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5lazarus · 3 years

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To the Victor the Spoils

In the Skyhold gardens, in Adamant's wake, Solas meets Loghain.

A character study of two trickster-kings, speaking a little too honestly.

As Loghain himself says, "The past is always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and we wear it on our skin. You can think otherwise, but you’ll never get far without it." Read on Archive of Our Own here.

The Inquisitor’s hand aches, and Solas is responsible, so he rouses himself from the Fade and dresses quietly. His erstwhile roommates, Varric and Dorian, snore away soundly. They came back late last night and may still wake up drunk. If this were not the third night in the row they had done this, he would be more sympathetic and leave a tincture for their headache. Alas, they must learn soon, or he will simply make a lot of noise waking up. There are healthier ways to cope with bad battles and beloveds’ deaths by drinking, however Varric wants to honor Hawke. Adamant has left them all aching. He would still like to sleep.

Outside Blackwall is running the new recruits through their basic drills. He is yelling at them about honor—another Adaman casualty. The children look like badly-plucked chickens in their ill-worn armor, shambling in the gray morning light. Solas would tell them to stand up straight and widen their stances, but here he does not need to play the drill sergeant. He leave Blackwall to his work and retreats into the main keep.

Morning prayer has just released and Leliana is wistful, her hood down. She pauses by Varric’s table and looks unseeingly at the stack of books. Then she sees him, and her face grows as porcelain-clear as a doll’s.

“Good morning, Solas,” she says. “You’re up early.”

The easiest way to answer is to obfuscate, and the best way to obfuscate is simply to say the truth. Solas says, “I enjoy the quiet, before Skyhold’s residents slip back into their daily routines.”

Leliana chuckles, and the porcelain visage warms into flesh. “Surely the Fade reflects routine too? The Hero of Ferelden told me she found me at my prayers, when we were trapped by a Sloth demon.”

You people dream such dull lives, Solas thinks but does not say, but of course I took the dreams away. He says, “There is disruption to be found on both sides of the Veil.” She watches him as he walks towards the cloister. He resists the urge to strut. Apostates, particularly those claiming to be hermits, do not walk with pride in their power and accomplishments. Many of the mages he has observed scuttle rather than stride. Solas has never tried to draw attention to himself; he cannot help being six feet tall and occasionally a redhead. Still, he tempers his walk.

In the cloister Elan’Vemal is buzzing around the felandaris like an angry wasp. Solas ignores her and walks towards the royal elfroot, pulling out his knife.

“Absolutely not,” she says.

Solas crouches down next to the bush. “I beg your pardon?” he says to the branches. The tips of its leaves are an electric violent. He can grind the stalks into a salve that will soothe the spasms in the Inquisitor’s hand and temporarily numb the spread of the Anchor. The leaves he will keep for himself.

“Inquisitor’s only,” Elan’Vemal says. “Unless you have a requisition form.” She looms over him, arms crossed. She’s a nasty little creature. The Inquisitor had not been pleased at her barefaced attempt at manipulation. Solas touches his own cheek, sans vallaslin, and does not even allow the thought to fully form.

He says, “I am making a salve for the Inquisitor.”

“A likely story.” Elan’Vemal is unimpressed.

Irritated, Solas says, “The stalk of this plant, ground into a salve with arbor blessing harvested wild and the stamen of the amrita vein, releases a numbing agent useful for treating Fade-inflicted wounds.” This is accurate enough, for her purposes. “We will be marching on Adamant in two weeks, and best be prepared.” He takes his knife and cuts only two branches from the stalk, when initially he had hoped to take three. Elan’Vemal watches him work. He is careful not to wound the plant. Grudgingly she remains silent as Solas ties the branches into a small bundle.

As he pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees, she says, “And the leaves? What will you use that for?”

Solas says, “Getting high, of course. What else?”

Shocked, Elan’Vemal laughs. He smiles slightly and makes his escape, dodging Mother Giselle with a polite “good morning.” The salve will not take much time to prepare, but the day is barely long for all he wants to do. There is the basic sketch for his fresco of Adamant. He already has a sense of what the colors need to be, and so he need to requisition more cinnabar for the corrupted lyrium holding the City enchained. There are calculations to be run, as well, regarding the latest of his Veil accelerometers. They have reactivated enough for him to use the lodestone at Skyhold as a base and predict where the Veil is weakest. The Inquisitor ought to plan her next foray where the Veil needs the most attention; but first, he must soothe her hand, and let her know she is cared for. He cares for her. She knows that; but after Adamant, the reminder will help.

A man is staring at him, not unkindly, so Solas turns with a practiced mild expression.

“May I help you?” he asks. It has not been easy to fall back into the habits he developed as Mythal’s thrall, but he has never been one for ease.

Loghain says, “You fought valiantly at Adamant.”

The almost-king of Ferelden: even now he cannot help but trip into exalted circles. Solas takes him in quickly before responding. He has heard the Inquisitor complain about Loghain’s betrayal of the Night-Elves, the resistance force both the Dalish and the urban elves of Ferelden launched against the Orlesian occupation. Solas separates the personal dislike from the political necessity. Of course the Teryn could not keep the elves of Ferelden armed; he could not risked an armed and organized minority clamoring for land just after they had waged and won one foreign war. Factionalism is so easy to fall into; Solas knows this from experience. That does not excuse it, but one does what must be done. He has done similar and worse. He would have left Cailan to die at Ostagar, and the Wardens too—but he would not have been so obvious about it.

Loghain himself looks like a tired but brawny old man, much like himself nowadays. Blue rings his eyes, but he is clean-shaved and his armor is polished. If the darkspawn in his blood keeps him up at night, he does not let it taint his day. He still survives.

Why does he notice him? Why did he notice him on the battlefield? Solas is too old for flattery. What does he want from him?

Solas says, “Thank you. You as well.” Inveterate loser, he thinks. He does not know if he is insulting him or Loghain: both, this is your human kin, the Fade will press him into your archetype.

Loghain says, “I’ve fought with apostates before, when we faced down the Archdemon—Dalish and human too. But I’d never seen any mage move that quickly, or so competently bark orders at frozen soldier in the field. Have you served before? Ferelden, Tevinter, or Orlais?”

Solas, as practiced, recites, “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade, in ancient ruins and battlefields, where I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” He smiles thinly. “One learns from their mistakes.” Yours and mine, he thinks and cannot say: I would have done what you did at Ostagar, but I would have made sure I was not blamed. So quickly one’s allies misunderstand the good one attempts to have wrought; so quickly it spirals out of one’s own control.

Loghain stares at him. “You dream on battlefields? And can see what had happened there?”

“I can watch spirits copy the strongest emotions felt there,” Solas corrects. “There is truth but she wears many faces.” Obfuscation via weak poeticism works so very well, though it marks him as more polished than most elves. “In the same blood-drenched patch of dirty a spirit acts and reenacts a soldier throwing himself to the ground in anguish as he sees his king overpowered. And then, in the same blink, another plays the role of the relieved foot soldier, glad to be spared a fatal charge in a battle of fools.” Perhaps bringing up Ostagar is not the most tactful, but he struggles to know the average quickling’s reference-point. His knowledge of history is vast, and time has slowed to a crawl. He does not know what else to reference.

Loghain presses his thin lips into an even thinner line. “Ostagar,” he says. “And before I’ve had my breakfast. Did you go there deliberately, or just…fall asleep?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Solas says simply. It is not an untruth. He had found Flemeth’s cottage first. The dreams came easy. “Battles that change the tide of history mark the Fade as much they do the waking world. It is difficult to dream anything else, north of the Korcari Wilds.”

Loghain stares into his eyes. Solas, of course, peers back. The man’s eyes are a clear, cold blue, more brilliant for the bruises under them. The former regent of Ferelden says levelly, “When I dream, all I remember is a fool’s death and a hard choice. And I’d make the same again.”

“As you should,” Solas says. “There is no time for regret. You have lived your life according to the demands of your honor: for your countrymen, and now, your fellow Wardens. If you regretted that choice—if you sought to deny it, to fruitlessly work against the tide of the history you have made, that would be dishonorable. But you are an honorable man, are you not?” He realizes he is perhaps speaking more passionately than he ought. This is not Blackwall, an easy mirror to his own sins. He must remember what he is in the world: an elf, an apostate, a dirty outsider—no matter that he keeps himself cleaner than Cassandra. Repressively, he says, “Forgive me. Adamant stirs up old memories in us all. I am marked by what I witnessed as well.”

Loghain says, “You know war. Of course, most of your people do. The Warden has told me what the elves face in Orlais and Tevinter. It’s not much better in Ferelden.” Solas stirs, irritated, wanting to deny—but he is an elf, he is stuck in these circumstances, and he does know war intimately. He could not help but speak first. He cannot snap back. Loghain may be held in dishonor; that does not mean an elf can talk back. “Your friends have spent the past two nights in the tavern, drinking, and when that lugubrious warden isn’t weeping into his ale, he’s drilling the recruits to exhaustion. At least that will make them sleep at night. But that won’t do away with the dreams.” He smiles thinly. “I find your description of the Fade comforting. It means no one can lie about the past. Whatever it is. It’s always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and sinks into our dreams. We wear it on our skin, and even the heavens are scarred with it. However history writes us.”

“To the victor the spoils,” Solas says.

Loghain burbles a laugh. It’s a pleasant sound, unexpected and a little hoarse. “Ha! And it’s my daughter who won. And right now—the Inquisition. The Wardens. Us. It’s easy to die for your cause. I could have claimed my redemption, if I need one, at Adamant. But it’s much harder to live for it, bearing the weight of the dead.”

Solas, surprised, says, “Yes.” He thinks, this is a lonely man, opening his deepest thoughts to a stranger, but aren’t I the same? Haven’t I been doing the same, with him, with Blackwall, with the Iron Bull and Varric and Cassandra and them all? He did not need the death of Wisdom as an excuse. He has found comradeship enough where he goes. He clears his throat, suddenly overcome. He thinks it through: I am upset, why? What has disturbed me? That this man carries his sins on his skin, and rejects the need for redemption. History has painted him the villain; I, also. Dread Wolf take you: what will they say about Loghain?

Loghain says, “It’s early in the day for this talk. I must be keeping you from your work.” The moment has passed; now they are awkward with each other, and not two soldiers who are harrowing a war. The man’s drawing into himself, embarrassed at the truth he told. Disappointed, Solas draws up to his full height and remembers: don’t hold yourself too tall.

He says, “Quite,” and holds up the pouch of royal elfroot. “Duty calls.” The Inquisitor’s hand is hurting and needs a salve. The quartermaster needs to order him cinnabar. Then there is the composition of the fresco to calculate and then sketch with charcoal, and more calculations, and sidestepping Leliana and Vivienne as to how he made those calculations. He saw it in the Fade. When he saw it, the Fade was everything, and there was no bleary waking. He leaves the courtyard and the almost-king, remembering and forgetting his words.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #dai #solas #loghain #character study #solas & loghain #elan ve'mal #leliana #adamant #ptsd #survivor's guilt

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the-hopeless-haze · 4 years

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Someone to Pull You Up Short, to Put You Through Hell (Being Alive Chapter 6)

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A/N: Okay this is over 8k words. Sorry? But it’s got everything: angst, fluff, smut... so there’s a reason this got away from me. This is also my submission to @thefanficfaerie ‘s DW quote challenge: I had #49 “Never trust a hug. It’s just a way to hide your face.”

CW: Smut as aforementioned. This is NSFW!

Where the hell had you been hiding that dress? It was a simple green number that clung tantalizingly close to the curve of your breasts and waist, and then flared slightly to rest at a slightly inappropriate length, halfway down your thigh, about three or four inches of fabric past your ass. Rafael would definitely question taking you home to his mother in a skirt that short. It was strange, seeing you wear this because you often dressed conservatively. Hell, Liv showed more cleavage than you did on a day to day to basis.

But your legs in that dress, lengthened by a simple pair of black heeled sandals... his breath caught in his throat as you walked into the bar with Carisi and he never was able to fully exhale because you kept flitting around, barely paying attention to him. And it was hell, watching you play pool with Carisi against Nick and Amanda, Carisi’s body flush against yours as he helped you set up your shot.

