It's late," he said, though he followed her instructions, snapping his fingers to dress all of them up. "Could be dangerous." 

"Not as dangerous as sleeping with a vengeful spirit in our house. Someone will have to help us."

“Will anyone even be there at this hour?” Nats asked, quickly shutting his mouth at the look his wife threw him.

"If there isn't, we're spending the night with my parents," Lyddie shoved a few essentials in a backpack and headed to the door while covering herself and the others still.

"What if she tries t'follow us?" he wondered as they walked across the estate to the big cathedral.

"Then I guess we better hope th'priest is in," Win murmured.

As expected, the doors at the church were locked, so Lydia banged with both fists while Nate tried to unlock it. 

"Hey! We need help! We messed it up and now we're haunted!" She screamed.

After several minutes of their pounding and Lyddie's screaming, the door finally swung open, revealing a very disheveled looking man. 

"Yes?" He exclaimed, leaning heavily against the church door.

"There are millions of bloody priests in the world, why the fuck he's the one helpin' us?" Nate hissed. 

"Oh my... this is... this is new," Lydia's legs nearly gave out when she saw him, an exact copy of Nathan but with some facial hair. Not much, but enough to make her weak in the knees. 

I fancy a priest, I'm so going to hell if I die one day, she thought, even more turned on by how sleepy and messy he looked.

"What, may I ask are y'doin' bangin' on th'door at this hour?" The priest asked, his gaze taking in all four of them. 

"Oh..." Win breathed, discreetly reaching for Nate's arm, subconsciously trying to remind herself that she was married. 

"We're bein' haunted!" Nats exclaimed, breaking the silence. "We need an exorcism, STAT!"

"We're so sorry, we didn't mean to disturb you, but it's really urgent," Lydia tossed her hair and fixed her posture. There was nothing wrong with being attracted to this guy, it'd not like anything would ever happen anyway. "There's a vengeful spirit throwing things around the house, we were trying to communicate with the Queen and things went south. We really really need your help," she pouted slightly.

“Why were y’tryin’ to talk to th’Queen?” the priest scoffed, amusement breaking the annoyed expression he wore. “Come on in, I gotta get dressed,” he murmured, gesturing for them to follow him.

"The royals are sort of a hobby of mine," Lydia obeyed, turning agape at Win like a giddy fan meeting her idol. "Even though I'm not exactly a fan of authority... can I ask what's your name, father?" 

"Get a grip, you're married! And thinkin' what you're thinkin' about a priest is a sin for sure," Nate whispered in her ear. 

Win met Lyddie’s look with one of her own and had to fight to stifle her snicker as she overhear his hissed warning. 

“Uh, it’s Kay,” the priest answered distractedly, leading them to his office, which doubled for a bedroom. “Sit wherever y’like, make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, gesturing to a few worn armchairs in the corner while running his other hand through his close cropped curls.

"Thank you," Lydia smiled, already grateful to Sally for being so stubborn. 

Nate took a seat and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her like a dog protecting his bone. "You're shameless, woman," he scolded. 

"What? I didn't do anything, and you are right. We're married, for over ten years, you should be over your silly jealousy by now. He's a man of God, I could never!" She fought not to laugh. "I just hope he can help us with the house. Right, Winnie?"

"Yeah, I hope so too," she agreed, sharing a tiny grin with her wife. 

"Okay, now get me up t'speed," Kay exclaimed as he returned to the room wearing his vestments. "You said somethin' about en exorcism?" he asked, sitting down on the arm of the chair opposite them. 

"Yeah, we're bein' haunted by th'ghost of one of our probation workers," Nats explained.

"Almost fifteen years ago we were arrested and had to do some community service. My brother and this probation worker were having some sort of relationship," Lydia winced thinking about it. "She passed away during an accident and today when we tried to communicate with spirits, she's the one who came forward and she's really angry for some reason. We were wondering if there's anything you can do."

Kay looked thoughtful for a long moment. "I can come and bless your house, I s'pose." 

"That's it?" Nats exclaimed incredulously.

"You say that as if you can do it yourself..." Lydia gave him a pointed look. "That would be great." 

"Sorry, we're not exactly wired t'trust priests," Nate muttered.

Kay winced and opened his mouth before shutting it again, deciding better not to ask. "Since I'm awake, I suppose now's as good a time as any," he said instead, getting to his feet. "Shall we?"

"Yeah, we're so sorry by the way," Lyddie got up, fixing her skirt. "That whole mess might just make me religious." 

"Mhmm, the mess," Nate took her backpack so she wouldn't have to carry it on the way back.

"Oh hush, you," Win hissed, nudging his shoulder as they filed back out the church and back into the night. 

"D'yeh think this'll actually work?" Nats wondered in a hushed voice. "No offense to our lookalike priest," he muttered.

"I really hope so, this has t'be worth it," Nate rolled his eyes, following behind as the girls led the way. "Otherwise we'll have t'move out or some shit."

Once back at the house Nats entered hesitantly, looking around to see if Sally was still around. "I think th'coast is clear for th'moment," he said, turning around to let the others in.

"Ah what a bitch!" Lydia gasped when she saw their stuff scattered all over the floor. "Sorry, I didn't mean to curse." 

"You sure?" Nate held up the two halves of her destroyed signed copy of Junji Ito's Uzumaki. 

"That cunt whore!" She yelped and immediately covered her mouth, shaking her head in embarrassment.

"It doesn't bother me if you swear," Kay assured her, pattering her shoulder lightly as he stepped past her, surveying the room.

Suddenly a vase fell from the mantle, smashing on the ground and making them jump. "Wow, you weren't kiddin', that's one angry spirit," he murmured.

"We have no idea why..." Lyddie shrugged, taking Nate's hand when she noticed he was staring daggers at Kay. "You'll fix my book later, right? And our trophies..." 

"Ask him..." he huffed stubbornly but quietly. 

"Oh come on, are you 33 or 13?"

“I can fix them,” Win whispered. 

“Sometimes it’s not fair you can do that,” Nats grumbled.

"Thank you, my lovely perfect wife," Lydia stuck her tongue out at the boys. 

"You're too soft on her, Winnie," Nate folded his arms.

“And you’re getting your knickers in a twist over nothin’,” she snapped back. 

"If y'say so," Nate couldn't deny that fella was being more than generous helping them out in the middle of the night.

“Not to worry,” Kay said, turning back to the four of them. “I’m going to th’cleanse your house now.”

"Thank you so much, do you need us to do anything, father?" Lydia asked tying her hair up in a ponytail. 

“I’m gunna sprinkle some holy water in each room as I pray. All yeh need t’do is follow me,” he explained, reaching into his robe to grab his vial of the liquid.

"Yeah, of course," she took Win's hand, not for a moment doubting that plan was going to work. It only made sense... Nate on the other hand was quite unimpressed.

Winnie squeezed her wife's hand and followed after Kay. Though she didn't believe in the whole Jesus thing, she hoped that this prayer thing would work. 

"How much you wanna bet this is gunna work or not?" Nats whispered to his twin.

"I bet a threesome that it's not gonna work," he whispered back smugly. "There's no fuckin' way one of our variants is a priest... he must be a fake, only doin' it for the free accommodations."

"Deal." Nats shook on it. 

"What are you two on about?" Win hissed as they passed through the living room to the kitchen where Sally had left another mess. 

"Nothin'," Nate flashed her a charming grin. "Just talkin' about how much we love our wonderful wives. There ya go always thinkin' the worst..."

Kay sprinkled a few drops of holy water as they went, his voice a melodic prayer. Winnie gave the Nathans a doubtful look, but held her tongue, not wanting to disrupt the cleanse.

I think there's something wrong with me, this is turning me on, Lydia thought, making the sign of the cross and shaking those thoughts away. 

Kay continued his prayers, making the sign of the cross before leading them onto the next room. 

Suddenly as they returned to the bedroom, everything began to vibrate violently, but he merely raised his voice louder, unperturbed as he flung a spray of holy water across the space. "Leave this house, spirit! By the name of God, I command ye!" 

"This is exciting," Win breathed, grabbing Lydia's arm.

"Oh you have no idea..." she brought her wife's hand to her chest, where anyone could easily feel her heart racing. "He's not even scared, he's amazing." 

Nate rolled his eyes, trying to look as unfazed, even though he was a little bit freaked out. The lights were flickering and the sounds of the objects flying around were deafening. It all got worse until it finally stopped, leaving them in the most peaceful silence.

"--In God's name, amen." Kay finished his prayer and smiled, turning to face the four of them. "Looks like she's left." 

"Oh thank God," Win exclaimed, while Nats still eyed the room reluctantly, just waiting for Sally to return.

"So that's it? That actually worked?" Nate scoffed, only thinking of the threesome he'd have to sit out. 

"You're a lifesaver! This is incredible! I have no idea how to thank you," Lydia laughed, unable to contain her excitement. "D-do we pay you? Can I bring you lunch tomorrow?"

"Oh," Kay exclaimed, somewhat taken aback. "No payment is necessary, but..." he hesitated, turning his grin on her, "lunch would be nice, after wakin' me up in th'middle of the night," he chuckled. 

"What if she comes back?" Nats cried, scowling at the way Lyddie was gazing at the priest. 

"I suppose, let me know and I'll try something a little more advanced," he answered, frowning slightly. "But in th'meantime, maybe no more tryin' to contact the dearly departed Queen via ouija board."

"I promise we will never touch another board again, we'll let the Queen rest," Lydia nodded, already planning what she was going to cook the next day. "I'll make sure to update you tomorrow on the whole ghost situation." 

"Yeah well, thanks," Nate sighed, his face unbiddenly showing exactly how jealous he was. "Let's hope she doesn't come back," the last thing he wanted was to invite him over to get rid of another poltergeist.

Kay nodded. "It was my pleasure, good night to you," he said, following them back to the front door and stepping out into the dark street. As soon as he was gone, Nats shut the door heavily and let out a loud sigh.

"Winnieeeeeee!" Lydia squealed, jumping around, it had been a few years since a new variant had appeared. "We're ghost free! Well not really, but the bad ones are gone I hope." 

"Thankfully," Nats sighed, catching her around the middle.

"Guess I'll clean the mess then," Nate muttered, waving his hand to fix what was broken and get it back in place even though he swore he wouldn't do it.

Win laughed at her wife's excitement before turning to Nate and winding her arms around his neck, stretching to do so. "Thank you, babe," she whispered. 

"Yeah yeah..." he tried to fight a smile. "What don't I do for you two?" He held her in turn, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

She smiled, tilting her chin to look up at him. "Think we can resume where we were when I was in your lap with naught but a towel?" she purred, twining one of his curls around her finger. 

"Now that's a plan," he lifted her in his arms, disappearing with her clothes even before reaching the bedroom. "So much better."

She giggled, letting out a yelp as he tumbled to the bed with her. "So glad to have our home back t'normal," she murmured, running her fingers through Nathan's curls.

"Me too, from now on we only summon the spirits we know," Nate mumbled against her lips. "I kinda bet a threesome with Nats and lost, so I'll keep you tonight. All mine."

"Guess y'shoulda had more faith then," Win teased, opening her mouth to him, grinning into the kiss. "But mmm, I like th'sound of bein' all yours tonight."

"Stop with that face, I'm not even looking and I know which face you have," Lydia turned in Nats' embrace and touched the tip of his nose with her own. "See? I knew it."

"And what face is that?" He asked with a laugh, pressing his lips to the tip of her nose.

"It's cute, you always scrunch your nose and your lips do this thing when you eat something you don't like or when you're jealous," she teased, scratching his scalp gently.

"Yeah, yeah, obviously I'm jealous," he grumbled, pushing his lip out further.

"As cute as it is when you're jealous of us, you know there's nothing to worry about, have we ever fucked another Nathan? We met several... and this is probably the only one who doesn't want anything to do with us," Lydia assured, stealing a kiss.

"I know," Nats murmured, pulling her closer by the waist and deepening the kiss.

"Good, you're the only one for me," she whispered. "Well, not really, but you get the picture."

Tag List: @firstpersonnarrator @elliethesuperfruitlover

#misfits fanfic #misfits nathan #misfits #fanfic #timeline anomaly verse #nathan young #nathan x oc #nathan x lydia #nathan x win #otp: green apple lollipop #fic collab #sheehalloween 2022

[crazy-dog-lady-81]

Unconventional Conventions

Chapter 5

It had begun to rain just as they had reached the apartment building and they hurried inside, making their way up the stairs to Kai’s loft. “Well now! That was good timing”, they chuckled. “I don’t think that I will ever get used to Minnesota’s t-shirt and umbrella weather. I mean, those two things do not belong in the same sentence”. “I know, right. We have schizoid weather.”

They opened the door and stood back to let their partner step in ahead of them. “But at least it doesn’t always rain. Not like Seattle. I don’t think I have ever been there when it wasn’t raining”, they continued. “I used to think like that. I lived in Los Angeles before I moved to live with Meredith and my brother Derek. I wasn’t used to the rain after all that sunny sunshine. At first it was a pain, but it grew on me. It’ll grow on you too, Bartley. I don’t know how to explain it except to say that the rain in Seattle is different somehow. It’s soft and healing. The world always feels cleaner and shinier after a fall of Seattle rain”. She smiled fondly.

After hanging up their jackets and removing their shoes, Kai invited Amelia to sit and relax while they watered their plants. Amelia observed the ritual with interest. Kai took a spray bottle of water from under the sink in the apartment’s kitchen. Carefully, they misted both the top and the underside of each leaf.

Aware that they were being observed, Kai began to explain the procedure and the science to Amelia. “So, because Ringo and co are tropical in nature, they require a high level of humidity to grow well. Their own mini climate if you like. Their leaves have microscopic pores that absorb some of the mist. They use the water that they take in to transport food and nutrients throughout their bodies. Water is also essential for photosynthesis”. Amelia nodded her understanding and continued to observe Kai.

“You look like a pro-gardener. Where did your interest in plants come from?” she asked. “Hmm. That’s a good question. The short answer is in a therapy room”. Noticing Amelia’s confused look they continued to explain. “Coming out was very hard for me. It was shit if you’ll pardon my language.” “Not a problem”, Amelia waved off the swearing, inviting them to continue.

“My parents are ultra conservative. They vote republican and are devout Baptist’s. They expected me to grow up, find a nice boy, get married and have a brood of new Baptist’s.” They took a seat beside Amelia before continuing.

“I might as well have told them that I had murdered someone when I told them I was non-binary. They could probably have come to accept that I was gay, especially my dad. My being non-binary was like the straw that broke the camel’s back. They could not accept that. My mother saw it was an affront to God and said I was a deviant and an abomination.” “She actually said that? Used those words?” Kai nodded and sighed. “I am so sorry that happened, Kai.” Amelia put a hand on their broad shoulder and rubbed it gently.

“I was treated as an outcast in my own home. My siblings were more accepting, especially my brother Luke. He would tell my mother to back off and not to be cruel to me. It didn’t work but I appreciated that he had my back. Still does.” “He sounds like a great guy. I look forward to meeting him.” Kai nodded and continued.

“It came to a head with my mom when I told them that I had changed my name and my pronouns. She was horrified and threw me out. I spent the summer before I went to college living in my best friend’s house.”

“It was her mom that got me to see a therapist. She arranged the first visit, drove me there and sat outside in the car until I came out. Ms Clarke was super good to me. I will always be grateful to her.”

“My therapist was into plants and when I couldn’t talk during the first sessions, she’d show me how to care for her plants. I just thought it was soothing and cool. Something I could do right when it seemed that I couldn’t do anything right anywhere else in my life. Of course, what I was really doing was learning to care for myself. To heal and to accept myself. I have always had plants since then.” They stopped then.

A few minutes passed before they added, “I have never told anyone that before. Just you and I know that Amelia”. “Wow Kai. I am honoured that you felt that you could talk to me.” She continued to rub their shoulder soothingly, but Kai needed more. “Come here, Shepherd. Let me hold you.” Amelia came around to sit on their lap and Kai held her there until they felt better.

“So, any place you go will be filled with plants then Bartley?” “Maybe not filled but, yes, there’d be plants. Would you mind?” “Absolutely not. I was picturing you teaching Scout to love them too. I can see you two pottering in a garden of plants together” “A yard would have a house attached to it. So where do you see this house being?” “Seattle, Kai. I can see it being in Seattle”.

They took a walk together in the evening, wearing t-shirts and carrying umbrellas. The park was busy with families, joggers, dog walkers and others soaking up the June sunshine. Kai hadn’t said much since Amelia’s admission that they could see a home in Seattle with them. She was afraid that she had said the wrong thing, but she didn’t know how to raise the issue.

Kai led them to a bench that overlooked the river Zumbro, which ran through the park. They sat side by side in silence for a few minutes before they began to speak. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. About the house, the yard, and the plants that Scout and I were tending together.” Amelia looked at them. Her face was pinched with anxiety.

“It makes sense that it should be in Seattle, Kai. I mean it’s where my whole life is. Scout, my sisters, even Link. My whole support system is there. I am not ready to leave it all. I may never be ready to do that,” she declared.

A nod from Kai said that they understood. “I agree with you. You need to be there and if you are there, then that’s where I want to be.” They turned to look at her then. “I meant it this morning in the café when I said that I wanted to make things easier, not harder for you. If you moving to Minnesota is going to make things harder for you, then that’s not the way forward.”

Amelia looked at the tall scientist with a mixture of relief and disbelief in their expression. “You’d do that? Just up and move to Seattle for me?” Another nod and a smile from Kai. “Yes, I would do that. I will do that. If you want me to.” She reached for their hand. “Yes. I want you to. How though Kai? The lab is here and your job.”

Even though she routinely found ways to remove tumours that lesser surgeons had declared inoperable, Amelia couldn’t see a way to remove this blockage. It seemed to be a stubbornly insurmountable obstacle, one that threatened spoil her plans with her partner.

Amelia was famously indecisive and was known to be a master procrastinator. She never seemed sure of anything in her life, especially when it came to her love life. Some of that could be blamed on a brain tumour that she had experienced a few years back. It had made her impulsive and prone to making rapid choices which she later found herself regretting. Since recovering, she had become the total opposite, labouring over decisions at length.

Since she had been with Kai, she hadn’t found herself thinking and overthinking the relationship. Okay, yes, sure there were things that she really needed to be sure of, Scout and his welfare being top of that list. She was his mom, and he would always be her top priority. But, of Kai and of their relationship, she was sure. There was zero doubts that this was what she wanted. So, she was stressed that the path to her getting what she wanted seemed impassable. She expressed her worries to Kai and was almost annoyed by how unconcerned that they appeared.

“Walk with me Shepherd”, and they rose to recommence their amble through the park. Amelia waited for them to say something and when she thought that she would explode with frustration they spoke.

“With Meredith being acting chief of surgery, she’s been unable to be work on the Parkinson’s project with us. So, progress has been slowing down. David’s frustrated by this and is keen to get things moving again. I think that he’s afraid that another research team will usurp us if we don’t get things moving again soon.”

“That’s off topic Kai”. They sighed and took Amelia’s hand, intertwining their long, slender fingers through Amelia’s shorter ones. “Hear me out. It might not be. Meredith cannot come to Minnesota to the lab. Right?” “Right. But I fail to see how that helps us.”

“The mountain couldn’t come to Mohammed. Mohammed had to go to the mountain. What if there were a way that we could convince the power’s that be to bring the lab to Meredith in Seattle?”

#amelia shepherd #kaimelia #kai bartley #amelia x kai #kai x amelia #amelia shepard #greys anatomy

[thegreatgizatsby]

What the hell are you talking about? The Democrats will not continue to ignore a voting bloc that costs them elections. That's why LGBTQ+ rights, cannabis legalization, and student loan reform finally got off the ground as live issues; Democrats realized that the younger and more radical voters would not support them if they didn't move left. Unflinchingly voting for the same people no matter how heinously they act is a great way to get them to take your vote for granted and stop giving a shit.

And you know what? Yeah, leftists are too obsessed with who they did or didn't vote for, given that the US Constitution is effectively incompatible with a genuinely equitable government, for all its exceptions and clauses that ensure that white landowning men are placed in a higher echelon of power than all others. Voting is a pastime, not a form of praxis.

They will if it costs them elections either way. It would be one thing if Palestine were a single issue and we refused to vote for any candidate supporting Israel. We'd pool behind a good primary candidate and hold the vote hostage to force moderates to consider our choice. I'd be down. That's not what's happening.

What happens instead is some of us vote for a more radical candidate, some of us vote for a less radical one because the first one said something dumb about another issue, some of us vote for the moderate because they think the others have no chance in the general, and some of us vote for no one because "it's rigged anyway." Even if the most radical candidate were to win the primary, some leftists are already sitting out the election because of the aforementioned dumb shit, and even more will if a new issue comes up and the candidate doesn't take the most ideologically pure stance. At the same time, this candidate will have to contend with less support from moderates and an actively hostile industry switching support to the Republicans. All for—at best—the support of the couple of voters that got them through the primary and vote-blue folks who'll vote either way.

We're a scattered mess and can't be relied on in an election. There is no hypothetical perfectly leftist candidate that can secure the vote.

The issues you mentioned became a part of the platform because they came with a guarantee of new votes and weren't a deal-breaker for most moderates (thanks to the hard work of progressives and leftists between elections to shift the window). If enough LGBTQ supporters sat out key elections anyway because the pro-LGBTQ candidates weren't also championing student loan reform, they might have handed the win to the party of "let's build MORE conversion camps" and lost their foothold in the "maybe we gay people are okay" party. Importantly, any progress on previous issues would also move backwards.

I'm not saying unflinchingly vote for Joe Biden. In fact, absolutely do NOT vote for Joe Biden. In the primary, that is. Vote for the better candidate in the primary. Organize against the Democrat status quo and encourage some moderates to support as well. If the better candidate wins, Joe Biden himself might change his stance. He's done it before on most other issues. Hell, his team is probably considering it already given the growing moderate support.

But if it's a pro-Israel Biden in the general, that particular battle will be over. Until the following election, there will be nothing we can do (with our votes) to secure a pro-Palestine candidate. At that point, refusing to vote for him is just saying "you don't have to bother with those other leftist causes either because we're not gonna vote for you anyway."

Why won't that pull the Democrats left? Because they can get support elsewhere by just dropping us entirely (particularly from the center and industry). Modern American leftist groups are poor political minorities that behave like a single millionaire majority. Do you think Nazis get their way by letting progressives win anytime Republicans go for a more moderate candidate?

If a truly leftist president ever does rise to power, they'll have to battle a far-right Supreme Court instead of a blandly progressive one. They'll have to reverse years of catastrophic damage to leftist causes instead of building on centrist policies of harm-reduction. They'll have to strike deals with an opposing party of powerful and unified christofascists—only to lose voters every time they do so.

For a "pastime," voting sure does a lot of damage.

[cyarskj1899]

#WHITE PRIVILEGE #The Capitol #The US Senate #politics #political #This is DISGUSTING #I am LIVID #The Capitol Breached #Republicans sat by and let this shit happen

[shisnhou]

a little trouble

pairing: parent! sakusa kiyoomi x fem!parent! reader

genre: pure crack, parent au

cw: not proofread, and may contain typing errors, im writing this while im this close to passing out and it may also not make quite sense but it'll pull through, trust me.

wc: 1.6k

an: i seriously don’t know what this mess is either

"please come pick up your child from school, he had done something unacceptable." the principal says from the other line.

"yeah, we'll be there in a bit. thanks for telling us." you say as you bite your lip while your thoughts run. what could you ten year old son have done to get you called in.

"kiyoomi we have a problem." you say as soon as you walk in the room. sakusa stops his tracks as he plops the towel off his hair.

"what problem?" he asks you as he eyes you rummage through your closet for presentable clothes.

"we got called to the principal office." you say as you pull out a pair of mom jeans and a random shirt.

sakusa's eyes nearly fall out of his sockets while his jaw falls agape.

"no way." he says and you hum as you take off your shirt and the shorts and quickly pull on the jeans before pulling it back down.

"he just did. they called and they said they need us right now." you sat before pulling out a slitted pencil skirt and pulling it up.

"what the hell did he do?" he asks as he rushes to his side of the closet and pulling out his white button up and a pair leather jeans.

"remember that one annoying little shit from the parent-teacher conference? him. i don't know what happened but apparently they got into something." you say while you pull out a fancy top.

"fuck this."

you two make it just in the nick of time. when you pull up the drive way the parents of the other child pull up as well, the mother still trying to look like an orange republican.

"act cool and rich." you tell your husband as you grab your purse. he cocks you a brow as he puts on his mask and eyes you.

"we are rich. what are you talking about." he says before opening his side of the door. you roll your eyes before fixing your heels and walking out of the car.

"well if it isn't the sakusa’s, i wouldn't be surprised if it would be your son who got into trouble." the lady says while she stands on the trunk of their car. you spare he a dead glance before waiting for your husband to get on your side.

"lets go?" kiyoomi asks as he bends out his hand for you. you send him a tight smile before locking your hand with his.

"lets go." you smile as you two start to walk in. the other mum snickers as she trails behind you.

"you two are still as ignorant as before i wouldn't be—"

"do you hear something?" kiyoomi asks as he holds up the glass door for you. you grin at his question before sending him a wink and looking at the woman behind you.

"nothing at all." you respond.

your heels clack against the tiled floor as you two make your way to the office. teachers who recognize kiyoomi show him a surprised look as the bow at him, making him slightly uncomfortable.

you two then arrive in front of the door and without hesitation you open the door to then reveal your son who has a bandage on his nose.

"oh, baby." you coo as you inch towards him. he eyes you as he quickly runs towards you.

"do you have a spare mask mummy?" he asks you as he covers his mouth and nose with his hand you quickly nod at him as you pull out a black medical mask and hand it to him.

"thank you." he mumbles. sakusa finishes up making sure his son is all well before walking past you and towards the principal.

"mister sakusa, pleasure to see you."

"pleasure to you as well. but what is going on here? why does my son have a bruised nose?" he asks the principal who feels his intimidating aura making him sweat drop.

"please, lets wait for the other parents." he says as he shows his hands. kiyoomi then heaves a sigh as he walks to his son and ushers him to take the seat.

"what'd he do?" you ask your husband as you hand him out the sanitizer his hands are asking for.

"he won't tell me. he said to— wait." as if on que the other parents walk in looking as annoying as usual.

"take the seat love." sakusa says as he places his hand on the small of your back ushering you to sit down with him.

"mister miwa." the principal greets. the father waves his hand before the mother steps in and rushes to her child.

"oh my god! gaby! what did they do to you?!" the mother asks as she pulls her son to her chest sending you a glare making you roll your eyes.

"lets not make any assumptions just yet missus miwa let's talk this out—"

"just tell me what this hell spawn did!" she yells making you cock a brow.

"hell spawn? listen here you crusty musty looking orange hell of a human being. the moment i walked im my son was missing his mask and he has a bruise on his nose while yours just has nothing." you grit in one go.

"now— missus sakusa, missus braun lets calm down." the principal sweat drops as he stops you two. kiyoomi places his hand on your shoulder, silently telling you to calm down.

"what happened here?" sakusa calmly asks the principal.

"the two of them fought, because gaby had removed kiyo's mask." the principal explains as he holds out his hand. gaby's mother gasps dramatically as she places her hand on her chest with a look on her face.

"just because of a mask?!"

"it's not just a mask. my child prefers to wear masks so that he doesn't catch whatever viruses your son has." sakusa explains.

"are you saying my son has a virus?!" she audibly says out loud making you wince, however your husband remains grounded.

"probably something worse than a virus." he says back calmly making your snort.

"are you seriously going to watch this man do this to me?" she asks in disbelief with pure hatred in her eyes.

"please, lets settle this as adults. we want to know why this has gotten out of hand." the father asks with his hand on his temple. "mister sakusa please take a seat."

"i prefer to not be infected with the same virus as yours."

"lets not spark anymore arguments, sir." the principal says as he takes his own seat.

"my question is why did this child remove my sons mask?" you ask the principal as you cross your feet.

"maam i don't have an—"

"but why does he keep wearing a mask? he looks weird." gaby says as he smugly crosses his hands.

"well gaby, kiyo doesn't like it when he catches germs. his like keeping clean." you explain in the most subtle possible way you can.

"but he keeps his distance, he's a freak." you blink your eyes as you tilt your head. sakusa looks down on the child as he takes in a deep breath.

"excuse me?"

"he's a freak."

"oh no you didn't—" sakusa stops you from standing on your seat as he licks his lips and glare at the child.

"do you know what a germ is gaby?"

"yes."

"do you know what germs do to your body?"

"they harm you?"

"exactly. now kiyo wears a mask because he doesn't like getting germs in, and he keeps his distance because he refuses to get contaminated by people like you,"

"what are you trying to say?" the mother interferes.

"let me dumb it down for you; it means that your genes have spread on your son therefore qualifying him as a germ."

content belongs to @shisnhou on tumblr! do not repost, copy, use, or modify!

#sakusa kiyoomi angst #sakusa kiyoomi au #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa fluff #sakusa angst #sakusa kiyoomi smut #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa smut #sakusa drabble #hq sakusa #msby sakusa #haikyuu sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi x you #sakusa x you #sakusa #sakusa x reader #sakusa x y/n #haikyuu smut #haikyuu angst #haikyuu #haikyuu!! #hq x you #hq #hq angst #hq x reader #hq headcanons #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x me

[meganwritesfanfics]

Fresh Bruises (Josh Lyman x Reader) Part 3

Warning this story contains mentions of Domestic Abuse 

It was another half an hour to almost an hour before Abby reappeared. Donna had fallen asleep her head resting on Josh’s shoulder. He knew he should be tired, he should be exhausted, it was 3 in the morning, and he had only gotten maybe an hour of sleep the night before. But he couldn’t sleep, he barely blinked because all he could see was Y/N lying motionless in his arms. 