“You okay, there, Rafael?” Liv asks.

“Mm,” he responds, barely looking at her, eyeing you across the bar. You were taunting Amanda; he could tell by your facial expression as she was setting up her cue stick. He’s pulled up short by how young you look; god, you really were a kid compared to him, weren’t you?

“I know the verdict didn’t go the way any of us wanted it to,” she says, but his mind is so far removed from anything that might have happened at the courthouse today. “But try to relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” he murmurs. Figures she would think he was tense because of work. A few months ago, that would’ve been what was running through his mind while he nursed his drink. But now, work stayed at the courthouse and his office because he had you to put him through hell when he was outside of it.

“Sure,” Olivia says sarcastically, but she follows his gaze, and his pulse quickens once she sees that you’re right in the line of it. “You squeeze that glass any tighter and it’s going to break.”

Rafael sighs, looking down at the glass of scotch in his hand. He downs the rest of it, rolling his eyes.

“(Y/n) looks nice tonight, hmm?” Olivia asks, a glint in her brown eyes that makes him wonder if feigning innocence is even worth it.

“She always looks nice,” he says, deciding to play into it since he had no other cards left. But you don’t look “nice”, you look fucking delicious, and “nice” is an understatement if there ever was one. Anyone in this bar would think going home with you was akin to winning the lottery.

But you’d go home with him, at the end of the night, or at least... he thinks.

You’re still leaning against Carisi even though there’s no real reason to now, and he tries not to think of how much sense you two would make as a couple but ultimately fails. Sure, Carisi had never been married either, but he was also almost ten years younger than Rafael. He was taller, fitter, maybe more attractive, and he was a detective and there was no sticky situation with the DA that would have to be sorted out if you two got serious. The two of you were always attached at the hip whenever he stops by the precinct, but now you’re attached by more than even that, what with hands on shoulders and backs pressed against chests.

As a complete shock to absolutely no one, you and Carisi end up losing the game of pool and have to buy the next round. You were tipsier than he’d ever seen you, your face flushed from the copious amounts of alcohol in your system. Amanda, the awful influence she is, evidently talked you into doing shots with her earlier in the evening, and you kept sucking down cocktails afterward.

Rafael himself is feeling the effects of the scotch more tonight. He’s honestly lost count of how many he’s had, and seeing you in that dress had him inebriated already, but he’s feeling particularly woozy and melancholy as you come back over with another old fashioned, the amber liquid sloshing around in the glass. You slide in the booth next to him, maybe a little too close for appearances’ sake. Carisi sidles in after you, saying something in your ear that you laugh loudly at.

“I don’t think he’d appreciate it,” you say. Were you two talking about him? Son of a bitch.

“I think we should order an appetizer,” Olivia says, her tone concerned. “You need to sober up a little, (y/n).”

“I’m fine,” you protest.

“You could barely walk over here,” Rafael says, and you raise an eyebrow. “You either have to eat something or slow down.”

“Okay, Padre,” you snicker. “What do you suggest we get, then?”

“I’ve been dying for a quesadilla,” Rollins says before Rafael can answer. “I’ll split one with you.”

“Deal.”

Rafael is startled when he feels your foot against his. Then he thinks his heart might stop as you slide upward, past his ankle, your toes getting caught in the hem of his dress pants to touch the bare skin of his calf. Were you really going to do this here? He catches your eyes and he knows by the glint in them that yes, yes you were. If this night wasn’t hell already...

Your hand comes to his knee, and you’re nodding at something Nick just said, biting into your quesadilla. And your hand slides higher up his left thigh, halfway, before sliding back down to his knee. You do this a couple more times, tantalizing slow, your hand coming up a little higher each time before it makes its descent.

Just as your hand reaches the apex of his thigh, he grabs it and pulls it away. The last thing he needs is a hard-on in front of all of SVU, and while he’d need a little more attention to get there it was best to stop you while you were ahead. Your lips form a devilish smirk as you sip from your glass, but you take the hint and keep your hands to yourself.

Rafael will be damned if you think you’re the only one allowed to play, and if it weren’t for the few drinks loosening him up he would’ve never even thought about it, but your legs in that dress... tentatively, he takes his left hand and places it on your right knee, squeezing tight enough to leave the imprint of his fingers and he edges up against the soft skin of your thigh until he reaches the hem of your skirt, and then travels back down, copying your ministrations from earlier. You don’t stop him as he rides the fabric up a little the next time his hand meets your inner thigh, his fingertips touching the hemline of your panties, and his breath catches in his throat not for the first time that night. You were wet. You couldn’t seriously want him to do this? Not here? Rafael had never been an exhibitionist but he’d be a goddamn liar if he said this wasn’t turning him on. Ultimately, he errs on the side of caution. He wasn’t going to take advantage of you when you were this drunk and he isn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of giving Carisi a free show, either. Rafael cannot wait to get the fuck out of this bar.

The conversation splits into fragments, Olivia and Rollins chatting about some new store that opened up while Fin and Amaro rehash the case again. Neither discussion sounds particularly interesting to Rafael, and he turns to you, but you’re deep in a tête-à-tête with Carisi.

“You’re the best partner I’ve had, (y/n),” Carisi says.

“Mm. You too.”

“You just saying that, doll?”

You giggle. “No.”

“I mean it, though. I’ve had bad luck with partners... and squads.”

“Poor baby.”

He chuckles, rubbing your arm and pulling you closer to him. “Not anymore. Manhattan’s a good fit. We've got a good squad here, a good ADA, and you. Best pardna in the world."

"Aww, you're too sweet," you slur.

“No one’s as sweet as you, doll.”

You crinkle your nose and laugh. “Does that ever work, Sonny?”

“Sometimes,” he chuckles. “It doesn’t work on you?”

“You wish,” you tease. “But no.”

“Anyway...Nah, I mean, you saw it. No one liked me when I first got here except you.”

"It was because of the mustache.”

"Now you're being mean."

"Sorry, baby, but you know that mustache was awful.”

“Okay. Maybe. But... all my other partners, I mean, not that it lasted long, but none of them ever wanted to talk to me and got aggravated with me. You and I, though? We’re the dream team. And I just want you to know I really appreciate you.”

“I appreciate you, too, honey. So much," you say and you press your lips against the side of Carisi's mouth. You would’ve kissed him on the lips if you weren’t so drunk that you missed.

The hell you have condemned him to now is ultimately ten times worse than the hell he'd put himself through earlier. Before it was only speculation, but now? That was it. You were going to leave him. Of course you would. That’s how the story always went from the start, and that’s how you would go, too. Instead of Alex, you’d leave him for Carisi, and he’d have to spend every day a living hell, watching the two of you at the precinct the same way he had to watch Alex and Yelina together. Who was he to think you would be any different?

Carisi's face reddens in the dim light of the bar and he laughs. "Jesus, someone needs to tap you out, huh?"

“Probably,” you slur, nestling yourself against his shoulder. “I can’t remember the last time I drank this much.”

“No more then.”

“Whatever you say, honey,” you murmur, and you kiss his cheek again, the print of your lipstick visible on Carisi’s face.

Rafael can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand the way the two of you are already all over each other. Couldn’t you have talked to him first before you decided you wanted to drape yourself on another man? Even Yelina had that decency!

If he thought he disliked Carisi before, he hates the man now as he kisses the top of your head, smiling down at you.

“I’m calling it a night,” Rafael announces abruptly, standing up just as quickly, grabbing his suit jacket and his briefcase. “Goodnight, all of you.”

Just as he reaches the door, Rollins catches him by the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to make sure your girlfriend gets home safe, Barba?”

What, were you going to send Amanda over to add insult to injury now? Fuck this. He’s far too old to be playing these games, and he should’ve fucking known better to get involved with you.

“Fuck off,” he snaps. “You know she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Hostile, much? Bet you wish she was,” she teases.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “What do you want?”

“Listen, it’s just... you live the closest to (y/n), right?” Amanda asks, knowing damn well that’s not the case. “Well... you know she’s had a few more than she should have. So could you please take her home?”

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, he sighs and nods. He can’t be that much of an asshole even if he’s hurt right now. “Alright. I’ll get us a cab.”

“Thank you, Barba. Been a real pleasure,” she says, smiling brightly. “Keep your hands to yourself, though. She probably won’t remember it tomorrow.”

He steps out into the humid August night, a slight breeze in the air indicating fall was on the way. Irritation seeps through his veins as multiple cabs drive by that he could’ve caught, but you must have been too busy giving your goodbyes to your new lover. Jesus Christ, could Rafael be any more self-pitying? It was time to start getting over you and start getting used to the sentence of being single again.

You head out a few minutes later, stumbling in your heels. He catches you but maintains a distance. His only goal was to get you home because even though he hates you right now, he hates the thought of what could happen to you inebriated in this city at this hour more. You were already a file on someone’s desk. He didn’t want you to be one on his.

You smile widely up at him, your eyes glassy as marbles, and you kiss him full on the lips. He doesn’t kiss back, only shrugs you off him, heading toward the street and hailing a cab.

“Rafi, baby, why don’t you wanna kiss me?” you whine. “Wanted to kiss you all night. Want your hands all over me. Remember earlier? Please, baby.”

“You were kissing someone else,” he snaps harshly.

“What? No, I wasn’t,” you say, furrowing your brow, swaying a little.

“I refuse to believe you’re that drunk that you don’t remember what happened minutes ago,” he says as a cab pulls over. Rafael opens the door. “Get in.”

“No, honey, what are you talking about? I didn’t kiss anyone. Don’t wanna kiss anyone but you,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. The cab driver tsks, rolling his eyes.

“Get in the goddamn cab, (y/n),” Rafael says sternly. “You need to go home. We’re done.”

You don’t say anything, but he sees your face fall as you nod and oblige, staggering into the backseat of the cab. Rafael follows, closing the door behind him, telling the driver your address. It’s silent for a few moments until you turn to him. He can’t make out much in the muted lighting of the cab but he knows you’re on the brink of tears; your lower lip trembles and your eyes are glassier than they were outside the bar. “Rafi, baby, ‘m sorry. I don’ know what I did but I'm sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Like you don’t know what you did! You were all over Carisi all night!” he barks, and he’s startled by how guilty he feels when you finally do break out into hysterical tears. He’d known you were drunk, sure, but maybe you really were that intoxicated that you didn’t know why he was upset until now.

“Sonny and I are friends, Rafi. I don’t want to be with him. I only want to be with you,” you stutter in between sobs, grabbing his collar. “I’m sorry for...whatever you thought, but it’s not like that.”

There you are again, tugging on heartstrings he didn’t know he had as you tug on the fabric of his shirt. The pang in his chest now tells him no, that you weren’t done even if he wanted nothing more than to escape this hell you were putting him through. “Can you stop?” he says gently. “Stop crying. Shh.”

“But you’re mad at me,” you whine. “I don’t want you to be mad.”

“Then why would you do that?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t wanna pay too much attention to you because you don’t want them to know about us.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to make out with Carisi!”

“I didn’t. I know I would never do that. I love... I love being with you, Rafi, honey, and I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You sniffle and try to stop crying, snuggling against him the way he ached for you to at the bar. Ultimately he’s struck by how much you care and how much he cares in return. For all his talk of not wanting to get too close he sure as hell didn’t like the idea of you getting close to anyone else, either. And living like that wasn’t fair to either of you, was it? He’s reached an impasse. Either he has to stop keeping you at a distance or stop keeping you at all.

“Do you really wanna end it? Please don’t. I’m sorry. Please, Rafi,” you beg.

“You kissed him,” Rafael says irritably.

“Oh really? You’re acting like I fucked him in front of the whole bar. I kissed his cheek!”

“So you do remember.”

“But I don’t understand why you’re that mad! It doesn’t mean anything! We’re just friends!”

“Like I’ve never heard that one before,” he scoffs. “What were you trying to do? Hm? Make me jealous? Well, you can fuck right off with that, (y/n).”

“I wouldn’t do that! Why are you being such a jerk, Rafael?”

“Why are you acting like a goddamn child?” he asks and immediately regrets it as you start crying again. You’re not uncontrollable anymore, but you’re clearly hurt and you shrug away from him.