“Josh,” Abby started when suddenly a dozen secret service agents came into the waiting area. The staff knew what to do as they quickly ushered everyone in the room to a different waiting room, the commotion waking Donna. 

After the room had been secured President Bartlett and Leo walked in, and Josh quickly rose to his feet. 

“Sir you didn’t have to come,” He started but Bartlett just pulled him into his embrace. 

“Nonsense Josh, have you heard anything?” 

“The surgery went well.” Abby said and Bartlett quickly patted Josh on the shoulder with a smile on his face. 

“But,” Josh said noticing that Abby’s demeanor wasn’t a happy one. 

“But, her head injury was worse than they had originally thought.” Abby said and Josh sat back down looking up at her as a child would look up at a parent.  “She’s in a coma Josh.” 

Josh just stared at Abby, mouth agape. 

“Oh Josh,” Donna said her voice cracking hard as she wrapped her arms around him, trying her best not to cry. 

 “What are our options, are their specialists we can see what…” Jed started as he and Abby walked down to talk. 

Josh wasn’t sure when Leo sat down next to him, but the next thing he knew Leo was grasping his hand tightly. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to tell Josh everything was going to be ok. He just sat with him, letting Josh know he was there. 

More time passed and Josh hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved, hadn’t cried since Abby told him the news. 

“Josh,” A voice spoke softly and he turned to see Leo still sitting next to him, but now he had a cup of coffee in his hands, Josh noticed there was another cup sitting on the table next to him. “Abby said she doesn’t think there is going to be anymore news for a while, why don’t we take you home so you can shower.” 

“No, I have to stay, Y/N might…” Josh wanted to say wake up, but he couldn’t bring himself to because he still hadn’t fully processed everything that was happening. 

“Abby is going to stay with Donna, they will be here when we get back, but Josh I think you would feel much better after a shower and a change of clothes.” Leo insisted 

For the first time since they had gotten to the hospital, Josh finally looked down at himself. He was covered in blood, his white shirt was stained red and his shaking hands were caked with Y/N’s blood. 

Before he even had a chance to say anything else, Leo was pulling him to his feet and ushering him out of the hospital. 

Neither of the men tried to speak as they made their way to Leo’s car nore did they speak on the drive to Josh’s apartment. 

Josh stayed staring at his hands trying to get them to stop shaking. His breathing was erratic and he was trying not to have a full blown panic attack, but it was incredibly difficult as he sat with the blood from the love of his life covering him. 

“Josh,” Leo said as he looked over at him noticing the sound of his breathing. “Josh, you need to breath.” 

“What if she doesn’t wake Leo, she is my whole world. I can’t…” 

“Don’t think like that Josh, Dr. Bartlett is making sure that we get every specialist in the country on the case. Y/N is going to have nothing but the best care, Jed has insisted on it.” 

“The President can’t…” Josh started. 

“Josh, you are family, he’s going to do whatever he can to help you.” 

The young man couldn’t help but get choked up hearing this. He had always considered the staff of the rest wing and the President to be his family. They had all been through highs and lows together, but actually hearing the word family come out of the Chief of Staffs mouth, really solidified everything. 

By the time they had reached the apartment Josh had calmed down. He felt like for the first time that whole evening/morning he could breath. 

The two men made their way into the apartment. Josh quickly rushed around picking up the papers and boxes that littered the apartment. He couldn’t remember the last time Leo had been to his place, or if he ever had, but he didn’t want him to see how terribly disorganized he was. 

“Josh, I have seen your office, I expected your house to look much worse, Y/N must be a good influence on you.” Leo laughed causing Josh to stop looking back with a smile on his face. “Now go shower and get changed.” 

Josh started his way towards the bathroom, but as he passed each room his mind began to flood of the memories he and Y/N had there. 

It was 2 am by the time Josh had finally gotten home from work, and instead of going to bed, he immediately made his way to the couch pulling out the files he had brought home, to read over them before he had meetings the next day. He probably had gotten through 10 pages before he was passed out on the couch. 

“Josh,” He heard someone whisper but he didn’t move he just kept his eyes closed, his hands barely hanging onto the files. Someone sighed as they reached down to grab the files out of his hands, and then he felt a blanket be placed over him. 

In an instant he opened his eyes to see Y/N standing above him and he smiled as he grabbed her waist pulling her on top of him causing her to squeal. 

“Why didn’t you come up to bed.” She said as she snuggled into his chest as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. 

“I had some stuff I need to finish before my meetings tomorrow.” He yawned kissing the top of her head. 

“You know that if you try to read those files this late that you are just going to fall asleep. You always do.” She giggled. 

“And you are always there to tuck me in. Maybe that's the real reason I do it.” 

“You are quite a frustrating man Joshua Lyman.” 

“But you love me none the less.” 

“Oh I do love you, I love you so much.” Y/N said looking into his eyes with such love that Josh thought he might cry. 

“I love you too Y/N, more than I ever thought possible.” Josh said kissing her. 

The two spent the night on the couch, and although he woke up sore, Josh still credited it as one of the best nights of his life. 

Josh couldn’t hold back his tears as he continued past the kitchen 

“You are not the only one with a career Josh!” Y/N screamed as she turned back to look at the food she had cooking on the stove. 

“I’m not saying you don’t I’m just saying…” 

“You are just saying that your career should always come first and that I should drop every single thing that I am doing to support you in your career.” Y/N hissed as she aggressively turned the stone off, turning back to look at him. 

“Well yes since my career actually m…” He started but his eyes went wide when he realized what he was about to say. 

“Because your career actually matters, is that what you were going to say Josh,” Y/N said, the anger completely gone from her voice. “Go ahead and eat. I'm not hungry anymore.” She said as she stormed upstairs. 

“Shit,” Josh thought as he made his way after her. 

As he cautiously made his way towards their bedroom, he could hear the sound of Y/N crying and he quickly walked in. 

“Y/N,” He started and that’s when he saw her packing. “What are you doing.” 

“I’m going to go stay with Ainsley,” She sniffed wiping the tears from her eyes. 

“You would rather stay with a republican than with me,” Josh teased but Y/N just gave him a devastated look. “Y/N I’m sorry I didn’t mean what I said.” 

“My job matters Josh, I know its not the life altering decisions like you make but to those kids, the ones whom I am their only voice during a time that is extremely traumatic for them, it matters.” Y/N said her voice cracking hard, 

Josh quickly rushed to her side putting his hands on her face. “I know that honey, I do. I was just upset I really didn’t mean it. Your job absolutely matters. I am constantly in awe of what you do and how you help people. I brag about your job to everyone. My mother when she calls she asks how your job is going long before she even asks about me.” 

Y/N laughed as she wiped her tears away. 

“I was just upset because I really wanted you to come to the gala with me. I feel a lot more confident when I have you next to me.” 

“Josh, you were plenty confident when I met you.” Y/N said as she back away turning back as she started to unpack the suitcase. 

“It was a nice little act,  but in realty, I feel my most confident and strongest, when you are by my side holding my hand, because I know if I have you I can face anything.” Josh said as he wrapped his arms around her waist burying his face in the crook of her neck. 

“For how often you are an ass, you really know how to make up for it.” Y/N sighed as she turned around kissing him softly as she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

“I’ve learned to admit when I’m wrong. Because I would rather grovel for your forgiveness than lose you.” He said seriously. 

Y/N smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair. 

“You won’t ever lose me Josh.” 

By the time Josh made it into their bedroom he was a sobbing mess. Every room in the house gave him flashes of the beautiful memories he had with Y/N, and he felt like everything was slipping away. 

Josh slowly rolled over, for the first time in a long time he had actually slept well. And he knew exactly what the reason was. As he opened his eyes he smiled looking at the beautiful girl laying next to him asleep. 

Last night was the first night Y/N and Josh had spent together. And as Josh took in the sight of her snuggled up next to him, her beautiful Y/H/C against her Y/S/C, he realized that he was in love with her. 

“You are staring, Joshua.” Y/N smiled as she opened her eyes smiling at him. 

“It’s hard not to stare, you are so beautiful Y/N.” Josh said as he leaned forward kissing her. 

“You are just saying that because I am lying naked in bed with you.” She laughed. 

“You could be wearing 30 layers of clothes and I would still think you are the most beautiful woman in the world.” 

Y/N kissed Josh again as she pulled him closer. 

“I mean I’m not saying that you being naked in bed with me is a bad thing by any means.” Josh laughed as he flipped over so he was on top as he kissed Y/N passionately. 

He kissed her for a while before the two broke apart and Josh stared down at her. She looked up eyes filled with curiosity.

“What’s wrong Josh,” Y/N smiled. 

“I love you.” Josh said. “I love you Y/N.” 

Y/N stared at Josh for a moment eyes wide. “I love you too Josh.” 

As Josh got in the shower and he watched as Y/N’s blood dripped off of him and down the drain, he let out a devastated scream as he pounded his fists against the tile.

#josh lyman #josh lyman x reader #west wing #fanfiction #imagine

[maximumkillshot]

Thoughts on Yesterday

I made this and didn’t know where to put it so here you go.

Trump is a sociopathic narcissistic egomaniacal white supremacist.... not to mention he is also a pathological liar, misogynistic, white privileged, waste of space and resources.

When Trump was elected, my boyfriend at that time asked why I was crying... I knew as a Latina female. I knew what that piece of shit was going to do to my country... and God help me I tried to stop it... I hope to God now my ex knows why I was crying...

Democracy was wounded that day... and so many people tried to point it out before the wound became gangrenous.

Then,in the first year , the wound didn’t stop bleeding... again people said “hey this wound looks bad. We need to clean it out. Put some ointment on it at least.”

Republicans wouldn’t listen, “it’ll get better with time, give it a chance.”

The second year, puss started pouring out of the wound…. and again people said, “This is starting to look terrible, look at this wound, puss is everywhere and you haven’t touched it! Just hid it with false accusations, broken promises, and veiled threats.”

“Mind your business… let nature take its course, you haven’t given it a chance yet. This is how healing works, don’t you know that?!” Screamed the Republicans as they covered the wound haphazardly, “if anyone points at this wound they’re fired!”

The third year came and went, this time… the wound was infinitely larger, turning blue and black, smelling rancid, and MAGAts crawling out of it, killing, screaming, and cheering the one who made the wound in the first place…

People screamed, “THIS HAS TO BE FIXED, YOU’RE GOING TO KILL OUR CONSTITUTION, LOOK AT THE WOUND!THIS HAS TO END…. STOP!”

Once again, Republicans said, “Mind your business, this is how things are now, just let it happen!” As they fed the MAGAts crawling out of the festering wound.

Finally the fourth year happened, and the wound turned gangrenous, the infection attacking the heart of the constitution when the people spoke out against it.

Republicans said “I can’t believe this happened… to our own capital…”

While the rest of us sat in silence, bleeding from our mouths because we were screaming for so long, “we need to fix this” they said as they scrambled for any way to backtrack.

MAGAts infected our bloodstream years ago… propagating, waiting. And finally… the dam broke… a woman died…

Yet everyone with eyes weren’t surprised….

This is America… where white people are allowed to storm the capital and only lose one out of thousands.

This is America, where Black Lives Matter peaceful protests were met with guns, grenades, and National guardsmen… simply for being on a street.

This is America, where hundreds of white people can break a curfew and just be told to go home.

This is America, where people of color are abducted, arrested, harassed, and beaten simply for standing up for rights that they never had in the first place.

This is America…. which never was the land of the free, but we are damn brave to live here , especially if your skin is darker than olive.

This is America… all I want to do is leave

#this is bullshit #get me out of this country

[iteratedextras]

Your supposed "avenue for attack" would simply be replied to by pointing out, in short words said slowly as though to a retarded child, that those are not words and that you are patently unqualified for any sort of adult discussion and should leave immediately to allow the educated adults to continue speaking.

You're right - I dashed off that post pretty quickly, and that exact maneuver wouldn't get enough traction among the regular people in a room to reveal you for the terrible piece of shit you really are. Republicans have done Democrats Are The Real Racists (and Dems are pretty racist) for years, to little effect.

Instead, it's much, much more important to focus on

how much you fucking suck at educating underrepresented minorities,

how much you have always fucking sucked at educating underrepresented minorities, how your theories have never been demonstrated to be an accurate model of the world by producing practical results (such as successfully educating underrepresented minorities), and how your concepts are utterly unfalsifiable.

If you disagree, as an Official Adult Race Discourser™, then it should be a trivial act to show that actually, you are capable of educating underrepresented minorities from a proper sample to within 80-90% of the gap, retained well into adulthood.

You can't do that. You've never been able to do that. You pieces of shit are going after the SAT and standardized testing more generally because you either fucking know you can't do that,

Or because you've been drinking so much fucking race juice that you're actually brain damaged enough to think that "2+2 is Colonialist" is in any way a meaningful statement.

I can type this mean response in the full knowledge that you will NEVER respond to it with a "serious" response and will only use more snark, because snark, systematically bad faith arguments, and lists of Bad Things That Happened To Minorities are all you that have.

All you know how to do is marinate in selective outrage narratives against racial groups you don't like, break shit, snark, and scream.

If you know how to do anything more than that, then let's see you demonstrate it through practical example, you little shit.

Because I am so fucking tired of taking the blame for your failures, and I am not going to put up with that shit anymore. I'm not required to accept bullshit race libel from you or anyone. Why the fuck would I be when you can't show any fucking RESULTS?

If you respond to this with ANY more of your meaningless, utterly useless snark that

does not educate underrepresented minorities

I'm just going to correctly note my victory and then immediately block you and delete your reply:

After all, you're an Official Adult Race Discourser™, so I'm simply going to be holding you to the standards of one. You get one "omgz u r dumzz" post like this under those standards, and you just spent it on this useless "um everyone teh liek, already agreez w/ me lol" one that does not advance your position considering that,

you are unable to successfully educate underrepresented minorities.

That's the status quo you're supporting when you ask us not to hold you accountable for your shit.

And for fuck's sake, knock it the fuck off with the "Stop Asian Hate" campaign where you try to make it look like one particular race are responsible (through implication, for deniability) when the actual distribution of attacks probably matches the regular distribution of crimes. It's really fucking creepy. A real Adult Race Discourser™ would be able to tell that that's a fucking stupid idea.

#anons #asks #uncharitable

[kumawrites]

hi!! idk how requests work but coffeeshop au with oikawa as the flirty barista and you're just trying to find a place to study okay bye 😶😶

iced vanilla bean latte

☆ oikawa tooru x reader ☆

☆ - 1.7k words

☆ - a/n: i based this 100% in a local coffee shop in my area that i frequent except i h8 coffee

☆ - taglist: @miceonmars

//

“Y/N, Obama was the last president of the United States, not the third.” Kiyoko looked at you with a pitiful gaze in response to your answer.

“Oh.” You blinked once. Twice. A third time for good measure. So your American Politics class was needless to say, not going very well. Honestly, you didn’t even know why you were taking an American politics class when you lived in Japan. Actually, you knew why. Because of your horrible habit of procrastinating literally anything that can be procrastinated, you foolishly waited until the very last day that you could to register for classes. And unsurprisingly, most of them had been completely filled, leaving American Politics to be the only history class that you were able to take. Which would have been just fine, had you not procrastinated studying and even taking notes.

You stared blankly down at your notebook that was barely a quarter full. Instead of taking notes and actually paying attention in class, you either skipped or distracted yourself playing games on your phone. Your professor never notified you since you sat right in the middle of the lecture hall, not drawing much attention at all. Maybe, that wasn’t a good thing, however. You had no connection to your professor at all, and asking for help this late in the game just didn’t feel right, which is extremely irrational but you really didn’t care.

Your problem would really just have been solved if you did care. Too bad you didn’t. However, you’re stuck in a bit of a pickle now, not knowing even the basics of the class, with midterms coming up and a frighteningly fast rate. You were bound to fail, and your parents would not be very happy about that. So, you decided that it was finally time to actually study. Except studying really meant learning all of the material that you had covered for half of the semester in about a week.

Luckily for you, you had great friends who were super smart and actually studious to help! Kiyoko had already taken the class, being a grade ahead of you, and had graciously blessed you with her notebook full of her beautiful notes. It was truly astounding how notes could be so pretty. Yachi, on the other hand, gave your studying tips and ways to actually study well. Without those two, you would have failed the midterm for sure, and most likely the course all together.

You were currently studying with Kiyoko in the library, well trying to at least. Apparently, you knew less than you actually thought.

“Wait, what’s a Conservative? Is that a branch of Congress?” You weren’t doing too hot.

“It’s a political party. They’re a more extreme version of a the Republican Party.” You nodded your head, slowly understanding. Why were politics so complicated?

“Oh, okay. I think I get it. So, Liberals are Democrats but more extreme?”

“That’s right.” Kiyoko nodded her head as you scratched down some of her notes into your own notebook. Kiyoko’s phone pinged and she grabbed it from the table, turning it on. She read the message, sighed, replied, and began packing up her things. “Sorry, Y/N, but my boss just messaged me. I have to go in tonight, Hana got sick.” You nodded and gave Kiyoko a slight smile and a wave as she left. Now it was just you, left to your own devices. You were half tempted to close your books and play Fire Emblem, but that seemed like a poor long term choice.

You kept at it for a surprisingly long amount of time, around an hour, until a rowdy group came in. Even though it was a library, it wasn’t the most quiet of places on campus, and many groups liked to come in to work on group projects. You had no problem with them, until they set down their bags and their bodies at the table right next to yours, still chatting loudly. Unfortunately for you, you didn’t bring your earbuds with you. Since you assumed you would just be studying with Kiyoko the whole time, you didn’t bother to pack them. The one moment in your life when you needed them the most. A tragedy.

You sighed and packed up your things, considering giving up studying for the day, until you realized you were running out of time and were still extremely confused. And tired. You yawned as your left the library, wondering where to go from there. Going back to your dorm would only lead to you playing video games and ignoring everything else, so that was off the list. Every other place you could think of would be far too noisy to actually study. You were in quite the pickle.

You were really close to giving up for the hundredth time until you passed by a coffee shop that you had never seen on campus before. Was that always there? No, it couldn’t have been. It was in the middle of a route you used all of the time to get across campus. But how did you never notice that this was there? The shop had large windows that you could peek through to see a very classy interior. Everything seemed to be made of a walnut coloured wood, excluding the black chairs and stools. There weren’t too many people in the shop, just a small crowd. It looked peaceful. You stood there for a bit before deciding to walk inside. Maybe this is where you could study in peace.

As soon as you opened the door, you were greeted with the smell of fresh roasted coffee beans. You stopped a vacant table and placed your belonging on it and took a seat. The chairs were surprisingly comfortable, even though they seemed to be made of metal. The vibe in the entire shop was very calm. You could get used to this.

You took your notes out and began to study, creating flashcards and making your notes a bit cleaner and more cohesive. This was the kind of productivity that you needed to have on a daily basis. Too bad that this energy was for sure going to leave your body once you finish your midterm. Another yawn left your body, and you turned your head towards the counter. You could buy a coffee. That wasn’t going to break your bank account. Yeah.

You stood up and headed towards the counter, staring at the menu. Everything on the menu sounded fine, but you didn’t know exactly what you wanted.

“Hey! What can I do for you today?” A cheery voice broke you form your thoughts and you brought your eyes back down to look at who was speaking to you. The barista that greeted you had a charming smile on his face, one that you knew just drew people in. He was pretty, for sure, but you didn’t have time to think about pretty boys, too focused on trying to pass your class.

“Hi there. I’ve never been here, so I’m not too sure what to get. What would you recommend?” You have him a polite smile in return, and shifted your gaze back to the menu. There were so many options that you were a bit overwhelmed with choices

“Hmm..” The barista tapped his chin and scrunched his face a bit. “What about the vanilla bean latte? It’s really good iced!” He suggested and you nodded your head.

“Okay, sure. I’ll have that as a 24 ounce, then.” You ordered such a large drink since you assumed that you would be here for a while, having so much material left to study.

“Oh, it’s Y/N.” You replied and he hummed, typing it into the tablet on the counter. Your total came up and you handed him your card, making sure to leave a tip.

“That’s a cute name, just like you!” You stared at him. It was like someone had just stopped a record right in the middle of a song. What? Did you hear that right?

“Sorry, um, what?”

“I just think you’re super cute. We’ll have that vanilla bean right out for ya, Y/N.” He winked and walked over to his coworker who was making your drink. You vaguely remember his coworker scolding him, telling him to ‘stop flirting with the customers shithead’, but you really weren’t listening. Were you just, flirted with? Is that how this works? You for sure were not expecting that to happen.

You returned to your seat and opened up your notes, trying to forget the flirting(?) and focus on your studies. That’s what you came here to do, not flirt with a cute barista that you would for sure go on a date with. But, he was probably just a flirty person, you figured. If his coworker scolded him like that, it was probably a common occurrence, meaning you shouldn’t take it to heart or anything. He was just super cute.

Only a few minutes after you began to actually focus in on your work, you noticed that a large plastic cup full of iced coffee and a plate with a muffin was placed down at your table. Looking up, you saw the cute barista with a beaming smile on his face.

“Here you go, Y/N. Hope you like it.”

“Oh, I didn’t order a muffin.” You tilted your head up at the man who chuckled in response.

“I know. It’s on the house.” And with that, he gave you a tiny wave and disappeared into the back room, leaving you shook. Was this protocol? No, definitely not. Was this protocol for him flirting with every female customer? His boss wouldn’t let him give out that much free food. Was he really, for sure, actually, flirting with you? Was this real? Are you real? Okay, not time for an existential crisis.

You picked up the muffin on the plate, and noticed a small note that was placed under it.. It read, ‘text me!!!! :) xxx-xxx-xxxx - oikawa’. At this point, you were pretty damn sure he was flirting with you. Holy shit. He was flirting with you. Oikawa, you assumed his name was, still hadn’t come out of the storage room, so you couldn’t gauge his reactions or anything. You stared at your phone that you picked up like it was an explosive, ready to detonate. Were you actually going to text him? Was this actually a good idea? You know what, fuck American politics, you had something far more pressing to deal with at the moment.

y/n: hey is this oikawa? this is y/n

oikawa: hey cutie!! ;)

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa #oikawa x reader #haikyuu reader insert #reader insert #request

[cyarskj1899]

#WHITE PRIVILEGE #The Capitol #The US Senate #politics #political #This is DISGUSTING #I am LIVID #The Capitol Breached #Republicans sat by and let this shit happen

[thekillerssluts]

The Story Behind Every Song On Will Butler’s New Album Generations

Will Butler has a lot on his mind. It has, after all, been five years since his solo debut, Policy. A lot can happen in half a decade, and a lot has happened in this past half-decade — much of it quite dire. Butler was in his early 30s when Policy came out, and now he’s closing in on 40. He’s a husband and father. And he’s shaken by the state of the world, the idea of being an artist and a soon-to-be middle-aged man striving to guide his family through the chaos.

At least, that’s how it comes across through much of Generations, his sophomore outing that arrives today. Generations is a big, sprawling title by nature, and the album in turn grapples with all kinds of big picture anxieties. Mass shootings, the overarching darkness and anxiety of our time, trying to reckon with our surroundings but the system overload that occurs all too easily in the wake of it. Then there are more intimate songs, too, tales drawn from personal lives as people plug along just trying to navigate a tumultuous era.

Butler is, of course, no stranger to crafting music that seeks to parse the cultural moment and how it impacts in our daily lives. Ever since Arcade Fire ascended to true arena-rock status on The Suburbs 10 years ago, they have embarked on projects that explicitly try to make sense of our surroundings. (Not that their earlier work was bereft of heavy concepts — far from it — but Reflektor and Everything Now turned more of a specific eye towards contemporary ills and trials.) But as one voice amongst many in Arcade Fire, there is a cinematic scope to whatever Butler’s playing into there.

On Generations, he engages with a lot of similar concerns but all in his own voice — often yelping, desperate, frustrated then just trying to catch a breath. Butler leans on his trusty Korg MS-20 throughout Generations, often giving the album a synth-y indie backdrop that allows him to try on a few different selves. There are a handful of surging choruses, “la-la” refrains batting back against the darkness, slinking grooves maybe allowing someone the idea of brief physical release amidst ongoing strife.

Ahead of Generations’ arrival, Butler sent us some thoughts on the album, running from inspiration between the individual tracks to little details about the arrangement and composition of different songs. Now that you can hear the album for yourself, check it out and read along with Butler’s comments below.

1. “Outta Here”

I think this is the simplest song on the record. Just, like, get me out of here. Get me fucking out of here. I’m so tired of being here. No, I don’t have another answer, and I don’t expect anything to be better anywhere else. But, please, I would like to leave here.

I can play plenty of instruments, and can make interesting sounds on them, but kinda the only instrument I’m good at is a synth called the Korg MS-20. That’s the first sound on the record. It makes most of the bass you hear on the record. It’s a very aggressive, loud, versatile machine, and I wanted to start the record with it cause I’m good at playing it and it makes me happy.

2. “Bethlehem”

This song partly springs from “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats:​ “What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” Like a lot of folks, I woke up after the election in 2016 mad and sad and scared and exhausted. This song is born of that emotion.

My bandmates Jenny Shore, Julie Shore, and Sara Dobbs sing the bridge, and it’s a corrective to my (appropriate?) freaking out — this isn’t the apocalypse. You’re misquoting Yeats. Get your fucking head on straight. History has not ruptured — this shit we’re in is contiguous with the shit we’ve been dealing with for a long, long time. But still, we sometimes do need an apocalyptic vision to make change. Even if it’s technically wrong. I dunno. It’s an ongoing conversation.

There’s a lot of interplay with backing vocals on this record — sometimes the narrator is the asshole, sometimes the backing vocals are the asshole. Sometimes they’re just trying their best to figure out the world. This song starts that conversation.

3. “Close My Eyes”

I tried to make these lyrics a straightforward and honest description of an emotion I feel often: “I’m tired of waiting for a better day. But I’m scared and I’m lazy and nothing’s gonna change.” Kind of a sad song. Trying to tap into some Smokey Robinson/Motown feeling — “I’ve got to dance to keep from crying.”

There’s a lot of Mellotron on this record, and a lot of MS-20. This song has a bunch of Mellotron strings/choirs processed through the MS-20. It’s a trick I started doing on the Arcade Fire song “Sprawl II,” and I love how it sounds and I try to do it on every song if I can.

4. “I Don’t Know What I Don’t Know”

This makes a pair with “Close My Eyes” — shit is obviously fucked, but “I don’t know what I don’t know what I don’t know what I can do.” I’m not a proponent of the attitude! Just trying to describe it, as I often feel it. In my head, I know some things that I can do — my wife Jenny, for instance, works really hard to get state legislatures out of Republican control. Cause it’s all these weirdo state legislative chambers that have enormous power over law enforcement, and civil rights, and Medicaid, and everything.

The image in the last verse was drawn from the protests in Ferguson in 2015: “Watch the bullets and the beaters as they move through the streets — grab your sister’s kids — hide next to the fire station…” It’s been horrifically disheartening to see the police riot across America as their power has been challenged. I’ve got a little seed of hope that we might change things, but, man, dark times.

More MS-20 bass on this one, chained to the drum machine. This one is supposed to be insanely bass heavy — if it comes on in a car, the windows should be rattling, and you should be asking, “What the heck is going on here?” Trying for a contemporary hip-hop bass sound but in a way less spare context. First song with woodwinds — rhythmic stuff and freaky squeals by Stuart Bogie and Matt Bauder.

5. “Surrender”

This song is masquerading as a love song, but it’s more about friendship. About the confusion that comes as people change: Didn’t you use to have a different ideal? Didn’t we have the same ideal at some point? Which of us changed? How did the world change? Relationships that we sometimes wish we could let go of, but that are stuck within us forever.

It’s also about trying to break from the first-person view of the world. “What can I do? What difference can I make?” It’s not about some singular effort — you have to give yourself over to another power. Give over to people who have gone before who’ve already built something — you don’t have to build something new! The world doesn’t always need a new idea, it doesn’t always need a new personality. What can you do with whatever power and money you’ve got? Surrender it over to something that’s already made. And then the song ends with an apology: I’m sorry I’ve been talking all night. Just talk talk talking, all night. Shut up, Will.

Going for “wall of sound” on this one — bass guitar and bass synth and double tracked piano bass plus another piano plus Mellotron piano. The “orchestra” is about a dozen different synth and Mellotron tracks individually detuned. And then run through additional processing.

6. “Hide It Away”

This song is about secrets. Both on an intimate, heartbreaking level — friends’ miscarriages, friends’ immigration status, shitty affairs coming to light — and on a grand, horrible level: New York lifting the statute of limitations on child abuse prosecutions, all the #MeToo reporting. There’s nothing you can do when your secret is revealed. Like, what can you do? You just have to let the response wash over you. If you’ve done something horrible, god-willing, you’ll have to pay for it in some way. If it’s something not horrible, but people will hate you anyway, goddammit, I wish there were some way to protect you.

This song has the least poetic line on the record, a real clunker: “It’s just money and power, money and power might set them free.” But it’s a clunky, shitty concept — the most surefire protection is being rich and knowing powerful people. But even then, shit just might come out. Even after you’re long dead.