“I’m drunk and so are you,” you hiss. “So maybe we shouldn’t talk until the morning before we say more things we can’t take back.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he sighs tiredly.

Despite arguing professionally, Rafael could never win interpersonal spats, so he stopped trying. And some of his partners took it as if he didn’t bother to argue, then he didn’t truly care. One time his mother told him, “Buena suerte, mi hijo, if you think you can find somebody that doesn’t put you through hell,” after he’d ended yet another fling because they’d gotten into a fight Rafael didn’t see the point in resolving. Why should he make himself miserable because she felt slighted? Why should he have to apologize for saying words in anger that he obviously didn’t mean? Why should he have to give up any of his comforts for the other person? Why should you have to fight at all? Little disagreements were fine, he’d had those with you about cases and such, but there was no harm done in those. You both got over them and kissed and made up. But here and now, you were both hurt by each other’s words and actions, and there were tally marks etched on the chalkboard for a score to be kept between the two of you. Who would come out the victor? One of you would win, and the other would have to lick their wounds.

He’d seen it so many times before, his mother cowering down in front of his father, admitting fault and crying to herself as she did laundry or cooked. She always took the blame, even though he clearly was at fault in being the aggressor.

Suddenly, he realizes with horror that he is taking the role of his father in this situation. How many times had his father come home drunk, reeking of beer and cigarettes, hurling baseless accusations at his mother that she had been sleeping around? One time he had even asked if Rafael was his own son, which, nice try—Rafael was the spitting image of the elder Barba—but how different was Rafael right now? What was Rafael doing now other than fabricating stories in his head and reading more into looks and touches than he should have?

Jesus, he was far too drunk himself to be thinking about this now. All he wants is to go home.

But you don’t let him.

He walks you up to your apartment, and you leave the door open. “Please come in,” you say. “I don’t wanna talk tonight. Please just come to bed.”

“But—“

“Don’t argue with me anymore tonight. Save it for tomorrow,” you whine, slipping out of your heels, damn near falling until he catches you. “I don’t care what you say to me, Rafael, but I’m telling you neither of us is leaving. What we have is too good and you know it. No one’s going anywhere, honey. So come to bed. We'll figure it out tomorrow."

What a series of bold statements coming from the mouth that drank half her weight in liquor. He’s dumbfounded by how confident you are in them, but he supposes maybe it’s the alcohol itself that's giving you this unshakeable nerve.

Rafael can't help it, and he tightens his grip on your waist and kisses you harshly, tasting the sweetness of the orange and bitterness of the whiskey and the hints of salsa on your tongue as one of his hands threads in your hair. "You're mine," he growls.

"When did I ever say I wanted to be anyone else's?"

That's right, you hadn't. He’d only assumed, like the complete asshole he is.

-----

The light from your bedroom window bleeds in, waking Rafael up hours before he wanted to. It wasn’t often he had a Saturday he could sleep in and usually he took advantage of it, but your apartment is far too warm and he can't stay asleep. Memories of last night come back in fragments, and if the aching of his head is any indication, he had a few more than he should have last night. By the time you wake up, he's worried himself into oblivion. Were you going to smarten up and leave him?

“Mm. Good morning,” you say, looking up at him. “I’m never drinking again.”

Rafael chuckles. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” you whine.

“Do you...remember last night?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah. Are you still mad at me?”

“A little. But I’d understand if you were mad at me too. And I—“

“Okay. No. I need coffee first.”

“Mm. Woman after my own heart,” he says, and you smile, but it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. Had he already lost you?

You’re still clad in that goddamn dress as you get up, but it’s lost the glitter and glamor from last night, as now it’s wrinkled and askew, the fabric clinging to your right hip and giving him a peek of your ass before you pull it down on your way to open your bedroom door. You might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, even though you’re hungover, even though you have mascara tear-stained under your eyes, even though you’re both upset with each other. And isn’t that worth holding onto, even if you had your own circle of hell reserved just for him?

After both of you clean yourselves up a little, you’re brewing coffee and swallowing pills to relieve the aching in your heads. You lean against your counter, and Rafael stands awkwardly in the middle of your kitchen, stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Okay. So talk,” you say, handing him a mug when the coffee is done.

“I suppose I should apologize,” he says, sipping his coffee, wincing at the acidity. "My accusations were out of line. But you can’t be hanging off Carisi if we're going to do this. I'm not watching that.”

“Hanging off Sonny? Really?”

Rafael rolls his eyes. “What do you call it, then?”

“I was...maybe a tad more affectionate than was appropriate, Rafael, I’ll give you that. But Sonny’s my partner, honey. And I’m not going to stop being friends with him because it makes you uncomfortable that we’re that close.”

“I didn’t say that, did I? I’m not going to control that. But cool it with the kissing, okay? And you leaning up against him all the time, the flirting, all that bullshit? You’re not single just because they don’t know about us.”

You look at him, stunned. “I didn’t know you cared that much.”

“What?”

“You always seem so distant. I really didn’t think you got jealous like that,” you say, shrugging.

“I’m not jealous,” he scoffs. “I just don’t think that’s appropriate.”

“Mm.”

“You’re leading him on whether you realize it or not,” Rafael says. “So cut it out.”

“I am not leading him on, Rafael! Jesus Christ. You’re friends with Olivia. I don’t say shit.”

“Last time I checked I didn’t kiss her and drape myself all over her last night, did I?”

“Well, whatever. To be fair, I think we both know I wouldn't have been so affectionate if I was sober. I get like that when I'm drunk," you say, your face flushing. "I'd have kissed Amanda too if I was sitting near her.”

"Maybe you shouldn't drink so much, then."

"Maybe not. Trust me, I'm feeling it right now."

"I bet you are."

You grimace, rolling your eyes as you gulp your coffee. “Why did you have to go there, though? Threaten to end it? Jesus, I know you were drunk, too, but... that was completely unfair.”

"I know,” Rafael says, sighing. “I just...”

"Why can't you just admit that you hurt, Rafi?" you ask suddenly.

"W-what?" he stutters. "What does that even mean?"

"I know I don't know all your ex-lovers' names or even how many there are. And I don't need to know. But I know it wasn't just Yelina that hurt you and you need to stop letting that get in the way of us. I haven’t left yet. I’m still here. Rafael, I'm begging you: can you stop thinking of all the ways this can go wrong and just let it be? Jesus, I can feel the pounding in your head sometimes. You need to relax. Entiendes?”

“(Y/n)... I...” he trails off, at a loss for words.

“You don’t have to say anything. Come here,” you say, and you put your coffee down, hugging him tightly. “I know where all of that came from last night, and I get it. You’re in pain; anyone can see that, Rafi. But I’m not going to be punished for crimes I didn’t commit.”

“Of course not,” he murmurs as you pull away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re forgiven. Just relax, honey.”

Rafael reaches back for you, hugging you close, not so much because he needs the support but so you don’t see how close he is to tears. It’s something his abuelo used to say, something Rafael never quite understood when he was little: “Never trust a hug. It’s just a way to hide your face.”

Sure, he was mostly joking when he said it, because one of Rafael’s younger cousins, Néstor, was infamous for stealing jewelry from his abuelita, and he’d always hug his accuser so they didn’t see his guilty smirk. But in hindsight, he thinks maybe his grandfather was also warning him about his mother’s favorite defense mechanism - whenever Rafael asked about the screaming between her and his father, she’d give him the tightest hugs, and he’d hear her sniffling in his ear, but he never did see her cry.

Well. He understands it perfectly well now, because god forbid you see him this emotional over this. Rafael still isn’t used to this tenderness - is this what being loved feels like? It’s been so long, he doesn’t remember. Or maybe this was this just a conniving way for you to put him through hell? Get him to trust you, maybe even love you, only to pull the rug out from under his feet?

Could you really be that cruel?

“Rafi, you okay?” your voice cuts through; like it always does.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let you go until the heat behind his eyes fades, until he can make himself force a smile.

——

You are a fucking tease. He wonders how any man ever put up with it, although he thinks he may be the first man you reserved this torture for, and maybe he should be more flattered, that you feel this comfortable with him. But this? This was the very definition of cruelty. Apparently what you had done at the bar had only been a prequel to the hell you had in store for him.

He wants to quit his job if only to get away from you. He doesn't think he can handle it anymore.

You’d said that when you were ready to have sex, he’d know. Never in a million years did he think this was what you meant.

"You have sauce on your tie," you tell him as you're walking up to the courthouse. "I have that stain remover stuff in my purse. Let me take care of it."

"Oh, no, I know better than that," he laughs, but it's really not funny at all. "I have to present my case in fifteen minutes."

"That's enough time," you protest. "Come on, you really want to go up there with tomato sauce on your tie?"

He rolls his eyes, stopping you short by gripping your upper arm. "Given the choice between a stain and a raging hard-on, I'll take the stain," he growls in your ear. "I'm not playing your game today."

"Rafi..." you whine, and he hates you. He thought whining would be a turnoff, would be too juvenile but fuck, it goes right through him and shoves him right through the gates of hell, where he belongs. “Who said anything about that? I was just going to help you. Didn’t know you got excited from stain removal. I’ll bring you my laundry if you ever want to do it.”

"Shut up," he chastises, then looks down at his...spotless tie. He doesn't know what he expected. "Nice fabrication."

"I wasn't under oath," you say, blushing a little. He remembers the last time you'd told a little white lie a week ago, told him his suspenders weren't fastened correctly, and under the guise of helping him you'd gotten him completely riled, like he was twenty years younger, kissing him and feeling him up until he damn near took you on the couch in his office.

And then you left.

What the hell kind of game were you playing?

“I’m still charging you with perjury,” he snaps back, still holding your arm. “What was your plan, hm?”

“I plead the fifth,” you say, a brilliant grin playing on your strawberry lips. He wants to kiss you so bad, it takes all his strength not to.

“Of course you do, niñita.”

“I’m no little girl,” you say, stepping closer. He’s all too aware the two of you are outside the courthouse and the last thing he needs is for press or defense to see the two of you. He’s thankful he’s not on a high profile case.

“No, maybe not. But you’re definitely a bad one,” he says, letting go of your arm.

“Well, maybe you’ll have to punish me, papi,” you whisper, and then you’re leaning up to kiss him. A shiver runs down his spine - who had ever been able to get a reaction out of him like that? - and he damn near ravishes you right there.

But he can’t. He has five minutes now.

He pulls away, reluctantly, taking your hands from his shoulders and squeezing them in his own. “You’re awful,” he mutters, looking into your eyes. “Straight from the womb of Lilith.”

“Ooh. You wound me,” you say sarcastically as he lets you go and starts walking up the courthouse steps. You follow, and once you get to the courtroom you say, “Go get em, tigre.” And then you wink, straightening his tie.

“Do you ever stop, mujer?” he asks, exasperated.

“No rest for the wicked,” you snicker, pecking him on the lips.

He hates you so goddamn much.

---

“I’m working, (y/n),” Rafael mutters.

“You’re always working. You shouldn’t have taken on that other A.D.A.’s cases too. You deserve a break, honey. Let me give you one,” you say, moving closer to press your lips to his jaw. “We don’t have to go out tonight. I can cook something later.”

“What did I buy that dress for then, hmm?” Rafael wasn’t exactly in the habit of gifting things, but after seeing you in that green dress he decided you needed one like that in every color, and he started with a deep red number that he left by the door for you when you walked in his apartment. And, just like the green one, it caught his eye and pulled him from his work whenever you so much as moved.

“I think it’d look better on the floor,” you murmur. “Don’t you?”

“You’re killing me, (y/n),” he groans as he meets your eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I told you not to question me, Rafael—“

“Yes. I know. But I still want your consent.”

“So you are going to stop working?” you purr.

He chuckles. “You let me finish this paragraph and I’ll give you the attention you so clearly crave.”

“How long is that going to take, hm?”

“A lot longer if you keep talking,” Rafael snarks.

“Fine,” you say, and he foolishly thinks that is that, but you have other ideas, as always. Your lips attach to his jaw again, and normally he’d be able to work through that, but one of your hands slips down to stroke his thigh and he can’t even remember who this fucking email was for, never mind what it was about.