Came from a 30-second guitar sample I recorded while messing around at the end of trying to track a different song. I liked the chords, looped them to make a demo. And the song was born from there. This is the one song I play drums on. Snare is chained to the MS-20, trying to play every frequency the ear can hear at the same time on some of those big hits.

7. “Hard Times”

[Laughs] I sat down and tried to write a Spotify charting electro-hit, and this is what came out: “Kill the rich, salt the earth.” Oh well. Written way before COVID-19, but my 8-year-old son turned to me this spring and asked, “Did you write the song ‘Hard Times’ about now, because we’re living through hard times?” No, I didn’t.

In Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground, the narrator is a real son-of-a-bitch—contrarian, useless. Mad at the strong confident people who think they’ve got it figured out. And they don’t! And neither does the narrator — but he knows he doesn’t, and he at times yearns for some higher answer, and he’s funny, and too clever, but still knows he’s a piece of shit. I read Notes From Underground in high school and kinda forgot how it shaped my worldview until I sat down with it a couple years ago. The bridge on this song is basically smushed up quotes from Notes From Underground.

I was asking Shiftee, who mixed the record, if there are any vocal plug-ins I should be playing around with. He pointed me toward Little AlterBoy, which is basically a digital recreation of the kind of pedal the Knife use, for instance, on their vocal sound. It can shift the timbre/character of a voice without changing the pitch. Or change pitch without changing character. Very fun! Very much all over this track. Tried to make the bridge sound like a Sylvester song.

8. “Promised”

Another friend song masquerading as a love song. I’ve met a handful of extraordinary people in my life, who stopped doing extraordinary work because life is hard and it sucks. People who — I mean, it’s a lottery and random and who cares — could be great writers or artists, who kind of just disappeared. And it’s heartbreaking and frustrating. I don’t blame them. Maybe they weren’t made for this world. Maybe it’s just random. Maybe they’ll do amazing work in their 60s!

We tracked this song before it was written. Julie and Miles came over and we made up a structure and did a bunch of takes, found a groove. Which I then hacked up into what it is now! The bed tracks are lovely and loose. Maybe I’ll put out a jammier version of this song at some point. The other big synth on this record is the Oberheim OB-8, and that’s the bass on this one (triple tracked along with some MS-20).

9. “Not Gonna Die”

This song is about terrorism, and the response to terrorism. I wrote it a couple weeks after the Bataclan shooting in Paris in 2015. For some reason, a couple weeks after the shooting, I was in midtown Manhattan. I must have been Christmas shopping. I had to pop into the Sephora on 5th Avenue to pick up something specific — I think for my wife or her sister. I don’t remember. But I remember walking in, and the store was really crowded, and for just a split second I got really scared about what would happen if someone brought out a gun and started shooting up the crowd. And then I got so fucking mad at the people that made me feel that emotion. Like, I’m not gonna fucking die in the midtown Sephora, you fucking pieces of shit. Thanks for putting that thought in my head.

BUT ALSO, fuck all the fucking pieces of shit who are like, “We can’t accept refugees — what if they’re terrorists?” FUCK OFF. Some fucking terrified family driven from their home by a war isn’t going to kill me. Or anyone. Fuck off. Some woman from Central America fleeing from her husband who threatened to kill her isn’t going to fucking bomb Times Square. You fucking pieces of shit.

In November/December 2015, the Republican primary had already started — Trump had announced in June. And every single one of those pieces of shit running for president were talking about securing our borders, and keeping poor people out, and trying to justify it by security talk. FUCK OFF. You pieces of shit. Fuck right off. Anyway. Sorry for cursing.

I kind of think of the outro of this song as an angry “Everyday People.” Everyday people aren’t going to kill me. Lots of great saxes on this track from Matt Bauder and Stuart Bogie.

The intro of the song we recorded loud, full band, which I then ran through the MS-20 and filtered down till it was just a bass heart-pulse, and re-recorded solo piano and voice over that.

10. “Fine”

I kind of think that “Outta Here” to “Not Gonna Die” comprise the record, and “Fine” operates as the afterword and the prologue rolled into one. An author’s note, maybe. It was kind of inspired by high-period Kanye: I wanted to talk about something important in a profane, sometimes horribly stupid way, but have it be honest and ultimately transcendent.

In the song, I talk semi-accurately about where I come from. My mom’s dad was a guitar player who led bands throughout the ’30s and ’40s. In post-war LA, he had a band with Charles Mingus as the bass player. Charles Mingus! One of the greatest geniuses in all of American history. But this was the ’40s, and in order to travel with the band, to go in the same entrances, to eat dinner at the same table, he had to wear a Hawaiian shirt and everybody had to pretend he was Hawaiian. Because nobody was sure how racist they were supposed to be against Hawaiians.

Part of the reason I’m a musician is that my great-grandfather was a musician, and his kids were musicians, and their kids were musicians, and their kids are musicians. Part of the reason is vast generations of people working to make their kids’ lives better, down to my life. Part of the reason is that neither government nor mob has decided to destroy my family’s lives, wealth, and property for the last couple hundred years. I tried to write a song about that?

Generations is out now via Merge. Purchase it here.

https://www.stereogum.com/2098946/will-butler-generations-song-meanings/franchises/interview/footnotes-interview/

#Arcade Fire #will butler #generations #interview #hq

[ourplaceinthecosmosphff]

Chapter 22. Compromise

“no' might make them angry but it will make you free.

- if no one has ever told you, your freedom is more important than their anger.”

― Nayyirah Waheed, Salt

[*TW: death/violence/bomb threats, neo nazi/mysoginistic hateful language]

It wasn’t the first time I removed my shoes in the middle of the grand hall, one hand to the wall, eyes to the stairs, legs shaking. I grabbed hold of my sandals and raced up the staircase three long, thin steps at a time.

In my room, I threw the shoes on the bed and rushed to the closet, putting my hair up as I did so I could then reach back and unzip my dress, but it was a futile effort. In anger, I recalled needing Lourdes’ help to zip up before dinner.

I took a deep breath and tried it on my own; but it was useless. I tried again, but on the third time all I could hear was the ressentment in Christopher’s voice when he talked about fucking me after my brother’s funeral in front of both our parents. The anger when he asked who was it that I started seeing after we broke up. More than that, I suddenly recalled every instance where I wanted to protest against something he had said or done, but thought better of it.

“Maggie?” Lourdes’ voice awoke me to the anger I was feeling. “I can’t fucking–” One look at me, and she hurried to my side, removing my hands from the dress so she could unzip me. “I got you.” She said. “There. Nothing we can’t fix, right?”

I felt the fabric loosen and pulled the suffocating halter high neck off. The tears started falling before I even realized they had been there at all, and I felt so frustrated for crying that it only made me want to cry more. I allowed my knees to buckle as I fell to the floor, hands around my neck, breathing heavily.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Lourdes said, calmly. “It’s okay.” She passed an arm around my shoulders and hugged me close, pulling me into her chest. “Nothing we can’t fix.” She repeated.

With her bony, small arms around me as a safe port, I cried the loss of the past nine years, and all the years we almost had.

--- ---- --- I had never in my life felt more alone. And yes, maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe I was amplifying a minor problem into a bigger one as a reflection of my deep anxiety about my new title and role, but the truth is it didn’t feel like that. It felt like – in fact, I was alone in my closet, looking at eight different dresses I had just put on and taken off, thinking about Louis telling me I dressed like our mother. How could I make sure I was being myself? How could I know any of my choices were my own and not just what he described as some subconscious need to be the ‘good daughter’?

There was only one person I knew to call for help with going against family expectations: Constance Parrish Von-Bernstein.

“I’m flattered.” She said when I face timed her, still half dressed on my closet floor. “You never have this type of crisis. I need to bask in it. Maybe I should make a wish.” “This is serious, Constance.” I reminded her, sighing. “I have a chance to be heard by the very people who have been pushing me around not only for the past five months, but essentially my whole life. I need to be heard, to tell them, no. To demand what I want. But I can’t even pick something to wear without feeling like a fraud. How am I supposed to be the Crown Princess when I can’t even dress myself?!” Constance looked put off; weirded out, but definitely like she saw the seriousness of the moment now. “Okay…” She started, slowly. “Well, what’s the issue exactly?” “I feel like I’ve been doing what everyone else wanted me to do my whole life, so how can I stand up for what I want now?” I laughed, humorless. “How did you do it? You wore nothing but black all through our teen years, you started dying your hair pink at eighteen, you ditched University and everything else your parents tried to push you into doing to become a musician! How?! How do I do that?!” She smiled, amused. “Well, Maggie… I guess first and foremost we need to accept there is a big difference between being the first member of my family in nine generations not to go to Sorbonne to live my dream of playing guitar in the subway, and knowing what to wear as the Crown Princess.” “I gather from your tone you think my issue is easier. It certainly doesn’t feel like it.” I scratched my head, pensive. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want to trade positions with you, either. But you were just juggling parental expectations. I am juggling the whole country’s.” “Yes… I can’t argue there.” “So, again… how?!” She sighed, propped her phone up against something and leaned back staring off into a wall as she considered the question. “You need to know what you’re willing to lose.” She said, determined. “What does that mean?” “Well, I wore black as a teenager because it was one of the few things I could control. But I still had to wear whatever my mother told me to at more important occasions. Christmas, family occasions, formal events with your family… there was no way she would risk letting me decide what to wear to those.” As she recounted, I searched my brain to find the memories of a grumpy, teen Constance looking as pretty in pastel as the rest of us in tea parties and polo matches. “At eighteen, I received the first pay out of my trust fund from my paternal grandparents, so I knew even if my mother decided to disown me, I could afford to live on my own. So I dyed my hair pink.” “Wait, I–” I shook my head. “I had no idea that’s what you thought would happen! Your mother would never!” “Well, we both know she would.” She smiled, amused but also slightly sad. “She hasn’t, though. Which is good, I guess. We did have a lot of fights about it, not just the hair, but Sorbonne and everything else, too. The first pay out of the trust was supposed to be for University, and I used it to buy a scooter and a new guitar.” “You live a pretty simple life, though. And it’s your money, you should do what you want.” “Exactly!” She replied, excitedly. “But that’s my point, your family is dependent on taxpayer funding, right?” “Well–” I stuttered. “Not quite. We’re funded by the Royal Trust.” “Which is funded by the government with allocation of tax funds, right?” “Well…” “Chérie, I’m not trying to get evidence for the republican party here. I’m making a point.” “Yes, okay.” I shrugged. “Yes, some of our funds are from the Royal Trust, and a lot of it is private funds from family inheritances, private property, and investments–” “Okay, so.” She continued. “If you get to the meeting and tell them you want something, and they say no. What’s stopping you from insisting? From doing it anyway? It’s not a crime to go against them, right?” “Well–” I reflected. “What I mean is, I waited to dye my hair until I had my trust fund so my mother couldn’t hold my finances against me. Money was freedom. So, if your family threatens to no longer fund you, what will you do? You don’t have a job anymore.” “Well, I…” I sighed. I never had to think about money before. “I do have a trust fund, too, from my great-grandfather. And I’m twenty-five, so the inheritance from my maternal grandfather should be available to me now.” “Well, there you go. So, what can they do if you insist on having it your way?” She asked, with a grin. “Throw you in jail?” She was right. Money was freedom. “I guess there’s only the main question left.” “Which is?” “What do I wear?!” I asked, making us both laugh at the despair evident in my voice. “It’s not just about the clothes.” I justified, more to myself than to her. “I’m afraid I’ll get there, and they’ll be looking at me like I’m a child who should be off playing with something unimportant instead of trying to play pretend with the adults.” “Maggie,” Constance started, laughing, “you’re a Harvard graduated lawyer. You have a solid, successful career you left for this. They need you, you don’t need them. In fact, you’re doing them a favor.” “I’m not sure that’s how they would describe it.” “They can dress it up however they want, facts are facts.” She shrugged. “You know how to stand up for yourself and get shit done, because you’ve done it before. You worked on the corporate world for years. So, stop acting like they’re doing you a favor by allowing you to be there, and start using your experience to shove it in their faces that you’re way overqualified for this.”

She was right; I had a solid, sucessful – if short – career, and at work, I dressed as a lawyer, if anything to remind people I was not just a princess. So I spent the rest of the day repeating the mantra to myself: Constance is right. Constance is right. Constance is right. With that in mind, I dressed pretending I had a big meeting at work: a short sleeved, high neck, satin Jason Wu dress with simple black heels and gold and black earrings.

Then I went to work.

In my mind, this battle would take place around a long, imposing conference room table, where I’d sit in the middle, with all relevant parties around me. The reality was less corporate: my father’s office. High ceilings, chandeliers, antique paintings and vases around the room, and, of course, the victorian furniture. Dad and I sat in armchairs by the fireplace, side by side, his main staff took their seats on the couple of sofas to our sides, and the others, after the three chairs around my father’s desk were taken, brought in extra chairs from other rooms.

One thing I noticed straight away.

“Where’s Cadie?” I asked dad on a low tone, as everyone took their seats. “I thought it would be in poor taste to discuss her with her in the room.” He explained. “You’ll notice Auguste isn’t here, either.”

Present in the room were around a dozen more people, most of whom I had known all of my life, though some more closely than others. That was the case with my parents’ private secretaries, the title we gave to our chief of staff, Clemment Montennon and Madaleign Qadir. I also recognized Abelard Brodeur, my father’s senior aide, Ulysses Caron, the Head of Security, and Edwald Dupont, Head of the Palace Communications Office.

My father made introductions of those I hadn’t had too much contact with before, like Caesar Bisset, head of Outreach Relations, who explained his main role was to coordinate and plan our charitable and humanitarian endeavors, and Alexander Halden, who was liason of relations between the palace and the government.

All of them sat in the sofas, all of them (but Madeleign Qadir) were balding, old, white men with mustaches and resting judgy faces. The people sitting in the chairs in the back, I realized, were their junior aides, with notepads and pens, ready to take notes or provide useful material during the meeting.

I started to feel more at home at once: hierarchy was familiar to me. I had been the lowly intern once, trying to remain as quiet and invisible as possible in the background, writing as fast as I could, desperate to prove myself in the first opportunity to the older men who held my faith in their hands.

I reminded myself that wasn’t the case here. I was the future Queen of Savoy, they worked for me. They needed me. I held my head high and squared my shoulders back.

“Thank you all for making room in your schedules for this meeting.” My father started, in French. “As this meeting was set somewhat suddenly, perhaps we should go over our goals for today before we start. In truth, I believe today is a culmination of what has been…” He paused, and heaved a long, heavy sigh. “Some tremendously difficult last few months. As we’re all aware, after we lost the Crown Prince last year, as my eldest child, Princess Marie-Margueritte became Crown Princess Marie-Margueritte.”

Discreetly, I fidgeted with my hands so the nail in my right thumb was gently scratching my left palm. I gulped, trying to swallow the familiar knot on my throat. ‘I have to be able to talk about this without crying. I need to talk about this to get through this meeting. I can’t cry in front of these people.’

“We took a few months to allow us all to grieve properly, as a family, and also as a country. There was also the need for the Crown Princess to make the necessary arrangements to leave her private career behind and, as we discussed around the time of the funeral, to put distance between her previous image and the new one she must take on in order to fulfill this new role.”

So they had discussed this at the time of the funeral. A need to ‘put distance’ between who I was and who I needed to become. And I wasn’t even included.

“But it is a new year.” Father continued, with renewed energy. “Crown Princess Marie-Margueritte and I have had a private discussion and we have decided the time has come for her to take a more active role in the process of preparation for her future as Monarch.”

He paused, allowing the words to settle. I still stared at my own hands, trying to breathe deeply and slowly. ‘Preparation for her future as Monarch’ sounded so… crucial. Important. Fatal, almost.

“So,” he said, now more upbeat, adjusting himself in his seat, “with that in mind, we arrive at the agenda for this meeting as discussed by the Crown Princess and I. We are to discuss and decide on the plans regarding the Crown Princess’ future work, security, and office in her new role as the heir apparent.”

There was a pause. I waited. My father looked at me, then at the others.

“Perhaps it would be useful to start with providing the Crown Princess with an update on what the current situation is with regards to the public opinion.” The king added. “Edwald?”

Mr. Dupont, Head of the Communications Office, a man reasonably young in comparison to the others, pushed his glasses up his nose with his pinky, opened a folder in his lap, and began to speak.

“Right. Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness. We are still monitoring what the press knows in regards to the Crown Princess’ extended stay in Britain. As of now, seems we were able to get the Crown Princess back in the country without them finding out, but we will continue to stay alert for any rumors in that regard.”

“Do they know about Princess Lourdes-Abigail’s suspension?” My father asked. “As far as we are aware, sir, no.” Mr. Dupont replied. “We do have at the moment, though, requests for comment on a poll the Sunday Gazette ran online where 71% of respondents didn’t agree with the statement: ‘the Royal Family has kept an active working role after the death of Crown Prince Louis-Adolphe’.” My father sighed, gravely. “Did we give them a comment?” “No, sir. An online poll of no impact.” Mr. Dupont returned. “Most people just vote to see the estimated results, or because they’re bored.” “Good.” He nodded. “Go on.” “Regard–” “Wait, of how many?” I interrupted. “Pardon?” “How many people answered the poll?” “71%, ma’am.” “No, 71% of how many people? What’s the total of respondents?” “Oh, uh.” He looked through the papers on his folder again. Behind Mr. Dupont, an aide got up from his chair and handed him a couple more sheets of paper. “Ah, right. The total number of respondents in the poll was 61,359, ma’am.” “Were they given an abstention option?” “No, ma’am, only agree or disagree.” I nodded. Mr. Dupont went on. “As I was saying–” “Sorry,” I interrupted again, “One last thing, promise, do you have the analytics numbers?” “The–?” Mr. Dupont seemed confused. I looked at the aide behind him, a young man with freckles. “Sir? What’s your name?” His eyes grew wide. “M-me?” I smiled. “Yes, sir.” “Matthew.” “’Ma’am’”, his boss corrected. “Matthew, ma’am.” The aide repeated. “Do you happen to have the analytics data on this poll, Matthew?” “Uhm. Well, not a full analytics report, ma’am. But I do have a print out of the webpage, so I have a sharing estimate for social media.” “What are you talking about?” My father asked, confused. “Analytics is a… a tool to interpret patterns of data from basically anything.” I summarized. “On websites that run polls, it could be useful to know how many people viewed it as many might have just viewed it, but not voted, which doesn’t mean they weren’t influenced by it. And any new article online has an option for the reader to share it on their social media platforms, so that’s what Matthew will tell me next.” “Well, the data is rounded up, we don’t have the details.” Matthew explained. “Well, then we can skip it.” My father said. “That’s a point for another meeting, Margueritte. Let’s focus on our agenda today.” I wanted to argue, but before I could gather the courage, Mr. Dupont went on about me next, which was distracting enough to make me let the subject go. “Regarding the press on the Crown Princess specifically,” Mr. Dupont continued, “The months following the funeral saw a record high number of press profiling her biography, and of course there were the, uhm, ‘viral’ issues.” “Viral issues?” I asked, when he used a strange tone on the word ‘viral’. “The…mainstream section of the world, ma’am, meaning those outside of Savoy and who otherwise seemed to be uninterested in the story of The Royal Family of Savoy, were very interested to discover it’s new heir was a former military servicewomen–” “I–” I stuttered, “I only did the minimum service of 6 months.” “They don’t seem to care about the specifics.” He replied. “They did show a lot of interest for the picture of you in uniform during a drill, which was released through the palace at the time.” He added, shrugging slightly. “The Americans, specifically, seemed excited about your time in Harvard and New York, and a lot of articles were written with testimonials from people who, at least, claim to have studied with you at the time.” “Oh.” I said, uncomfortable. “What–what did they say?” “Positive things.” Mr. Dupont replied, short. “Though, at home, despite the King’s vow of faith in Her Royal Highness during the Crown Prince’s funeral, Savoyen press remains… unconvinced of your… capabilities.”

I looked at my father, who was staring at his hands, absentmindedly. So this was why my father had used his eulogy to public declare his confidence in me in the role. Not because it was true.  It was a PR move. No wonder he didn’t want to answer my question afterwards.

“What ar-” I stuttered. “Do you know any specifics of their criticism?” “They seem to worry about your work record the most, ma’am.” He replied. “Not a lot of royal work, some rumors of controversial stances as a lawyer, and uh. Not enough… How to best describe it? Personality, I suppose.” “They think I’m boring.” I helped. Seeming uncomfortable, he nodded. “International press definitely doesn’t, though.” He said. “And they have greatly influenced public opinion at home. It is very likely our national press is… upset they haven’t been given any insight on what your future will look like.”

‘And who’s fault is that?’, I thought, bitterly.

“Speaking of work,” I started, “Shall we talk about that next?” “Before we do,” my father said, before looking at Mr. Dupont, “what about the new development from last night? Where do we stand?” Confused, I looked around the room, but other than Montennon, Qadir, and Mr. Dupont himself, everyone else seemed confused as well. “We are closely monitoring the situation, but not rumors as of yet, sit.” He replied. “But I reiterate it would be best to get ahead of it.” “What happened last night?” I asked.

My father fixed me with such a dry expression I felt almost unbearably embarrassed for having forgotten: the Chris breakup.

“Oh.” I said, awkwardly. “Right.” “We’ll get back to you, Edwald.” My father told him. “Now, what need we discuss regarding your work, Margueritte?” “Well,” I started, pausing quickly to take in a deep breath, before reaching down at the ground for the folder I had left under my chair.

I opened it to find the copies I had made of the proposal I prepared the previous year while using anything I could to distract myself from the grief, and passed it around the room.

“This a summarized version, but I can have a more detailed one made tonight if you wish,” I prefaced, walking back to my seat after handing them each a copy, “I used a business proposal model, so forgive me if I might have missed any important information.”

The proposal detailed causes and organizations I wanted to focus on. I was patron of a handful of charities currently, and if I was to work full time as a royal, priority number one was to get that number up. It was work that I liked: useful, helpful work that made a difference in people’s lives.

But most importantly: it was a way of honoring my brother. I had experience with ‘easy’ causes: elderly care, childcare, things that were easy for anyone to empathize with, things that anyone would agree matters. To put it simply: things that wouldn’t ruffle feathers on the press.

This time I picked causes that mattered to me, and it mattered to me to make the kind of impact that my brother would have.

“This is impressive, ma’am.” Said Caesar Bisset, the Head of Outreach Relations. “Truly inspirational.” The others nodded, appreciatively. No one said anything else. “But?” I prodded. They looked at each other. Mr. Bisset gulped, smiling uncomfortably. “Some of these causes, although greatly important, would not send the right message, ma’am.” “What causes do you see a problem with, exactly?” I asked, as calmly as could be. “Not me, ma’am!” He corrected, quickly. “I mean, to the public, to the press, there could be a lot of misunderstanding around some of these areas.” “Such as?” “Margueritte,” my father started, with a careful smile. “As you know there is still a large amount of people in Savoy who identify as catholics, and as the representatives of the faith in the country, we have a responsibility.” “I understand.” I assured him, lying. “But I would still like to hear the specifics of what the issues would be.”

He looked at Mr. Bisset, who nodded.

“Well, ma’am,” he started, “as an example, take this idea, item two, where you express a wish of becoming a patron of Flag House, an organization devoted to providing support to homosexual youth…” “They provide counseling for those with unaccepting families, housing for LGBT people living in an unsafe and unwelcoming environment, and even classes to get them on a path towards a career or to further their education.” “Yes.” He nodded. “And the issue of homosexualism is still somewhat–” “Homosexuality.” “Pardon?” “You said ‘ism’.” I explained, sighing. “That’s a terminology used for diseases and health issues. The correct word is homosexuality.” He nodded. “Oh. Right. Still–” “And they don’t just work with gay people.” I expanded. “The LGBT community is wide. Trans people’s life expectancy is 35 years-old in Savoy, and they are around 65% of all sex workers and 73% of all unhoused people in the country.” “No one is saying the organisation isn’t good, Margueritte.” My father argued. “But there is a reason we don’t just announce patronages. There’s a lot of research that goes into this, a lot of prep work–” “And that’s what I want to do.” I replied. “We could be halfway done with the prep work if we had set the wheels in motion the first time I did this research, but I sent August this material in November last year and never heard anything.” Mr. Montennon, Auguste’s boss, who would have told him not to get back to me, fidgeted in his chair. “The issue would simply be too polemic, ma’am.” “So would be standing up against slavery before the 19th century, but King Willem III did it anyway.” I replied. “It’s not exactly the same, sweetheart.” “Why not?” I asked. “Look at the research I just gave you. Our job is standing up for the marginalized, today the most marginalized community in our society are the unhoused, specially trans sex workers of color who are kicked out of their homes at a young age due to bigotry.” “Our job is to serve the country.” My father insisted. “But part of that is knowing what the country needs from us. And largely, Savoy is just not ready for this type of work.”

He uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to look at me.

“Margueritte, you have a difficult job ahead of you. I know that like few people can. So let me assure you, the most important thing to succeed here is knowing how and when to compromise.” He paused, intensely. “And when not to. This is not something we can compromise on.”

I heaved a long, unsatisfied sigh. I wish I could have told him of Louis. I wish I could have told him how much this mattered to him. How much he spoke of his own privilege, of knowing that no matter how big the fear of being rejected was, he knew he would never need to fear for his safety like so many in his community did. I wish I could have told my father this, as I knew it might have changed his mind.

“So, Mr. Bisset, from this proactive document my daughter has given us, what do we think would be a good fit for her to work with?” Mr. Bisset looked away from my father into the paper in his lap again. “Well, sir, we would need to tweak a few of the specifics, but this suggestion for a partnership with some of the Universities in Savoy for a series of discussion panels on important issues for the population has a lot of potential.” “Ah,” my father replied, appreciatively. “Progress!” I gulped, suppressing a roll of my eyes at the condescension. “Won’t that just make me look more boring?” I asked. “I want to do it, but it would be better to balance it with something else, too, wouldn’t it? How about the patronage of the Claire Bauton Foundation?” Mr. Bisset nodded. “Women’s issues is a wonderful topic, ma’am, and would be a good fit as the public is very interested in the prospect of Savoy’s first Queen in her own right in over three centuries. I’ll do some research on it.” “Perfect.” My father said, happily. “Next?”

I sighed, fidgeting with my own hands; mouth dry.

“Perhaps we might go over the Crown Princess’ household, sir.” Montennon said. “Seeing as we are discussing work, her team would have to coordinate with Bisset on any upcoming projects.” He nodded. “Let’s. Please, Clemment, would you explain to us again the reason for appointing Auguste Authier as the Crown Princess’ Private Secretary.” “Of course, sir.” Montennon replied. “Ma’am, the gist of the matter comes down threefold. One, tradition.”

C. C. Montennon had been my father’s Private Secretary for almost two decades. He knew me from when I was still a bony, annoying child, but that wasn’t the reason he spoke ‘down’ at me. In fact, he had a gift of always appearing uppity whenever he said anything at all, even to royalty.

Montennon explained that traditionally, royal Private Secretaries were trained by their predecessor, the senior Secretary working for the Monarch. That way, every Monarch had a secretary that had been trained in the staff of the previous Monarch by the previous Monarch’s Secretary.

“This way every Private Secretary has the most complete knowledge one can have of the royal household and work.” He said. “So that fewer mistakes are made.”

I considered his words for a while. The logic seemed fine, it was the execution that I had an issue with.

“The second point, of course,” he went on, “is the matter of nationality.” “Seriously?” I interrupted. “Because Cadie is American?” “Ms. Mendel’s nationality could send the wrong messaging if she was selected for the highest position in your household, ma’am.” “Will I have to pretend I didn’t go to University in America, either?” “Margueritte, please.” My father said, scratching both eyes with his hand. “I think it’s a reasonable question considering this logic.” I argued. “The role of the Monarch, ma’am, and thus the role of the Crown Prince–uh, Princess is to represent and lead the country to the best of his–sorry, her abilities.” He explained, repeatedly stuttering on the need to correct himself, “and to hire a foreigner to such a high position would indicate you did not find a Savoyen of equal ability or trust.” “Or alternatively,” I argued, “that I hired the best person to the job and promoted her when the opportunity arose.”

Judging by the looks they all exchanged, I could see that was a battle lost.

“In order to do good work I have to be the one to choose my own staff.” I insisted. “It makes no sense otherwise. I assure you I am perfectly capable of hiring the objectively best person for the job.” “I assure you, ma’am,” Montennon insisted, “I have been overlooking Mr. Auguste Authier’s training for the past ten years and he is the most qualified man to prepare you for the difficult role ahead.” “You said it was threefold. What’s the third reason?” I asked Montennon. He sighed. “Well, ma’am, it’s hierarchy. Much of the Royal Family works as any business, and Auguste Authier has seniority. He’s been a member of the Royal staff longer and it would be inappropriate to promote Ms. Mendel to a higher position when she hasn’t earned it.” “As the person who she’s been working for since being hired I’d argue she has.” I contradicted. “Auguste has been training for a decade to assist the next Monarch, Margueritte.” My father told me, softly. “Cadence is too young. What if we compromise by looking into training her as an aide, Clemment? She would be a good assistant to Auguste, don’t you think? I’m sure they would work well together, right?”

I was sure they wouldn’t; Cadie was only a few years older than me, and Auguste was almost old enough to be our father. He had never respected Cadie’s abilities or my choice in hiring her. That was part of why I didn’t want to work with him in the first place.

“It would simply be too disruptive to disregard the plans that have been in motion for years regarding the staff of the next future Monarch.” Montennon finished. “But that hierarchy, those plans, were established when my brother was the heir.” I said, bravely but, also, timidly. “Not me. If we have to adapt to a new heir, and the new heir has to adapt to the work, it makes sense that the hierarchy and plans have to be adapted too, right?”