“You know it isn’t funny, right?” he asks, glaring at you.

“What, Rafi?” you ask, feigning innocence.

“Teasing me like that,” he says, finally closing the computer and placing it on the end table. He grabs you by the waist and pulls you on top of him, relishing in your squeal of surprise.

You laugh, squirming against his grip on you. He doesn’t let you get away, and pulls you down to kiss you roughly, his tongue dragging against yours as his hands tangle in your hair.

“You’re an awful woman.”

“Mm...so you’ve said,” you say, looking up at him, lust-blown pupils so wide that only a thin ring of iris can be seen. “What are you going to do about it?”

He doesn’t say anything, just kisses you deeply, again and again, moaning softly as he thrusts his clothed cock against you. “Mm, feel me? That’s what you’ve done to me all week.”

“What about what you do to me, papi?” You whimper. “How am I supposed to control myself, mm?”

“Talk about it,” he says, running his hands over your breasts. “Tell me, niñita, and maybe I’ll go easy on you. Make me a deal, cariño.”

“Mm. Love when you talk to me in Spanish,” you say huskily, leaning down to kiss him, trailing down his neck. “Mm, and then when you’re concentrating, you’ll cross your arms across your chest, and your sleeves are rolled up, and mm, all the muscles in your forearms flex, and I can see the veins in your hands bulge as you click your pen open and closed. Amanda makes fun of me for staring, but how can I help it, papi? And don’t even get me started on the suspenders, mm, love to pull on them when we’re alone in your office. Love when you kiss me like I’m your last meal on death row.”

He meets your eyes as you lift your head back up, groaning softly. God, hearing you put a voice to it... and then he kisses you just like that, letting go of any reservations he once had, his hands pulling up your dress as he rolls his hips against yours. “Mm, you’ve been a bad girl, though,” he whispers against your lips. “Letting them know you stare when we’re supposed to be working...”

“I can’t help it, papi,” you say pitifully, trying to grind against him and ultimately failing due to his grip on you.

He chuckles, pecking your lips. “So what do you want? I’ll give you whatever you want if you plead guilty.”

“Guilty to what?”

“Oh, you know what,” he says, running his hands over your now-bare thighs, squeezing your ass lightly, earning a moan from you. “Being a tease. Pulling me up short when I’m trying to work and putting me through hell with teasing me all week. What's your plea, niñita? We both know you're guilty, but I need you to admit it."

"Mm, and if I don't?" you ask, starting to unbutton his suit jacket before he takes your hands in one of his to stop you.

"Then I bring you back to your place."

“You drive a hard bargain, counselor,” you say, drawing your bottom lip in between your teeth. “Mm. I plead guilty to being so attractive that my boyfriend can’t keep his dirty hands off me when we’re supposed to be working,” you tease, smiling cheekily. You were like him, in some ways, sometimes, that brass ego shining through. Rafael knows more than anyone, though, that brass egos always serve to cover up deeper insecurities.

He laughs, drawing himself back to the present, kissing up your jawline to your ear, only to whisper, “Not what I said. Now, do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Your whole body shudders against him, and you suck in a breath as he sucks at your pulse point, your heartbeat racing wildly against his tongue. “Fine. I plead guilty to being a tease. Now for god’s sake, do something else, Rafi,” you whine. “Wanna feel you. Want you to make me feel good.”

“I think we need a change in location,” he says, more to himself than you, and carries you off to the bedroom, flicking on the light before laying you on the bed gently. You were a vision, that tight scarlet dress bundled up at your hips, giving him a peek of the black panties you wore underneath. He takes his suit jacket off, kicks off his shoes, staring at you the whole time. You stare back, blushing at the intensity of his gaze.

"Rafi," you whine. "Come over here."

He laughs. "Miss me already?"

"Need you."

"Well..you can't have these heels on my bed," he says, helping you take them off and then massaging up your legs until his hands are at the precipice of your thighs, your breathing rate audibly increasing as he reaches higher.

"Rafi. Please," you groan as he makes eye contact with you, starting to kiss back down all the skin he just touched. "Who's the tease now?"

"Oh, absolutely still you."

"Objection."

He chuckles against your thigh. "Yeah. See, the difference is I'm going to come back up here and give you what you want. You just leave after you rile me up."

"I had to go back to work,” you protest.

“Mm.”

“Are you actually mad at me? I can stop—“

“Oh, don’t you dare stop,” he says, kissing back up your other leg. “I get splitting headaches, and the interruptions help some.”

“Yeah, the aching goes somewhere else, huh?”

He chuckles. “Guess you could say that.”

“I didn’t want... I didn’t want the first time we had sex to be in the office,” you say. “I’m sorry if that’s what you thought—“

“No, I understand,” he nods, coming back up to kiss you on the lips gently. “I get it. I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t feel like I’m owed anything. Okay?”

“Okay,” you say, kissing him again. “I want to, now, though.”

“Ask and ye shall receive, princesa,” he says, riding up your dress even more to reveal a few inches of your stomach, kissing down to the hemline of your panties before taking them off. “Hermosa,” he breathes, staring at your pussy, already visibly slick from arousal. “Is it okay if I go down on you?”

“By all means,” you say. “If you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” he murmurs.

His tongue delves in, tasting you for the first time. You’re quiet at first, tentative, but as he starts to eat you out the way he kisses you: like a man on death row, as you had quipped, your moans become a chorus to edge him on. He teases you too, purposefully moving away from spots you’re more vocal at, only to be met by your fingers running through his hair and pulling at him, in any attempt to get him back over there. He can’t help but let out soft moans every time you pull hard. His hands reach up to squeeze your hips, and every so often he’ll look up to see your chest heaving, your face flushed. Sometimes your eyes would flutter close as you’d let out a moan, tugging at his hair. He can feel strands against his forehead - you’d broken through the gel he’d put in this morning. “(Y/n),” he grunts, slipping two fingers into you as his tongue swirls around your clit. “Mm, tan dulce...such a pretty cunt. Who are you so wet for? Hm?”

“Ohhhhh, fuck,” you moan, rolling your hips in a vain attempt to ride his fingers. “I think you can make a pretty good guess.”

“No,” he growls. “Tell me. Or I’ll stop.”

And to prove his point, he does - and he knows he’s being mean, verging on cruel, but there’s something about the way you’ve teased him all week that makes him think you’ll respond in kind to his edging. Besides, seeing you beg for him? His cock swells at the mere thought, never mind you actually doing it.

“Rafi, I was so close,” you whine.

“Then be a good girl and tell me who brought you there,” he whispers, his lips searing hot against your hipbone as he pulls his fingers out of you slowly.

“Fuck, fuck, it’s you, Rafael. Only you,” you say desperately, evidently realizing he’s serious. “Please. Please don’t stop.”

“Mm. Buena niña,” he murmurs, and with that he plunges his fingers back into your heat, pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit. “Didn’t take long for you to beg. Such a good girl, (y/n), just for me.”

You whimper, rolling your hips. “Need your tongue. Please.”

Rafael chuckles, but he obliges, swirling his tongue around your clit again and again as he scissors his fingers in and out of you.

“Rafi—I— I’m close,” you choke out as his tongue flicks over your clit a few times in quick succession.

“Good girl. Come for me,” he says, and he knows you’ve let go once your legs start shaking and your hand clenches into a fist in his hair. He laps up whatever you give him, his tongue licking broad strokes, and he has half a mind to think he brought you over the edge again.

Once he’s done, he comes back to kiss you, his tongue against yours, and you moan at the taste of yourself from his lips. “Rafi. Want you.”

“Fucking insatiable,” he chuckles. “Mm. Then why don’t you undress me?”

You reach up and make quick work of his tie, but the buttons on his waistcoat prove to be more difficult. “Oh my god, Rafi, I’m going to rip this fucking thing. You had to wear a three-piece today?”

“If you rip this, I’ll never speak to you again,” he says, half-kidding. “Maybe if you calmed down... what do you need?”

“I want to be good for you,” you murmur. “I don’t have the kind of experience you have and I—“

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he cuts you off and grabs your hand, placing it on his clothed, swollen cock. “You feel what you do to me even when you’re fumbling with my clothes?”

Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, as you keep eye contact with him and palm him through his pants, and he groans, pulling you on his lap and kissing you, harder than he thinks he’s kissed anyone in his life, or at least anyone recently. He finishes the buttons on his vest and unclips his suspenders, kissing you the whole time, and he helps you lift your dress over your head, unclasping your bra and cupping your breasts in his palms, running his thumbs over your nipples, relishing in how you shuddered at his touch. You help him shrug his dress shirt off his shoulders, and he lifts your hips to push two of his fingers in you. You whimper in his ear, probably still sensitive from coming so soon before.

“You still have too many clothes on, Rafi,” you protest, running your hands up his undershirt. God, your hands were smoldering against his chest. He doesn’t say anything as you pull the fabric of the shirt up. He knows he’s under your mercy now, and if he’s being honest, he likes the constant relinquishing and then gaining of control more than he thought he would.

Your hands run over his nipples a little too long, causing his breath to catch, and he tries not to let out a moan but he ultimately fails. You noticed everything, anyway. He would’ve been found out at some point.

“Mm? You like that?”

He nods wordlessly, and you lift the shirt over his head.

“Help me get those pants off you and I’ll give you what you want, papi,” you purr in his ear.

"What I want is to be in you,” he murmurs, as you pull down the zipper and unbutton them. Rafael places you on the bed gently, deciding to take them off himself and his boxers follow suit.

"What the hell, Rafael?" you ask, blushing.

"What?" he asks, suddenly self-concious.

"L-like no one ever told you that you’re packing," you stammer. "Now I know where that ego comes from."

"Shut up, (y/n)," he laughs, relaxing a little, and comes to lie down next to you again, kissing you gently, his cock throbbing painfully with anticipation. Then, you run your hands over his chest again, and pinch his nipples lightly, and he's a mess, moaning your name, running his hands up and down your waist as he comes to lie on his back.

"Mm, now I know what to do to get what I want," you giggle, your hair falling in your face and -- oh, your tongue swirls over his left one and every nerve ending in his body is on fire. This, the culmination to the hell week, it might be too much. He might actually die right here.

"(Y/n), please," he begs.

"What?" you ask, moving your mouth to the other nipple and your hand moves down to his cock, stroking him gently.

"You need--oh fuck, (y/n), fuck,” he pants. Not many coherent thoughts run through his head at this point.

"Words, Rafael," you say, your voice lowering an octave.

"I-- you need to stop, (y/n). Too good. Need to be in you now or I won't last," he chokes out.

You oblige. "We'll save that for another day," you chuckle, lying down next to him. "How do you want me?"

"Too many ways to count. But... do you want to ride me?”

“Sure, but you need to help me out first. It’s been a while,” you say, blushing.

"Anything you need," he says gently, motioning for you to lie on your back, his tip teasing at your clit before he pushes himself into you, a few inches and you're already whimpering. "You good?"

"Yeah. You can keep going."

Your hair is splayed across his pillow, your breasts tantalize him with each breath...god, he was never going to be able to get this sight out of his head. He's stopped short for a moment, looking at you. You look up at him and smile, and he smiles back, an intimacy there that’s maybe unprecedented.

It takes a few minutes before he bottoms out fully, your walls quivering against him.

“Mm, fuck, Rafi,” you moan, running your fingers over his nipples again, bucking your hips against his. His lips attach to your neck, sucking gently on your left side, careful not to leave a mark. “Help me get on top.”

He does as you say, and you’re tentative at first, needing some encouragement from him, but your body knows what it’s doing. He’s so horny and strung out from the week that anything could bring him over the edge.

It’s his fucking nipples that threaten to do it again, though, and he knows they’re going to be sore tomorrow from all your rough ministrations. He never had a woman be so enthusiastic about playing with them before, and it’s just another way you drive him absolutely insane.

“(Y/n), fuck!” he groans. “You have to stop.”

You pout, drawing your hands away from him, quickening your pace. He leans forward to press his thumb against your clit, eliciting his name from your lips over and over again.

“Mm. Take my cock so well, bebita, mm, buena niña,” he says under his breath. “Such a good girl for me. Mm. Come on. Get off on my cock.”

He meets you thrust for thrust now, and he can feel it before you can, your walls tighten against him, and in seconds he has you flipped over, driving into you brutally from that angle as you fall apart, high-pitched moans and heavy breaths falling from your kiss-bruised lips.

The clenching of your walls is enough to drive him over the edge, and he bites at your shoulder without thinking, the feeling too much as he spills himself into you. “Such a good girl,” he whispers, kissing and licking at the bite mark. “Mm... fuck.”

"Mm, try not to think about that when we're at work," you laugh and he groans, flopping down on the mattress, his face pressing into the pillow.

"You are going to be the death of me, cariño," Rafael says, laughing too.

But oh, what a way to go to hell.

Tags: @caked-crusader @thatesqcrush @law-nerd105

Want to be added to my tags? Let me know!

Next Chapter

Also I’d really appreciate feedback on this one since it’s my first time posting smut and I’m nervous ahhaha lol

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba #ada rafael barba #law and order svu #rafael barba x you #barba x you #law and order special victims unit #law and order: special victims unit #law & order svu #svu fanfiction #rafael barba fanfic #smut on a sunday I am going to hell omg #raul esparza

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adamwatchesmovies · 5 years

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Toy Story 4 (2019)

When they announced another, I was apprehensive but a few minutes in Toy Story 4, I recognized it as earnest and inspired. Turns out there was one more thing that needed to be addressed and this fourth chapter does it spectacularly.

Two years after Andy donated his toys to Bonnie (Madeleine McGraw), Buzz Lightyear (Tim Allen), Jessie (Joan Cusack), Rex (Wallace Shawn), Hamm (John Ratzenberger), Slinky Dog (Blake Clark), Mr. Potato Head (Don Rickles through from archival recordings), Mrs. Potato Head (Estelle Harris) and the Aliens (Jeff Pidgeon) get played with every day. They're happy but Woody (Tom Hanks) misses something. When Bonnie brings home Forky (Tony Hale), a toy she made out of garbage and who doesn’t understand his purpose, the cowboy believes he’s found what he needs to fill that void.

In the Toy Story films, we see a series that has done a lot of growing up technology- and story-wise. The backgrounds featured here are practically photo-realistic. The scenes of Woody and Forky navigating the dusty spaces behind shelves inside an antique store could've only been dreamed of in 1995. The camera movements are dynamic - perfectly matching the inventive action scenes, chases, and escape sequences which have become trademarks of this franchise. It’s got a lot of big laughs from old favorites and from Forky, who has a quasi-suicidal tendency that would be grim anywhere else but is hilarious here.

That's great. What puts this picture above your run-of-the-mill family entertainment is Woody’s story. Ultimately, his journey is about sacrifice, the purpose of life, and what it means to truly live and love. Some of it is so profound I wonder if it's too sophisticated for small children. Even as an adult, it stopped me dead in my tracks. As a follow-up to what we saw before, it's spectacular. This is what it’s all been leading up to, though we might not have seen it way back when. It's a little sad but it’s also deeply satisfying in the way few conclusions are.

The new characters introduced get you thinking about aspects of the toy world like never before, proving there's still much to explore. The film’s villain, an antique doll called Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks) is particularly interesting. She and her ventriloquist dummy goons are mega creepy. The film knows this and takes full advantage of it; never going too far because it’s also able to get some laughs out of them. The laughs throughout perfectly compliment the serious and tense moments.

Unlike most Pixar films (and recent Disney Animated films), Toy Story 4 isn't preceded by a short. It does, however, have a number of gags during the end credits. Stay for those and to gather your thoughts once the movie's over. It’s a joy to watch, a worthy fourth film. (Theatrical version on the big screen, July 10, 2019)

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nomadstevergxrs · 5 years

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Smooth

Pairings: Chris Evans x Latina!Reader

Word Count: 1580

Warnings: Mentions of Death, Angst, Unrequited love, Fluff (Teeny Bit)

A/N: This is part of @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan Marvel Play list. I got Smooth by Santana featuring Rob Thomas. I don’t have a beta reader to look into this so sorry if it sucks. More announcements at the end (might be a part 2).

December 2018, Bronx, NY

“I don’t think I can do this.” you muttered to yourself, looking up at the ceiling.

It had been five days since your grandmother passed away and you were still in complete shock. You had only spoken to three days before. She had been in the hospital for about a week due to her heart condition, but she had been released and was doing a lot better according to her doctor. So when news of her passing reached you while you in the middle of production of the movie you were working on, you thought it was a joke.

You felt the foot of the bed dip, “Come on Y/N,” Your co-star and best friend Chris said softly, patting your thigh, “You have to go. At least be there for your dad.”

You took one of the extra pillows beside you and pulled it over your head, a small part of you hoping that all of this was a terrible nightmare. You heard him sigh and get up from the bed, “I’ll meet you in the lobby.” You heard his footsteps fade away before hearing the door to your hotel room close.

You laid in bed for a few more minutes before finally forcing yourself off the bed and walked into the bathroom.

Chris Evans was a sweetheart. He had been your best friend for almost eight years. You had just moved to Los Angeles when you had been casted as an extra in Captain America: The First Avenger. You were a nervous wreck but he helped you through it and you both had been each other’s person to lean on. However you had both been cast in a movie where you play each other’s love interest and it’s making you face certain feelings that you had been trying to repress for a long time.

After taking a quick shower, you quickly got dressed in all black and headed down to the lobby and met up with Chris. Leaving the hotel, you both drove 25 minutes into the South Bronx in silence. As you were nearing the funeral home, reality finally hit you. It wasn’t a nightmare. You felt yourself start to get agitated when suddenly, you felt a large hand cover your free hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, “It’s okay doll.” He gave you a small smile, “I got you.”

Walking inside the funeral home, you were met with family member that you haven’t seen in years. After greeting everyone, Chris and you made your way over to your mom who was sitting on one of the couches.

“Hola ma.” You called out to her.

She snapped her gaze from the ground and onto you, “Y/N!” she rushed over to you in a flash and pulled you into a tight embrace, her hot tears soaking your leather jacket.

“How’s dad?” you asked her in English, wiping some of the tears from your eyes.

“Esta mal.” She answered back to you in spanish, “El estuvo en el hospital con ella y se le murió en sus brazos.”

You closed your eyes in agony, “Oh no.”

Steve looked at you with a quizzical expression on his face, “What did she say?” He asked.

“My dad….was in the hospital that night.” your voice trembled in response, “She died in his arms.”

“Oh my god doll, I’m so sorry.” he pulled you into a hug, and surprisingly, it felt nice.

You pulled away from Chris, then turned to look at your mom, “Voy a buscar a mi papa. Tu te acuerdas de Chris verdad?” you asked as she nodded.

“Hola papi.” She gave Chris a warm smile, “How are you?” She asked in her thick spanish accent.

You excused yourself from them and made your way through the throng of people that surrounded you before finally finding your dad, standing by the doorway greeting the other guests.

“Hey dad.” you gave the man with graying hair a big hug.

“Took ya long enough kiddo.” He gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

It broke your heart to see him in this position. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

He shook his head, “You got here as fast as you could kiddo.”

The rest of the day was a blur. It was as if your mind and body were on autopilot. By the time you had gotten back to the hotel, it was almost 11:30.

“Can’t wait to get back to my hotel room and pass out.” Chris said as you both stepped out of the elevator.

You stretched out your legs “Same here. Being cooped up in a SUV all day sucks.”

He let out a chuckle, “Yeah, Tell me about it.”

You both stopped outside your hotel room. “Well this is me.” You announced nervously.

“Okay.” Chris answered simply, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.

“Okay.” You said as he turned on his heel and walked down the hall.

You pulled your key card from your pocket and scanned it against the lock but before you can turn the knob to let yourself in, Chris called out to you, “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“If you need anything doll, you know I’m next door.”

“Roger that, Cap.” You winked at him playfully and for a split second you thought you saw his cheeks flush pink.

Stepping out of the shower, Chris grabbed a fluffy white towel and wrapped it around his waist. He quickly dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a gray t-shirt and fell back on his bed, turning on the tv and flip through the channels until something came up and sparked his interest.

He looked over at the clock on the bedside table and saw it was almost midnight. He shut off the television and before hearing a tune that he hadn’t heard in a very long time.

“Man, it's a hot one Like seven inches from the midday sun I hear you whisper and the words melt everyone But you stay so cool”

He hummed along to the music until he heard your voice singing along to the song.

“My muñequita, my Spanish Harlem Mona Lisa You're my reason for reason, the step in my groove

And if you say this life ain't good enough I would give my world to lift you up I could change my life to better suit your mood Because you're so smooth And it's just like the ocean under the moon It's the same as the emotion that I get from you You got the kind of loving that can be so smooth Gimme your heart, make it real, or else forget about it”

He was surprised at how well your singing voice was. Chuckling to himself, he propped himself up against the wall and closed his eyes, humming along to the soothing sounds of Carlos Santana.

“Fuck.” you muttered to yourself as you stood outside Chris’ hotel room, running your fingers through your hair, “What am I doing here?”

You paced up and down the hall for a moment before finally building up the courage to knock on his door.

“I should go.” You muttered to yourself, when suddenly the door swung open and Chris walked out looking down at you.

“Y/N?” He asked groggily, making you weak in the knees, “What’s wrong?”

“I uh…” you looked down at your feet, “I can’t sleep.” You looked up at him and gave him a nervous smile, “Can I spend the night with you?”

“Of course doll.” He replied, stepping aside and letting you in.

“You still thinking about your grandma?” He asked as he walked passed you to the other side of the room where the mini fridge was and pulled out two small brown liquor bottles.

“Yeah.” you let out a sigh, thanking him as he handed you one of the bottles.

Unscrewing the caps, you both made a quick toast and downed the shot.

“Man that’s strong.” You grimaced at the taste of the whiskey.

You stayed up for hours, talking to Chris about the memories of the sweet little old lady that helped you pursue your dreams.

Before you knew it, it was 4:30 in the morning, “I should get going.” You slurred as you got up from the couch but fell back down immediately, “God, I’m so drunk.” you let out a laugh.

“Maybe you should lie down Y/N.” Chris suggested as he grabbed of the extra pillows and handed it to you.

You took it and tossed it aside, feeling brave as you got up from the couch and walked towards him.

“Maybe…” you trailed off, looking up at him with your best attempt at a sultry look, “You should kiss me.”

Before he could open his mouth, you wrapped your arms around his neck and crashed your lips against his.

At first he was shocked, but then he kissed you back, before immediately he pushed you away.

“No!” Chris said in shock.

“Oh my god.” You sobered up fast, all the color draining from your face, “Chris I am so sor-”

He cut you off, “You gotta go Y/N.”

You nodded and quickly made your way out of his hotel room and made it back into your hotel room, slamming the door behind you and slid down to the floor, “Smooth Y/N…” you chastising yourself for being capable of doing so stupid, “Real fuckin’ smooth.”

A/N: I am so sorry that I haven’t been on tumblr lately. I’ve been going through a massive writer’s block and depression. I want to dedicate this story to my grandmother who passed away last month. She was the sweetest little old lady and I miss her so much.

Tags: @travelwithwords @becaamm @ktrivia@elivanah @justatranslation @tbetz0341 @raventt5-bb@canadiancoven @asimpleracoonqueen @queen-merc@evanstandream @a-court-of-stydia @loki7ms @mp8130 @lilasiannerd @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan@motleymoose @hello-sweetie-get-the-salt@notateenbeachmovie @hellkat2 @kirmt15 @shamvictoria11@yourtropegirl @basicallybucky @thefanficfaerie@jonsnowisnotdeadthough@animexchocolate @westoftheglass @feelmyroarrrr @maris-astrum @heir-of-light-33 @labyrinth-of-storylines @dirajunara-archive @danijimenezv @heather-lynn @ariallane @princess-evans-addict @elfwriter1088 @sebbytrash @crazyliraz@onebigfangirlworld @erinvanlyssel @buckys-other-punk@musichowler @lady-thor-foster @meatballevan @bionic-buckyb @aprofoundbondwithdean @therealsabalicious @fly-little-butterfly @deanmon-winchester-666 @madhattervanessa@the-most-handsome-ginger

If anyone wants to be on or off the taglist. Please shoot me a message!