They seemed in no rush to reply. The silence floated around the room for a few seconds before my father sighed.

“It’s not how this works, I’m afraid.” He said. “Should we move on?”

And that was that. Another compromise. One word from the King and that matter was, apparently, closed.

Mr. Caron, the Head of Security, cleared his throat and sat a little taller as he began to speak. “Sir, if I may?” My father nodded his way, and he went on. Looking at me, an intense expression on his face, he said, “Ma’am, while we are discussing staffing choices… The occurence in Britain with your detail on the train…”

I tried to brace myself for a scolding, dreading everything around me, wishing I could go to my room.

“I wish to assure you no such thing will ever happen again. The officers in question have been severely reprimanded, suspended and will retake training upon returning to work. We take the incident extremely seriously and hope this won’t permanently shake your confidence in your security.” I stuttered, awkwardly. “Oh, that–That’s fine. Really, I’m fine. I didn’t even know they’d been suspended.” “Their only job is to keep you safe, and they lost you for three days.” My father remarked, calmly, not looking at me. “They are lucky to keep their jobs.” “Right.” I nodded, nervously. “Of course… Speaking of which. The… incident, as you called it, was indeed unfortunate, of course, but since the topic has been brought up, I suppose it is as good a time as any to talk about my security detail in general. The truth is I was already uncomfortable with it before.” “Uncomfortable, ma’am?” Mr. Caron asked, “Regarding the officers? Their competence?” “No, not at all.” I shook my head. “I mean, I spent the previous decade and a half with Joyce as my primary officer. She went with me to America, to University, and in every job I ever had.” He nodded. “Of course, ma’am. The bond that many years of service creates is, of course, highly valued in this field. It is essential for the work we do.” “I’m glad you think so.” I smiled. “Because I would like for Joyce to be reinstated as my primary Protection Officer.” Mr. Caron took in a long breath, watching the wall behind me. “Ma’am, though I appreciate how difficult such a structural change is, the fact is that Ms. Espinoza–uhm, Joyce, that is, simply does not have the proper, more advanced, specified training an officer for this position needs.”

“Why is that?”

The room was quiet. One by one, they all exchanged a look with the person closer to them and then looked at me.

Mr. Caron spoke. “Why is what, ma’am?” “As a member of Palace security staff, why doesn’t Joyce Espinoza have the proper training needed to work for a senior royal?” “Oh, well, ma’am, see…” He started, “Our officers receive personalized training for the specific work that they will be assigned to. That way every royal family member can be sure they are in the right hands for the level of security threat they are under.” “But…” I started, “Doesn’t that just create a gap in the abilities of the staff? Don’t you then just have some officers who are qualified for harder jobs and some who aren’t?”

They were quiet. Mr. Caron opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, pensively.

“Margueritte, this meeting is not meant to reevaluate how we do staff training.” My father objected. “Maybe it should.” I argued, causing him to look at me, brows raised. But he ignored my point. “We are here to discuss your staff and the fact is Ms. Espinoza does not have the proper training to keep you safe.” Before I could argue, he added, louder, “That is not something we are compromising on. Not your safety.”

I sighed.

“Ulysses, do you have the security file on the Crown Princess?” Mr. Caron looked at my father with wider eyes. “Y-yes, sir. I have the raw file with me, but it hasn’t been… filtered.” “Good. Show it to her.”

Awkwardly, Mr. Caron received a separate, larger file from the aide sitting near the window. He got to his feet and walked over to me.

I opened the file to an identification page; it contained most of my personal information from my full name, age, hair color and length to weight, height, and identifying marks, like the barely visible, tiny scar I had on my left knee from a bike fall as a child (I noticed the absence of my tattoo). I looked at Caron.

“What am I looking at?” “Well–” He started. “That is what your security needs to have on their minds every second of their working day.” My father answered instead.

When I turned the page, I realized the following pages were separated by date. The first was marked only a couple of days after Louis’ death. It read:

‘Letter received by the Neunant Post. Unmarked. Security camera footage resulted in no suspects of delivery. It reads:

THE THRONE MUST NOT GO TO PRINCESS MARIE MARGUERITE. WOMAN ARE INFERIOR TO MEN AND THE RIGHT ORDER OF CIVIL SOCIETY CANNOT BE UNDERMINED. LET THE GOVERNMENT BE ADVISED: SHOULD THE PRINCESS BE ANNOUNCED AS THE NEXT HEIR THERE WILL BE AN ATTACK ON POINTE CALLOIS BRIDGE. WE ARE AN ORGANIZATION DEDICATED TO RETURNING SAVOY TO ITS FORMER GLORY. PRINT THIS LETTER ON THE FRONT PAGE OR PEOPLE WILL DIE…’

With my heart beating almost painfully in my throat, I looked at my father. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at anyone. His eyes were opened, but he was seeing something I could not see.

I turned the page. The next few threats were prints of hate comments on news sites, but they seemed slightly superficial compared to the first. I noticed they had a yellow sticker to the up corner of the page, whereas the first one had a red one. I turned the pages, finding another red one marked about a week after the first. It read:

‘Letter dropped on the gates of Callois Palace among the messages of condolences for Crown Prince Louis. Security Camera footage could not identify the suspect amongst the crowd. It read:

REST IN PEACE OUR GOOD ARYAN KING LOUIS ADOLPHE!!! THE THRONE WILL NEXT GO TO OUR ALPHA PRINCE ADRIEN WHO WILL LEAD THE COUNTRY INTO PROSPERITY. PASSING THE CROWN INTO PRINCE LOUIS ADOLPHE’S SISTERS WOULD TURN THE COUNTRY INTO A RADICAL LIBERAL HELL IT MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN. THE KING MUST ANNOUNCE THE PRINCESSES WILL NOT INHERIT LIKE HIS SISTERS DIDNT. DO NOT DISMISS THIS. IN CASE THIS ISNT ANNOUNCED THE PRINCESSES WILL BE A FATALITY OF THE BATTLE FOR THE SURVIVAL OF SAVOY. YOU HAVE FIVE DAYS.

The following page contained a drawing of a symbol in red paint. Analysis confirmed it was pig blood. Symbol under analysis by the Interpol.’

I gulped, painfully, mouth dry. “Did they ever have an answer for what the symbol was?” Though I wasn’t looking at him, Mr. Caron asnwered softly, “With assistance from the NSA, ma’am, they believe it is linked to a jihadist terrorist organization.”

I turned a few more pages, hands shaking. Dated from a few weeks after Louis’ death, to a couple of months after, to just two weeks ago, they were prints of online messages, discord servers, reddit discussion threads, untraceable Twitter accounts, throw-away emails, sent to official royal email addresses, physical Palace address, personal email accounts of staff members, journalists, and any number of random people who dared say anything positive about us online.

‘THE CROWN PRINCESS ATTENDS BODY WORK GYM NEAR HER APARTMENT MOST MORNINGS AT 8AM FROM MONDAY TO FRIDAY. SHE ALWAYS PARKS IN THE SECOND FLOOR GARAGE. SHE LOOKS HOT IN LEGGINGS TOO BAD SHE’LL GET BLOWN UP NEXT TIME SHE IS THERE’

‘THE USURPER MARIE MARGUERITTE WILL DIE KING ADRIEN DOWN WITH THE FEMINAZIS WHO WEAKENED OUR MILITARY BY INCENTIVIZING WOMEN TO SERVE AND NOW WOULD WEAKEN OUR NOBLE ROYAL FAMILY’S BLOODLINE. YOU WILL NEVER FIND ME BUT YOU WILL SOON KNOW MY NAME I WILL CARVE IT IN HER SKIN. I KNOW THE ADDRESS OF HER WORK AND THE RESTAURANT SHE EATS AT WITH COWORKERS. THEIR NAMES ARE SOPHIE THE DAUGHTER OF THE CORRUPT MEDIA MOGUL AND LARISSA THE UGLY IMMIGRANT. SHE WILL NEVER BE QUEEN’

‘I AM A HIGHLY TRAINED FORMER MILITARY CAPTAIN PRINCESS MARIE MUST NOT HAVE A CONFIRMATION CEREMONY. IF YOU HAVE A CEREMONY WE WILL CARRY OUT A MASSIVE ATTACK AGAINST THE ATTENDEES. I HAVE AT MY DISPOSAL A SEMI AUTOMATIC RIFFLE AND A COLLECTION OF PIPE BOMBS.I DO NOT WANT TO SPILL PURE SAVOYEN BLOOD. I AM GIVING YOU A CHANCE. CANCEL THE CONFIRMATION AND ANNOUNCE THE ABDICATION OF PRINCESS MARIE IN FAVOR OF PRINCE ADRIEN OR ONE WAY OR ANTOHER I WILL MAKE SURE THEY DIE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED’

A few of the pages detailed untraceable phone calls made to official, unlisted numbers inside the palace. There was a collective letter sent by chief editors of the major Savoy newspapers detailing a rise in what they describe as ‘the worst kind of harassing, toxic, hateful comments’ ever before targeted at the royal family in general, but specifically, me.

The next few pages had, chillingly, photographs. It was hard to focus enough to read the text around them, but according to the captions they had all been sent by physical mail or email, some having been discovered by police in ‘intercepted phones’.

“Wha–what are intercepted phones?” I asked, my voice a mere whisper. Ulysses Caron’s reply matched my tone. “Phones intercepted by police during reids, investigations or after criminals are arrested. Some were found internationally and sent to Savoy Police.”

I nodded as though I didn’t have another million follow up questions. The photos were of me, but in cases when I had been photographed with other people, there were pictures of them as well.

They were pictures of me walking my dogs near my apartment, in Tallmound, before Louis died. Pictures of me walking to and from the parking lot at work, both before Louis died and on the day I went to quit. Pictures of me in the gardens of the Palace, in some places we knew people could see from the gates. It didn’t usually bother us as it wasn’t an issue unless they were watching to wait for us.

These weren’t paparazzi pictures, they were worse. Grainy, from farther away, from an upper angle – drones? My head hurt. I felt dizzy. My stomach ached. In one picture, I was walking near the beach with Lourdes in Corsilla.

I looked up at Mr. Caron, realizing the room had fallen into a deep, strained silence as they waited for me to say anything.

“My sister. Is she–is she pictured, too?” Mr. Caron looked at my father before replying. I did, too. He was still quietly looking inwards. “Yes, ma’am.” Mr. Caron said, finally. “Not as frequently. But there has also been a recent rise.” I fought back tears. “And–Did th–Louis?” I stuttered. He nodded, gravely.

I closed the folder with a thud. I looked away, at the windows. The sun was setting outside.

“Don’t you see…?” I asked, weakly. “This is why we can’t train our officers differently.” I looked back at them. “You’re deciding that some of us receive more threats than others and therefore we need different security, but what is stopping anyone who wishes to harm us from harming someone we love to get to us?!” “I assure you, ma’am, all our officers are highly trained to the task they need to perform–”

I got to my feet, breathless. Slowly, I walked around the chair and rested a hand on it, the other now clutching the heavy folder. I thought of my brother reminding me to stand up for myself, and of the reminder Harry had written in the book he sneaked into my bag.

I looked back at them, and sighed.

“You are going to double the number of protection officers in my sister’s detail.” I said, as authoritative as I could. “Double–?” Mr. Caron started. “And Cadence Mendel is going to be my Private Secretary.” I said, as if I hadn’t been interrupted. “Auguste can stay on for support. He can be a… consulting aide. I’m sure his experience will be valuable.” “Margueritte.” My father started. I did not acknowledge him. “Joyce Espinoza will head my security detail.” “Ma’am, she does not have the necessary training–” “Then train her!” I said. “It is not enough for security to be well trained, clearly, as your supposedly highly trained officers were sleeping while I ran off in London. If they had known me, if I had trusted them, like I do with Joyce, I assure you that would not have happened.” He didn’t have an answer. He did look at my father though, helplessly. “Training is not enough, Mr. Caron. Our security is with us wherever we go, we must trust them. Intimacy isn’t a replacer for training, either, so let’s work on both. Okay?” “Margueritte.” My father tried again. “Why don’t we talk about this privately?” “That won’t be necessary.” I replied. “It would have been useful months ago, after Louis passed. Now I don’t need to, anymore.” I looked at him, finally, calmly. “I will do good work, dad. I will. I will do work that I am proud to do, and that Louis would have been proud of, too. And I will be happy to do it. But let it be known that I will do it because I am choosing to do it.” I looked at the rest of them. “I did not want this.” I confessed. “I wish for nothing more than for my brother to be in this meeting instead of me. But I am all you have.”

Still, they were silent.

“Well, I will do it. Not because I have to. What can you do, really, if I refuse to? Throw me in jail?” I echoed Constance’s words, a humorless grin in my lips. “You need me. You have me. So, I am willing to discuss my work. But we will not compromise on my staff, or on my security. Or Lourdes’ security.” “Margueritte.” My father repeated, more forcefully now. “I am a lawyer. A good one.” I stopped him, angrily. “I had my own life before this and I can get it back. Say no and I will just send a resume and get another job next week.” I told them, daringly, shrugging. “I do not need or want the Crown. If you want to take it, this is what I need. If not,” I sighed, heavily, “well, let’s hope Lourdes is ready to be Queen.”

I waited, breathing heavily, anxious, hands shaking. My father said nothing else. Neither did any of the others. I could barely see them through my anger.

“I expect my Private Secretary to get in touch in the next twenty-four hours so we can get to work. If not,” I sighed, “You can expect my abdication letter by the end of the week.”

With that, I turned on my heels, and left the room.

--- ---- ---

Business Bitch Outfit

[A/N: ITS 6 AM AND I HAVE NOT SLEPT. I HAVE WORK IN 5 HOURS. I HAVE A HEADACHE. THIS IS ALL TO SAY PLEASE FORGIVE ANY SPELLING/GRAMMAR/NONSENSE MISTAKES. Seriously, I am so grateful for your patience. I had to move out of my house in 2 weeks into a much more expensive apartment. First time I had to do the whole moving process thing (long story) and it is not great. 0/10 do not recomend. Why do I own stuff? Also my job is not going well. I fully expect to be let go in January. Maybe I am being a paranoid anxious bitch maybe I am being a self aware queen. We’ll see. But it’s definitely the second option. Anyway, I’m all unpacked now and loving living alone for the first time ever. I think that’s all I needed to say. Oh, also, I did some research for the death threat part but -- thankfully -- I am not fully versed on it, so sorry if its a little cringe? Anyway. Let me know your thoughts?! What do you think will happen? Will Maggie’s boss bitch ultimatum work?! Will the dramatic Chris breakup leak to the papers?! Tune in next week to find out! LOVE YOU!]