#Chris Evans #Chris Evans x Latina!Reader #chris evans angst #star's marvel playlist #I write stuff

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lauralikesbaking · 5 years

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Feedback on my short story?

Hello! So as a writing exercise I wrote a short story based on one of my secondary characters to understand the character more and now I have a completely different character than the one I started off with. And now I’m hoping to get some feedback on the character and my writing style.

The short story just mainly follows the inner dialogue of the character, Jack Drummond. He’s the lead singer of a band and he’s supposed to be writing music but he’s having a bad bout of writer’s block and anxiety. His label creates a contest - Jack is going to pick a fan with an original song the fan wrote and produce it in his studio. It goes into his back story of how he became a musician and a certain gay love interest, and why he chooses the winning song.

The book I’m writing is going to follow the contest winner’s point of view - this is like a prequel to that. The book is going to focus on how music production works and what it’s like to work up close and personal with your favorite band.

Anyway please and thank you in advance!!

Shit. Shit. Shit. Absolute shit.

Jack Drummond was lying on his back on his old leather sofa, cradling his laptop between his stomach and his thighs. Scattered around him, stuck in between the cushions and on the floor, were various open bags of beef jerky and peanut m&ms. A couple of empty cans of Monster energy drink were on the coffee table beside him.

Jack had lost count of how many nights he had spent in the studio. He was trying to force himself to write something, anything. It had been over two months and he hadn’t been able to write a single lyric, melody, or even a decent beat to work off of. He was sifting through his library of saved voice memos on his computer, hoping something would spark inspiration. He had over 500 tracks of recorded material, and he had so far been unsuccessful..

So much fucking shit.

His voice memos contained different melodies, drum beats, harmonies and various compositions that had come to him on the fly. Scores and instrumentals he drafted while he grocery shopped. There were harmonies inspired by a flock of sparrows nesting in the trees who called out to each other. Composed guitar riffs and percussion to match the beat of his nervous energy while sitting in interviews. He’d be on the toilet in the middle of the night and find that his hands would be tapping out a rhythm. It never seemed to matter where he was, or what he was doing, or what time it was - there was always music in his mind.

For the last two months however, his mind had been quiet. His normally restless hands remained steady at his sides. His knees didn’t bounce when he sat. He wasn’t walking to the pace of the half formed song. There wasn’t a soothing lullaby in the back of his mind either to lull him to sleep. He was no longer overwhelmed by the music notes no one else could hear. His brain remained stoically and numbingly silent.

Jack reached the last voice memo. A jarring, pop beat played out from his speakers and just as soon as it started playing, he hit the spacebar, cutting off the music. He groaned, rubbing his hands over his eyes that were sore from staring at his computer screen from too long. He had listened to all 500 recordings he had made over the last three years and every single one of them were absolute crap.

He was supposed to be working on demos for a new album. Now that the Archives cycle was over, he was due to hand in 10 to 12 new songs in a year and a half from now. Usually, around this time after the last cycle had ended, he would have handed in five, different sounding demos. His label would then approve the ones they liked and would tell him to write more like them. By now, he should have already had ideas lined up that he had thought of while he was way on tour during the long bus commutes from city to city. He had some half assed ideas, but when he recorded them listened to them, he’d just as soon as scrap it.

His band mates suggested that he’d take some time to do some solo research and travel to a couple of cities famous for music. He decided on the U.K., hoping the country’s old rock sounds and history of producing world famous bands like the Beatles and Queen would give him inspiration. He toured all the old famous recording studios; Abbey Studios, Olympic Studios, and Trident Studios. He visited the venues and cafe’s where The Who had first played at. He browsed through vintage record shops and scored a couple of rad guitars that he couldn’t wait to play around on. He even went as far to travel to Scotland, but the only thing he gained from that trip was a severe hangover after being challenged by a local to a drink off in the pub. It turned out the pub had a fun time tricking Americans into drink offs, get them completely wasted, and then take their photo and add it to their “Make Americans Drunk Again” Wall of Fame. Jack returned home to the states with two new guitars, a severe headache, and still no new ideas.

He dreaded the meeting between him and the label when he returned. He knew that once he explained to the label he still hadn’t thought of anything new, they would threaten to let him go. There was no point for a label to continue to support a musician who couldn’t produce music.

Instead, the label had suggested the fan contest. For one week, Jack would work with a fan one on one with the fan’s original song and produce it in his studio. Jack wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of having a fan shipped out here. It wasn’t that he despised or was afraid of his fans, even if he’d get the uncomfortably personal question at almost every meet and greet, or the time he was gifted a handmade doll of himself made with the fan’s own hair. He loved his fans, and he was grateful for their unyielding love and support of the band. It was himself he didn’t trust. He was afraid that he would disappoint the fan, that the fan would show up, eager to produce their song and Jack still wouldn’t have any fresh new ideas. The winning song is supposed to be released digitally at the end of the week of the fan’s stay, and if those digital sales and streams tanked, it would be Jack’s fault.

. The contest was a good idea. Sometimes working outside of your own work to someone else’s sound sparked creativity. But he also knew the contest was the label’s last ditch effort to get him writing again. If he didn’t, then Jack would know for certain; he would be done. He’d be Jack Drummond, former lead singer of the band 5 Years From Now, officially washed up at 27 years old.

Jack ran a hand over his tired face, feeling the scratchy stubble that had started to grow across his chin and jawline. It had been over a month since he bothered to shaved. He didn’t have any gigs, music videos, photoshoots or interviews he had to prepare for. He wasn’t supposed to be assigned to one for a while anyway. He was supposed to be using the time away to write music.

With an exasperated sigh, he closed out of his iTunes library and opened up Twitter. He ignored the hundreds of notifications he would get daily from fans tagging him in posts. In the search bar, he typed in #5YFNMYSONG. The page reloaded and displayed all of the fan entries, from most popular to most recently uploaded. The contest had closed a few days ago, but fans were still submitting entries.

Jack was responsible for picking a winner. Each of his band members and his team at the label were helping him sort through the entries, but in the end Jack would have the final say. The problem was there were literally thousands of entries. Word had spread about the contest, and aspiring musicians from all across the country were entering. The entries had a wide range of aged contestants, the youngest he had seen being about ten years old to contestants in their 20s.

They couldn’t help but remind him of his time in Hollywood when he was on Great American Voice, the country’s singing competition. There were thousands of people who had tried out over the course of the few days he was there. They had driven from all over the tri-state area. There were people of all ages, which had surprised Jack since the show had only ever cast competitors ranging between mid teens to mid twenties. There were little kids dragged in by their parents who hoped to make money off by sticking them in front of cameras. There were adults who hoped to at long last chase their dream of pursuing music. And everyone he talked to had a deeply personal, traumatic, backstory; one girl had been abused by her father up until she was 13 years old; an 18 year old boy suffered from severe bouts of depression. There was another girl who had at last minute decided to enter because she wanted to make her recently departed mother proud. These were the type of contestants who got film time with the celebrity judges, and that was when Jack realized what they were doing. They were using their trauma, deaths, mental disorders, any type of leverage they could to get themselves filming time with the celebrity judges.

Several fans who uploaded videos to his contest were doing the same. They would spend a few minutes before performing their song to explain their own backstories of depression, anxiety, death of a loved one, abuse, and other various traumatic experiences, and how music has helped them become stronger. He wanted to believe their stories. But he wasn’t interested in selecting a fan just because it was their parent’s dying wish. If they were talented on top of their tragic backstory, then great. But Jack needed someone who was both talented and sparked his own creativity.

Truthfully, Jack hated singing competitions, and he despised the fact that this fan contest was essentially just another form of one. At least this way, he could just choose one person and be done with it. He knew first hand the true toxicity of reality competitions. It had been over ten years since he was on Great American Voice, but the memories still burned in his mind.

It was difficult from the start. In the beginning he was sectioned off into group harmonies with contestants who thought they were better than everyone else and tried to take charge. Those first few weeks of group harmonies and group performances were tests to see how well you collaborated with the other contestants. The test was designed to make you feel uncomfortable. Really, they were just picking out anyone who succumbed to the stress early on and send them home.

As Jack advanced through the weeks, he found each week was always harder than the last. There was constant pressure to sound great, look great, and be great. You had to convince the judges and the fans each week to vote you back for the next round. It didn’t matter if he nailed Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” last week. If you got a bad review from one of the judges, it could cost you your spot on the show. Soon sounding and looking great weren’t enough. There was always something new added each week. Photoshoots, interviews, and costume fittings. Charities, children hospital visits, school visits, parade appearances and sponsorship commercials. And you were still expected to do four to five hours of vocal rehearsals. The schedule was endless.

By the time Jack was finished with the show he had lost about 15 pounds and was struggling with episodes of insomnia and depression. Jack thought he’d be relieved when he was kicked off the show. He could finally sleep in. He could finally eat whatever he wanted and not what his vocal coaches and stylists told him to avoid. He could finally relax from being under the spotlight, from being picked apart week from week by his stylists, the publicists, the judges and from the public. He didn’t have to be followed by camera crew from the moment he woke up to when he lay his head down to rest in the evening.

But he wasn’t relieved. He’d lay awake at night, angry that he had come so far in the competition, and with a single vote, he was kicked off. He had developed his own sound on the show. He loved working on new covers each week with his production team, and each Friday night he couldn’t wait to get on stage and show everyone what he had been working on. But the show had left him high and dry. He beat himself up, blaming himself for not being good enough to make it to the next round. He self critiqued constantly, watching and rewatching his performances, trying to figure out where he went wrong, and what he could have done better. The sickening truth was, he wasn’t done being in the spotlight. He wanted it more.

When he made the decision to stay in L.A. after the Great American Voice LIVE! Tour concluded, he jumped right back into the music scene, scoring a small one album record deal with Kathoulos Records. But that had been a mistake. Right before the album was supposed to released, the label was taken over by new management and dropped Jack and his band. The label refused to sell them back the rights to their album and the album was never released.

The days following the label drop crept from Jack’s memory like a slow, sinking infestation. The black, bleak days when he continued to make desperate attempts to get resigned by a label. The swell of bitter disappointment of doors slamming in his face over and over again; the paranoia of over hearing security guards murmuring into their ear pieces. The nights he spent stumbling through bars and dark alleys in a dizzy, drunken hazes…

He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. He counted to four and exhaled slowly through his mouth. The flashbacks were coming at him more often now that his mind wasn’t distracted with constantly writing music. It was why he was so desperate to get back to writing music. When his mind was silent, everything else he suppressed began to resurface. Each night he lost more sleep, and each night it would whisper in his ears, reminding him of who he used to be. Who he still could be. They would become louder and more insistent as the days and nights blended together. He heard it now as he struggled to slow down his heartbeat, quickly rising into panic. He needed to get back to writing music, and soon.

Not all of his memories from those years were bad. He still talked with his vocal coaches from time to time. His real saving grace during those first few months was his hotel roommate, Danny, a boy his age from Mississippi. They had become fast friends when they discovered they had a bunch of shared interests - music, movies, online gaming. Jack had never become so close with someone so quickly. Maybe it was just the pressure of the competition, and it was his own selfish desires to meet someone who wasn’t trying to sabotage his performances. When Danny and Jack had both made it to the top ten, they had celebrated by sneaking cheap champagne into the hotel room. They had gotten deliriously drunk and were jumping on their beds belting Queen. Danny had hopped from his bed to Jack’s, tackling Jack on to his back. As they lay there, laughing and out of breath, he had noticed the precise shade of green Danny’s eyes were. Clover green with specks of silver, like morning dew sparkling in the sun. The way his heart had pounded in his ears.

Jack forced his attention back to his computer, yanking himself out of the memory. He refused to let himself go back there.

He scrolled through the entries. Twitter automatically displayed the most popular entries first, and then the most recently added. Right now, the fan favorite was a girl from Tennessee named Missy Maeve, the red headed version of Ariana Grande, except instead of singing about goddesses and ninety nine problems, Missy Maeve sung in a strong country voice about being true to yourself in a world of fake media. She stared confidently into the camera, pouring all of her energy into the performance.She had spared no expense in creating her video, using professional cameras and lighting, and had an entire back up band performing behind her as she danced around on stage with her long red ponytail swinging hypnotically behind her.