#Princeharryff #prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryfanfiction #Princeharryfanfic #prince harry #brf #modern royalty au #modern royalty fanfic #fanfiction #OPITCphff #chapters #sorry i said bitch like 3 times in this AN #i cannot stress this enough #it is 6am

[camillemontespan]

her one constant [part fourteen: the human shield] [drake the bodyguard AU]

Master List

Warnings: Mention of blood/violence

A/N: Hey guys. I’m sorry for taking ages to write this chapter. Some of you know that I’ve been going through a shit time right now and writing hasn’t exactly been top of my priorities. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I guess I just want to roll up into a blanket and do nothing. 

I didn’t want to post this until I was 100% happy with it because you deserve a well thought out chapter, not just a shit post. I hope you enjoy this. I’ve got about 2/3 chapters left of this to write. Thank you to everyone who has commented and enjoyed. Your feedback means a lot.

I also see that I’ve lost some followers recently - all good, I’m not mad. But I have been posting a lot of BTS/Jimin content instead of Choices stuff, so that alienates a lot of my followers. Sorry if all the BTS content is annoying - I’m finding that they are helping me calm down. Something about Jimin’s smile makes me feel better. But as a result, my blog is now a hot mess. 

@ibldw-main​​​​​​​ @jovialyouthmusic​​​​​​​ @katedrakeohd​​​​​​​ @moonlightgem7​​​​​​​ @pug-bitch​​​​​​​ @princessleac1​​​​​​​ @burnsoslow​​​​​​​ @notoriouscs​​​​​​​ @dcbbw​​​​​​​ @saivilo​​​​​​​ @rainbowsinthestorm​​​​​​​ @marshmallowsandfire​​​​​​​ @marshmallowsaremyfavorite​​​​​​​ @gardeningourmet​​​​​​​ @kingliam2019​​​​​ @nomadics-stuff​​​​​ @kimmiedoo5​ ****************************************

Lou had his hand wrapped tightly around Olivia’s arm as he dragged her through the chaos of the ballroom.

‘Let me go!’ she shouted. ‘I can handle them myself, I’m armed!’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ Lou said fiercely. ‘I’m getting you out of here.’

Olivia let out an exasperated shriek but Lou ignored her, pulling her through the crowds. He knew Olivia was fierce and could look after herself; but he wished she would let him protect her without objection. All Lou wanted was to keep her safe and give her no reason to use her favourite dagger. 

His eyes scanned the room for any more threats. 

He saw the Duchess of Valtoria on the floor. He couldn’t see Drake.

Lou changed direction and raced towards her, his hand still gripping Olivia’s arm. ‘Lou, the exit is that way!’ Olivia protested. 

‘Give me a minute!’ Lou said. 

The two of them reached Camille. Lou noted with horror that while she was on her knees, Drake lay in a crumpled heap beneath her.  She was protecting Drake from the carnage around them, bent over him with her arms on either side of his body, cradling him close. She blocked Drake from view, keeping him safe, like a lioness protecting her cub.

Camille was a human shield. 

****************************

‘Drake, stay with me!’ Camille begged, keeping her body over his. ‘Stay with me!’ 

Tears were blinding her vision as she pressed down on the bullet wound embedded in his shoulder, trying to stop him from losing even more blood. Blood was everywhere; on his shirt; on his neck; on the floor; on her hands; on her silk dress. Camille’s hands shook as she tried to work out what to do. She pushed her hair back, not caring that Drake’s blood was now streaked across her forehead. 

Drake’s face was ashen. He was looking up at her with heavy, drooping eyes and breaths pulled from his throat, breaths that were ragged and strangled. 

Camille let out a sob. Everything had been so good, everything was working out.. when Drake had jumped in front of the bullet, all that was good in the world shattered. 

All she could hear was screaming, shooting and Drake’s strangled breaths. She could feel her throat constrict and her heart pound in her chest as she tried to make sense of what was happening. 

Breathe. Breathe. 

Another assassination attempt in the same ballroom. Another experience that Camille would wear like bruised and damaged armour. Another reason to feel fear. Another reason to feel vulnerable. 

But as she looked down at Drake’s ashen face, she felt fire in her heart and she knew that she would have to stay strong for him. Camille held him close as she promised herself that she would never let him go. 

‘Camille..’ Drake croaked.

‘It’s okay,’ Camille said, her voice shaking. ‘It’s gonna be okay. I’m keeping you safe-’

‘Camille!’

Camille looked up to see Lou and Olivia standing above her. Lou was staring down at her in shock while Olivia’s eyes, usually hard and narrow, softened as she took in the scene before her. 

‘H-He got shot,’ Camille stammered. ‘He jumped in front of the bullet to protect me-’

‘Shh, it’s okay,’ Lou soothed her, crouching down. ‘I can help. I’ll get him off the ground.’

Lou reached out to get Drake off the floor. ‘Don’t hurt him!’ Camille screamed, her voice hysterical. ‘Be careful!’

‘Olivia, take the Duchess,’ Lou said firmly. ‘Camille, Drake is gonna be okay-’

‘But what if he loses a lot of blood?’ Camille sobbed. ‘Or he- he dies-’

She looked down at Drake as the reality of a life without him - literally- flooded her thoughts. Her hands clenched his bloodsoaked shirt, unwilling to let go. She couldn’t let him go. 

‘Camille, let go..’ Lou murmured, his green eyes meeting hers. ‘I’ve got him.’

Camille felt soft hands take her by the arm, guiding her to her feet with some resistance from Camille herself. ‘No, no!’ she pleaded, reaching out to try and grasp Drake by the hands. She was pulled back gently by Olivia. 

‘Why are you helping me?’ Camille whispered. 

‘Because you look like you’ve lost the only thing that mattered,’ Olivia said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of this place.’

Camille let Olivia pull her through the ballroom, looking back over her shoulder to check that Drake was safe. He was; Lou was holding him up as Drake lolled against him. Nobles were running to all exits, screaming and crying. But all Camille could focus on was Drake.

***************************

Lou helped Drake into Olivia’s towncar. Camille clambered in beside him, refusing to leave Drake’s side. Olivia sat on the other side of Camille, instructing her driver to move as quickly as possible. 

‘We’ll go to my place,’ Lou said. ‘Nobody will know to look there if they are trying to target nobles.’

Drake’s head lolled against Camille’s neck. Camille swallowed and pressed her hand against his cheek, willing him to be alright. His eyes fluttered as he struggled to look at her. ‘Camille..’ he croaked. ‘Are you okay?’

Her heart cracked into two as she realised that even now, Drake was worried for her safety. Of course he was. He always put her first. 

‘Forget me,’ she whispered. ‘We have to focus on you.’

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘Olivia’s car,’ Camille told him. ‘Lou is taking us to his place.’

‘Fucking Olivia…’ Drake groaned. 

‘Careful, bodyguard..’ Olivia said, her voice like ice. ‘Or I’ll inflict another wound on you.’

Camille’s head whipped around so she faced Olivia. Her eyes were filled with fire. Drake’s blood had dried on her forehead and her hair was knotted down her shoulders. She looked a far cry from the usual elegant and sleek Camille that had been paraded around court all these months. Olivia drew back, realising that this Camille Montespan, the American commoner who she viewed as being weak, was anything but. 

‘Don’t you dare threaten him,’ Camille hissed. She turned back to Drake, stroking his cheek. Her fiery eyes softened, turning tender as she focused on the bodyguard.  Olivia’s eyes met Lou’s in the car mirror. His eyes reflected the same look as Camille’s. 

Olivia quickly looked away.

******************

The group arrived at Lou’s apartment. Camille helped Lou guide Drake up the three flights of stairs to his front door while Olivia checked the news on her phone for any updates. 

Unrest had broken out through Cordonia. The assassins were unknown but it seemed that they were anti-monarchists. They had encouraged terror to roam the streets, with buildings being set on fire and republicans leaving their homes to join in with the fray. 

At least Drake was out of the palace, Camille thought to herself. She helped Lou settle Drake down onto the couch in the living room while Olivia searched for a first aid box. She handed the box to Camille. 

Lou watched as Camille broke the box open. She grabbed at a bottle of alcohol and then unbuttoned Drake’s shirt. Her fingers were gentle on Drake’s skin and the love and loss in her eyes was palpable.

‘We’ll leave you two be,’ Lou muttered. ‘If you need anything, give us a shout.’

Lou and Olivia left the room.

**********************

Camille examined the bullet wound, trying to calm down. She cleaned the wound with the alcohol, causing Drake to let out a cry. 

'Take my hand and squeeze it,' Camille said softly. Drake winced as he reached out to take her hand. As Camille cleaned the wound some more, Drake gripped her hand with a steel-like grip. 

'There we go..' Camille whispered. 'Getting you all cleaned up.. Now to get the bullet out which I've never had to do before but let's not panic about that right now..' 

Her voice was trembling as she coached herself. Drake looked up at her with heavy eyes. 

'It's okay,' he murmured. 'Breathe.' 

A tear slid down Camille's cheek. She roughly wiped it away and looked through the first aid box for something to use to take the bullet out. She finally found tweezers. 

'This may hurt,' she said. 'Do you trust me?' 

Drake nodded, pressing his lips together in pain. 'I always trust you,' he croaked. 

Camille used the tweezers to locate the bullet. She tried to keep her hand steady as she worked. Drake's blood stained her skin but she didn't care. She had to help him. 

She gently pulled the bullet shard out of his skin. Drake let out a hiss but as his head fell back against the couch cushions, he felt relief. 

Camille washed the wound with alcohol again before finding a bandage to cover it. 

'You should be a nurse,' Drake said, breaking her concentration. 

Camille smiled weakly. 'My mom was a nurse.' 

Drake squeezed her hand. 'Clearly runs in the family.' 

Camille's eyes met his now. 'You saved my life,' she whispered. 'But.. I can't feel grateful because I nearly lost you.' 

Drake smiled weakly. 'It's my job to keep you safe. Don't worry about me.' 

Camille shook her head quickly and let out a sigh. Tears began to slide down her cheeks again. 'If I had lost you, Drake.. I don't know what I would have done. When you jumped in front of me, time stood still and all I could see was your body falling to the floor. I thought you'd been killed. I can't imagine -' 

She let out a choked sob and clapped her hand over her mouth as she tried to hold in her emotions. Drake leaned forward and cupped the back of her head with his hands. 

'I'm here,' he murmured. 'I've got you, kid. I'm alive and you're safe, that's what's important. Don't waste a moment thinking about what could have been.'

'But -' 

Drake closed his eyes and swallowed. 'When I saw the gunman aim his gun at you, I saw my life flash before my eyes. And that sounds ridiculous because surely, that feeling should only have been felt by you.'

Camille watched him as Drake opened his eyes again to meet hers. His expression was raw, searing and raw. Camille reached out to take his hands, trying to offer support. 

‘Before we left for the ball, I told you we needed to talk about us tonight,’ Drake said. ‘So damn it, that’s what we’re gonna do.’ 

Camille’s eyes widened as she sat back on her heels and waited to hear what Drake had to say.

'My life is you, Camille,' Drake whispered. ‘Before I met you, I was just a regular bodyguard. I worked hard but I didn’t do anything else. My life was dull. It had no meaning in it; I would wake up, protect my charge, eat, sleep, repeat. But ever since I became your bodyguard, you’ve made my life more meaningful. I look forward to waking up so I can see you. I like joking with you, I like playing Rock Paper Scissors in the car. I like our Book and Whiskey club and listening to you read your favourite passages from your books. But more than that, I’ve found myself starting to feel more. Before I met you, I was a loner. I didn’t have friends and I certainly didn’t date. But now, I’m different. You’ve changed me as a person. You.. you make me happy.’

‘Drake..’ Camille whispered.

‘When the gun pointed at you,’ Drake continued, keeping his voice steady, ‘I saw my life with you flash before my eyes. I saw every moment we have ever had together go through my mind like a highlight reel. I did my duty by jumping in front of the bullet, I know. But to be honest, duty didn’t even come into my mind when I did it. I jumped in front of the bullet because I love you. I don’t want to live my life without you. I refuse to live life without you by my side. I won’t do it.’

Camille’s eyes had filled with tears. She let out a deep breath and cast her eyes down to the floor. ‘You handed in your notice,’ she said quietly. ‘So you won’t be by my side for long.’

Drake swallowed hard, preparing himself for what he was going to do next. He looked at Camille for a long moment as she looked down at her hands. Her forehead was smeared with blood. Her silk dress was ruined. But she had protected him in the crossfire. She had tried to keep him safe. To Drake, Camille was the bravest and strongest woman he had ever encountered. 

He reached into his suit jacket and brought out the small velvet green box that had been hidden inside. He had wondered if Camille had felt it when her hands had been on his bullet wound but he realised that in the aftermath of the shooting, she would not have been in her right mind. Thank God. At least this would still be a surprise- a happy surprise, he hoped.

‘Camille.’

Camille sniffled and looked up. Drake gave her a smile and cleared his throat.

‘I want to be by your side forever, if you will have me,’ Drake murmured. ‘Not as your bodyguard. Not as your friend. But as your husband. But just know that I would still be all of those things for you. I’ll never stop protecting you.’ Before Camille could respond, Drake opened the box to reveal his grandmother’s topaz engagement ring. 

Camille clapped her hand across her mouth. ‘Drake!’

‘Will you marry me?’ Drake asked, trying to keep his pounding heart steady. 

Camille stared at the ring. Her hands were shaking and tears were forming in her eyes again as she considered his question. 

‘If you marry me, you’ll be a Duke..’ she croaked.

‘I don’t care if I’m a Duke or a bodyguard or a man with nothing,’ Drake said. ‘All I want is you.’

Camille closed her eyes as a smile broke out on her face and happy tears ran down her cheeks. Drake reached out to wipe the tears away, waiting for her answer. Camille opened her eyes and her gaze slid down to the beautiful ring that Drake was holding out for her.

‘Yes, I’ll marry you,’ Camille whispered. 

Drake’s eyes lit up and a wide smile spread on his face as he realised she was now his. He slid the ring onto Camille’s finger, relieved it fit her. He was about to reach out to kiss her but Camille beat him to it. She threw her arms around his neck and her lips crashed against his. 

'I'm never letting you go again,' Camille whispered, pulling herself away so she could speak into his ear. 

Drake chuckled. 'I should be saying that to you.' 

Camille pressed her hand on his cheek. The topaz stone of her engagement ring sparkled in the low light, glinting against Drake's skin. 

'Promise we'll never let each other go,' Camille said, her voice shaking. 'Promise me, Drake.' 

Drake's lips brushed hers gently. 'I promise,' he murmured. His fingers caught in her hair as he kissed her deep, moving down to move the straps of her silk dress so he could lean down to kiss her shoulder. 

Camille slowly pulled away and let her mouth roam down his neck, down his collar bone, until she reached the bandage over his bullet wound. 

She kissed the area around the bandage gently, close to the place where Drake took a bullet for her. 

Not because it was his duty but because he loved her.  

#drake walker #trr fanfic #trr au #drake walker x mc