Right away, Jack knew she wasn’t the one. He had seen these types of artists before. They may have sounded and looked good, but at the end of the day, they weren’t connecting with the music. They’d be more focused on how they looked and sounded to other people. A real musician didn’t care about performing; he played music for the sake of music. He didn’t give a fuck who listened. He also would rather be caught dead than write a fluff piece about being true to yourself.

There were several decent entries, but none of them had what Jack was looking for. Jack wasn’t even sure if it existed in other musicians. He was searching for the moment when the musician was no longer a musician. It was those moments he felt himself, when he became so in tune with the music itself that reality fell around him. He’d forget he was on stage, performing in front of hundreds or thousands of fans. The music would fill him so completely, it was like he was the music. Every time he performed like that, it would leave him shaking and exhausted. It was the best kind of high.

He sifted through the videos. He felt guilty knowing he couldn’t possibly watch all of them. There were just so many. His label assured him not to worry about watching them all. The label was responsible for looking at the numbers - meaning who ever had the most likes and views. The band was free to look through them at their convenience, just as long as he had an ideal entry picked out by tomorrow.

There were a lot of good videos - too many good ones, in fact. A lot of the fans showed off their riffing skills, as if that was the one vocal skill that proved how well of a singer they were. Jack secretly despised artists who used too much riffing in their songs. It always sounded like the artist was trying to say “look at me! Look out amazing I am at singing! No one else will be able to copy these incredibly complex arrangement of riffs because I’m so amazing!” There were artists who tried to over compensate with autotune, which he detested more than any other sound engineering tool. It always felt like cheating. If you can’t hit the note, why bother pretend you can?

Jack continued to click through the entries. There were just as many bad ones as there were good ones. There were fans who recorded with voices too flat, or too sharp. They were monotonous, or pitchy. Some hadn’t even tried to submit an original song and sang a cover of one of his song. It was almost always his song, “Perfect Chasers” that he had written about the toxicity of perfection and his own personal addictions. Even though it had been years since he released it, it continued to be a fan favorite.

He kept sifting through hoping a song would jump out at him or he’d find an artist with unique vocals. He kept checking the time. 12 hours before he had to pick someone. Then it was 9. Then it was 6. Jack shifted his weight, so he was lying on his side curled up and had his computer sitting on the coffee table and continued to scroll with his wireless mouse. The couch perfectly cradled his thin form. His eyes burned from the white light of the endless scrolling through Twitter…

“DUDE!”

Jack jumped awake. The bright lights of the studio blinded him. He blinked away the the thick eye crust coating his eyelashes. He made out a silhouette standing in front of him.

“Huh?” Jack mumbled.

“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” said the silhouette that Jack recognized as Cody, his guitarist. “The meeting with the label is in a half hour.”

“Shit.” Jack sat up. The room spun around him for a moment and stars popped into his vision. His neck and back was sore after another night of sleeping on the couch. He grabbed his phone to check the time. It was dead.

“Did you pick someone?” Cody asked.

“Um…” Jack couldn’t remember. He saw him computer still sitting on the table. He reached over and tapped the keyboard. The screen lit up and showed all of the Twitter entries he had been looking through. He had gotten deep into scrolling through the entries last night. He was almost at the end of the list.

“Yeah,” he lied.

“Cool. Get ready, the guys and I are out back.” Cody left.

When he was gone, Jack groaned and leaned into his hands. Taking a moment to gather himself, he breathed in deeply. He figured he got maybe three or four hours of sleep. His head ached, rebelling against him for the lack of sleep. After a few slow deep breaths he got up and washed his face and brushed his teeth in the studio bathroom, ignoring the dark shadows under his eyes that matched the shadow of his beard.

When he finished he sat back down at his computer. He still had to choose someone. At this point he didn’t care if they were bad. He couldn’t show up empty handed. He randomly chose a name, scrawled it on a piece of paper and tucked it into his jeans.

Jack climbed into the backseat of the bassist player, Mark’s truck. He slid in next to Brendon, the band’s drummer..

“Good morning, sunshine,” Mark called back to him from the driver’s seat. “You enjoy sleeping in?”

“Mhm, right.” Jack mumbled, if you counted barely sleeping at all as sleeping in.

Brendon looked at him. “You kinda look like hell man,” Brendon said, concerned. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. Brendon handed him a pair of sunglasses.

Out of everyone in the band, Jack had known Brendon the longest. They had gone to grade school together and form a band after Jack finished on Great American Voice. Jack was close with all of the guys, but Brendon was always the one who somehow understood Jack and noticed all of Jack’s warning signs. Like right now.

Jack gratefully accepted the sunglasses.

Thank God for coffee, thought Jack as he filled a styrofoam cup.

At the label meeting, everyone was going around the room, pitching their chosen contest candidates. Someone mentioned Missy Maeve and Jack immediately shot it down, claiming if he had to write a bubble gum pop country song, he’d cut off his ears.

Each of the guys in the band got a turn to present someone. Jack waited to go last, since he technically didn’t pick out anyone in specific. He trusted his band, and hoped they would find someone decent enough to produce for that wouldn’t want to make him chuck himself over a cliff. Each band member played the video and explained why they chose it. Their reasons were good and valid, but despite the talent presented, none of them inspired Jack. He had been betting on one of the guys would find someone for him.

“Alright then Jack,” the label manager asked, swiveling his chair towards Jack. “Who did you pick?”

Jack swallowed the lump his throat. “Yeah, I’ve got someone. Her name is…” He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and read the hastily scrawled note. “...Robin Jones.” He walked up to the front of the room to the computer that was projected onto the pull out screen. He searched for her name in Youtube. Her video came up as the 7th result on the page.

Christ, she only has 6 views. Jack kicked himself. Why didn’t he bother to check the view count? He hit play. Please don’t suck, please don’t suck.

The video began with a blurry close up of blonde hair. The camera refocused as Robin leaned back from the camera. She was sitting at a baby grand piano. Around her were music stands, stage risers, and a variety of other instruments were stacked up against the wall. She looked like she was recording from a high school band room.

The girl cleared her throat and stated to the camera, “Hi. My name is Robin Jones. I am 18 years old. I am from Boston, Massachusetts and this my original song, Candle Light.” She turned to the piano, a curtain of blonde hair falling in front of her face. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath. Then she began to play.

She was nervous. Her movements were slow, calculated and careful. The notes began higher on the scale, and then steadily dropped into lower notes as she began to quietly sing the first verse.

“When did it begin?

Couldn’t you tell me where the start of it ends?

Cause I got caught in the light.

Yeah, it was too damn bright.

It left me blinded, just for you.”

She sang in a soft, lower register, which surprised Jack. He thought by the tone of her voice, she would have sung higher. But she was good. Thank God.

Her voice shook slightly through the first chorus. It wasn’t until she broke into the second verse, he noticed a shift in her performance. Her voice grew stronger, and she tucked the hair that had curtained off her face behind her ear. Jack found himself nodding along with the gentle rhythm of the song.

I had to take the long

way home, did you know I barely survived

I couldn’t see how and I,

Couldn’t see why after all this time

the goodbye still hurts you more.

Jack almost paused the video on that last line. It stood out to him. It was a good, subjective line that he liked to use in his own music. It was one of those lines he knew came from her specific experience, but it could relate to anyone. It could relate to him. It did relate to him. The goodbye still hurts you more. Jack knew exactly just how it related to him.

Memories of Danny popped back into mind. He saw Danny standing to the side of the stage with everyone else advancing, crying when Jack was voted off. He saw Danny fight with him at the end of the Great American Tour when he didn’t want to move back out to L.A. with Jack. The look on Danny’s face when Jack spit harsh words out of anger and regret. He saw himself a month later, staring at his phone, wishing Danny would just fucking text him back. Danny and his stupid, morning dew green eyes.

The harder lessons are learned

When you see the scars are from the burn

Wish I wasn’t so afraid to believe

That there could still be so much more.

There was Danny was again in the last line. Robin was good with her lyrics.

She launched into the chorus with a change of confidence. She sang with a soulful vibrato. Her eyes were closed as felt her way through the song, her fingers finding the right keys on their own. Her performance looked effortless, but Jack could tell she was pouring everything inside of her into the music.

Her fingers danced across the keyboard, racing towards the bridge. Robin’s entire body rocked along with the rhythm. Suddenly the song tapered off to the quiet notes from the beginning of the song.

I could for now, just stay where I am

Though I still don’t know how this all ends.

Until then I’ll hold on to a little light

So one day you might find me again.

When she finished, she rested her hands on the keys, drawing in a few deep breaths. Her hands dropped so suddenly from the keys, like someone had caught her playing when she wasn’t supposed to. Robin turned back towards the camera and leaned in to end the video.

There was silence in the room. Jack was holding his breath, waiting for someone to respond.

“Well,” the assistant manager started. “She has a nice voice, but -”

“This one,” Jack interrupted. “I want this one.”

His manager looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “You want this one? A romance song?”

Jack was equally surprised. What was he doing? He doesn’t write romance. He doesn’t even like songs about romance. And the memories that she pulled from the back of his mind should have given him enough of a reason not to pick this one. And yet, it had slipped out. He wanted this song.

Jack looked to his bandmates for their confirmation. He wasn’t about to make a decision without them, especially when it involved all four of them. They looked between the three of them, silently discussing the song. After a few moments, and some shrugging, Brendon nodded to Jack.

“Yeah,” Jack said. He cleared his throat. “She’s got a great voice, and the song sounds a little different from most romance songs I’ve heard. I think maybe the lyrics could use a little help, and I think if we put in some percussion with some better acoustics - “ Jack caught himself. He almost didn’t notice the click in his brain. It was like suddenly he turned on a light. Or lit a candle after the power had gone out. His was brainstorming. He was writing.

At that moment he knew for a fact - this was the winning song.

He looked around the room, waiting for everyone’s opinion. They exchanged glances, debating.

Finally, the manager stood up. “Alright, I guess that’s it then. We’ll go with…” He squinted his eyes, looking up at the project screen. “...Robin Jones. Tomorrow we’ll go live with the announcement.”

The meeting concluded. Everyone started packing up. Jack let out a breath of air he didn’t realize he was holding.

The guys approached him.

“So...romance now, huh? Didn’t know you had such a soft spot all of the sudden,” Cody remarked, smiling.

Jack shook his head, just as surprised as they were. “I guess maybe I need to start looking into the romance writing genre.”

“Hah, yeah man.” Brendon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good to have you back man.”

Jack gave him a smile of thanks.

When he got home, he pulled up Robin’s song again and rewatched it, beginning the process of drafting different types of instruments and background sounds he could add to the song. The ideas came easy, and he could feel something in him relax. He was relieved. He was writing again.

The song had resurfaced those memories of Danny that he fought for so long to forget. Some part of him still thought he was insane to want to work on this song. But another part of him, the part that he had shared with Danny all those years, demanded him to work on this song, and it refused to be ignored. He felt a nervous tingle in the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but the song had given that part of him a new, stronger voice. And it was screaming at him.

Jack continued to write.

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papermoonloveslucy · 7 years

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LUCY GOES HAWAIIAN: PART ONE

S3;E23 ~ February 15, 1971

Directed by Jack Donohue ~ Written by Milt Josefsberg, Ray Singer, and Al Schwartz

Synopsis

Harry takes an usual job as a cruise director and recruits Lucy to be his unpaid assistant. Also on board are her kids and her old friend Vivian Jones (Vivian Vance). A shipboard rivalry erupts when Lucy and Vivian are both attracted to the handsome Captain (Robert Alda).

Regular Cast

Lucille Ball (Lucy Carter), Gale Gordon (Harrison Otis Carter), Lucie Arnaz (Kim Carter), Desi Arnaz Jr. (Craig Carter)

Guest Cast

Vivian Vance (Vivian Jones) was born Vivian Roberta Jones in Cherryvale, Kansas in 1909, although her family quickly moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico where she was raised. She had extensive theatre experience, co-starring on Broadway with Ethel Merman in Anything Goes. She was acting in a play in Southern California when she was spotted by Desi Arnaz and hired to play Ethel Mertz, Lucy Ricardo’s neighbor and best friend. The pairing is credited with much of the success of “I Love Lucy.” Vance was convinced to join the cast of “The Lucy Show” in 1962, but stayed with the series only through season three, making occasional guest appearances afterwards. This is the fourth of her half a dozen appearances on “Here’s Lucy.” She also joined Lucy for a TV special “Lucy Calls the President” in 1977. Vance died two years later.

This is Vivian’s sixth cruise. She is unmarried.

Robert Alda (Captain MacClay) originated the role of Sky Masterson in Broadway’s Guys and Dolls, winning the 1951 Tony Award. He is the father of Alan Alda of “M*A*S*H” fame. He made one appearance on the “The Lucy Show,” and this is his final appearance on “Here's Lucy.” Alda died in 1986.

Jean Byron (Mrs. MacCLay) is probably best remembered as Natalie Lane, mother of Patty Duke on “The Patty Duke Show” (1963-66) as well as well as Imogene Burkhart on “The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis” (1959-63). This is her only appearance with Lucille Ball.

The surname MacClay is a tribute to Lucille Ball's long-time publicist Howard McClay, who also loaned his name to characters on “The Lucy Show.” The end credits, however, spell 'McClay' as 'MacClay.'

Anita Mann (Wendy) was assistant to the series' choreographer Jack Baker. This (and Part Two) are her only appearances of record on the show. She later choreographed for the Solid Gold Dancers and the Muppets. Mann won an Emmy Award for her work in 1996.

Mann plays a bikini-clad blonde that Craig befriends aboard ship. Although credited as 'Wendy,' she is not identified by name in the dialogue.

Maurice Kelly (Sailor) was an English-born actor who played a student in “Lucy and Viv Take Up Chemistry” (TLS S1;E26). This is the second of his three appearances on “Here’s Lucy.” He died at the young age of 46 in 1974.

The ship's passengers and crew are played by uncredited background performers:

Nick Borgani appeared with Lucille Ball in the 1937 film Stage Door and in one episode of “The Lucy Show.”

Paul Bradley made his six appearances on “The Lucy Show” in various roles. This is the second of his two episodes of “Here’s Lucy.”

George DeNormand appeared in three films with Lucille Ball from 1937 to 1963. This is just one of his many appearances on “The Lucy Show” and “Here’s Lucy.”

James Gonzales was a popular Hollywood extra who first acted with Lucille Ball in the 1953 The Long, Long Trailer. He was previously seen on “The Lucy Show” as Stan Williams in “Lucy Digs Up a Date” (TLS S1;E2). He was seen in more than 20 episodes of “The Lucy Show” and 3 episodes of “Here’s Lucy.”

Chester Jones makes the last of his four background appearances on “Here’s Lucy.”

Paul King makes the third of his five background appearances on the series.

Victor Romito was seen as the Bartender in “Lucy Meets John Wayne” (TLS S5;E10). He also appeared in four episodes of “Here’s Lucy.” Romito was an extra in the 1960 Lucille Ball / Bob Hope film Critic’s Choice.

Bernard Sell was an English-born background player who made three appearance on the “The Lucy Show.” He was also an extra with Lucille Ball and Bob Hope in their films The Facts of Life (1960) and Critic’s Choice (1963).

This episode was first aired on February 15, 1971, which was Mary Jane Croft's 55th birthday. Although not in this episode, Croft will make her tenth of thirty appearances when the program resumes production for season four.

The final draft of this script is date March 30, 1970. A copy was donated by the estate of writer Milt Josefsberg to the Thousand Oaks Library’s American Radio Archives.

Coincidentally, March 30, 1970 also saw the first broadcast of an episode of “Mayberry RFD” titled “Aloha, Goober”! In it, Goober’s Mayberry service station is competing to win a trip to Hawaii.

The title of the episode(s) was doubtless inspired by the 1961 feature film Gidget Goes Hawaiian starring Deborah Walley. Walley would later be a regular on Desi Arnaz series “The Mothers-in-Law” (1967-69). The film also features a character named Lucy (played by Vivian Marshall).

Originally, the two episodes were to be filmed aboard the actual SS Lurline and on location in Hawaii. When costs proved prohibitive, Lucille Ball Productions had a three-quarter scale model of the ship built on the Paramount lot. At the time, it was the second largest ship ever built at the studio. The sets occupied three sound stages. It even included a real swimming pool!

These two episodes were a single-camera shoot and filmed without a live studio audience. Establishing shots of the ship and some dockside location shots were also used.

Hawaii was a favorite getaway destination of the Arnaz family. The Season 3 “Here’s Lucy” DVD contains home movie footage of the family (and friends like Mary Wickes) vacationing together in Hawaii.

In 2007, Lucie Arnaz remembered their trips to Hawaii fondly:

"It was before my parents were divorced and the time when they were at their happiest. No arguing, no work to take them away, and they just loved being there and with each other.”

The SS Lurline was a real ship sailing from California to Hawaii for the Matson Steamship line from 1932 to 1963, when it was sold to the Chandris Lines and re-christened the RHMS Ellinis. The Matson Line then brought the Matsonia (first known as the Monterey) out of retirement and re-christened it the Lurline, keeping the historic name alive in their fleet. The Lurline sailed her last voyage under this name in June 1970, before being sold to Chandris and re-christened Britanis. During the 1980s it was briefly the oldest cruise ship in service. The vessel underwent one more name and ownership change before being deliberately sunk in 2000 after nearly 68 years at sea.

The episode incorporates some establishing locations shots of the Lurline departing from San Francisco with the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.

There is also a location shot of Lucy standing on the dock taking photographs, although this is probably a double for Lucille Ball. With the distance, the streamers, and the camera in front of her face, it is difficult to tell for certain.

The final draft of the script for this episode was dated March 30, 1970, ten months before it was aired in mid-February 1971. Because the Lurline sailed for the last time on June 25, 1970, the establishing shots had to have been filmed during April, May or June 1970.

Harry pronounces Hawaii as 'Havaii' (with a 'v' sound instead of a 'w'). He also pronounces Los Angeles with a hard 'g.' Harry was a linguistic eccentric!

Lucy says the ideal candidate for the cruise director position will be a combination of Cary Grant, Albert Einstein, Joe Namath, and Bob Hope. Lucille Ball did four films with Bob Hope and he appeared on both “I Love Lucy” and “The Lucy Show.” Football player turned entertainer Joe Namath will guest star in a season 5 episode of “Here's Lucy.” Cary Grant has been mentioned on all of Ball's sitcoms, including the previous episode “Lucy and Carol Burnett” (S3;E22).

When Vivian burst through the crowd, the production anticipates the home viewers reaction by inserting canned applause! In previous episodes filmed in front of a live studio audience, this was their natural reaction, so one is used here as well. Even the background actors seem happy to see Viv, a character not seen on the series since “Lucy and Viv Visit Tijuana” (S2;E19) a year earlier.

Among the many games and sports items that Assistant Cruise Director Lucy carries is Hasbro’s Automatic Bingo, first manufactured in 1969. Bingo is a mainstay of cruise ship pastimes.

Lucy asks Viv if she is still looking to get married:

VIV: “I dream about orange blossoms so often I sleep with a smudge pot at the foot of my bed.”

Dreams about orange blossoms are said to indicate the search for true love. In orange groves, a smudge pot warms the trees to prevent the fruit from being spoiled by frost and cold weather.

Lucy convinces Harry to disguise himself as rich southerner Colonel Hamilton Hart to woo Vivian away from the Captain MacClay. Harry's make up and wardrobe are identical to Colonel Harlan Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame!

A montage of Lucy being kept busy shows her jogging, shooting skeet, playing tennis, and playing ping-pong.

Jumping overboard may be the most extreme example ever of ‘getting Harry wet’ at the end of an episode.

VIVIAN: “Let me through! Let me through! There's only one person in the whole world who would board ship that way! It's gotta be... Lucy!”

Boarding ship via the cargo net was a stunt Lucille Ball also did in “Lucy Takes A Cruise To Havana” (LDCH S1;E1) with Ann Sothern at her side - instead of Gale Gordon under her feet!

Another unconventional boarding was in "Bon Voyage" (ILL S5;E13), where Lucy Ricardo missed her sailing for Europe on the S.S. Constitution and was lowered by helicopter to the deck.

Assistant Cruise Director Lucy briefly plays ping-pong with a young boy, just as Lucy Ricardo did on the SS Constitution with Kenneth Hamilton. She first looked for a ping-pong partner by asking an idle bloodhound!

In 1955, Desilu recreated the SS Constitution on their Hollywood sound stage the same way LBP does the SS Lurline in 1971. Both episodes were filmed with the cooperation of the shipping lines, American Export Lines (1955) and Matson Steamship Lines (1970). Both were the most expensive episodes filmed to that date due to construction costs.

In “Ricky's Hawaiian Vacation” (ILL S3;E22), Lucy Ricardo pulled out all the stops, including recreating island life in the living room in order to get Ricky to take her along on his booking at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu. When Ricky says no, Lucy schemes to go along by winning a TV quiz show with the Mertzes, but in the end they don’t win the trip. We never learn if Ricky actually went to Hawaii or not.

ETHEL (about the idea of going on a quiz show): “I’d get a pie in my face. She’d get an all-expense cruise.”

It took nearly 16 years, but Lucy and Viv finally got that all-expense paid cruise to Hawaii. But she also did get a pie in the face at the end of the show!

If being Viv being heroically rescued from a swimming pool while pretending she can’t swim sounds familiar, Lucy Ricardo also did it in “The Hedda Hopper Story” (ILL S4;E21).

In the 1955 episode, Freddie Fillmore mentioned a former contestant named Cleo Morgan, which was the name of Lucille Ball’s cousin. She was later the producer of these two episodes of “Here’s Lucy” under her married name of Cleo Smith.

On February 18, 1965, the Douglas family on “My Three Sons” planned a "Hawaiian Cruise” (S5;E23), but illness forced the trip to be canceled. Uncle Charley decides if they cannot go to Hawaii, then Hawaii would come to them and he plans a luau in the backyard.

FAST FORWARD!

In the 1970s and 1980s sitcoms took their cue from Lucy and also traveled to Hawaii.

Probably the most famous of the shows was “The Brady Bunch”, which aired on ABC in 1972, just a year after Lucy’s trip. It, too, was a two-parter. Coincidentally, Eve Plumb (Jan Brady) also played Lucy Carter’s niece Patricia Carter later on in 1972!

In 1980, also on CBS, “The Jeffersons” traveled to the 50th state. Instead of two parts, the show increased their stay to four half-hours! The cast featured an actor named Fred Ball (no relation to Lucille Ball’s brother)!

Hawaii was mention several times on the short lived “Life With Lucy” (1987). In the first episode, Curtis had just returned from vacationing there and in the second episode guest star John Ritter says that his wife is in Hawaii with the kids. In an un-aired episode, Leonard plans to use his vacation from M&B Hardward to go to Hawaii and lie on the beach.

“Mama Goes Hawaiian” (1988) was also a two-part episode about a Hawaiian vacation. It starred Lucy’s protege Ken Berry and her pal Carol Burnett’s protege, Vicki Lawrence, as Mama.

Props! When setting down a large stack of games so she can sit down for a minute, Lucille Ball is so worried that the stack will fall off the deck chair that she keeps her hand nearby to catch them if they do.

Doff Your Hat! When ‘the Colonel’ sits down next to Vivian, he removes his hat and places it on the table. Realizing that this is improper (and that the hat might be in the camera shot) he uses his walking stick to smoothly sweep the hat off the table onto the chair below it. Quick thinking!

“Lucy Goes Hawaiian: Part One” rates 3 Paper Hearts out of 5

This episode is full of Easter eggs for “Lucy” fans with references to four different episodes of “I Love Lucy.” This feels like a cross between “The Love Boat” and “The Golden Girls.” The ending with Harry and Viv both jumping overboard into the Pacific Ocean - at night - is a bit far-fetched, even for Lucy!

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