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‘America’s Not a Country, It’s Just a Business’: On Andrew Dominik’s ‘Killing Them Softly’ By Roxana Hadadi

“Shitsville.” That’s the name Killing Them Softly director Andrew Dominik gave to the film’s nameless town, in which low-level criminals, ambitious mid-tier gangsters, nihilistic assassins, and the mob’s professional managerial class engage in warfare of the most savage kind. Onscreen, other states are mentioned (New York, Maryland, Florida), and the film itself was filmed in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans, though some of the characters speak with Boston accents that are pulled from the source material, George V. Higgins’s novel Cogan’s Trade. But Dominik, by shifting Higgins’s narrative 30 or so years into the future and situating it specifically during the 2008 Presidential election, refuses to limit this story to one place. His frustrations with America as an institution that works for some and not all are broad and borderless, and so Shitsville serves as a stand-in for all the places not pretty enough for gentrifying developers to turn into income-generating properties, for all the cities whose industrial booms are decades in the past, and for all the communities forgotten by the idea of progress._ Killing Them Softly_ is a movie about the American dream as an unbeatable addiction, the kind of thing that invigorates and poisons you both, and that story isn’t just about one place. That’s everywhere in America, and nearly a decade after the release of Dominik’s film, that bitter bleakness still has grim resonance.

In November 2012, though, when Killing Them Softly was originally released, Dominik’s gangster picture-cum-pointed criticism of then-President Barack Obama’s vision of an America united in the same neoliberal goals received reviews that were decidedly mixed, tipping toward negative. (Audiences, meanwhile, stayed away, with Killing Them Softly opening at No. 7 with $7 million, one of the worst box office weekends of Brad Pitt’s entire career at that time.) Obama’s first term had been won on a tide of hope, optimism, and “better angels of our nature” solidarity, and he had just defeated Mitt Romney for another four years in the White House when Killing Them Softly hit theaters on Nov. 30. Cogan’s Trade had no political components, and no connections between the thieving and killing promulgated by these criminals and the country at large. Killing Them Softly, meanwhile, took every opportunity it could to chip away at the idea that a better life awaits us all if we just buy into the idea of American exceptionalism and pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps ingenuity. A fair amount of reviews didn’t hold back their loathing toward this approach. A.O. Scott with the New York Times dismissed Dominik’s frame as “a clumsy device, a feint toward significance that nothing else in the movie earns … the movie is more concerned with conjuring an aura of meaningfulness than with actually meaning anything.” Many critics lambasted Dominik’s nihilism: For Deadspin, Will Leitch called it a “crutch, and an awfully flimsy one,” while Richard Roeper thought the film collapsed under the “crushing weight” of Dominik’s philosophy. It was the beginning of Obama’s second term, and people still thought things might get better.

But Dominik’s film—like another that came out a few years earlier, Adam McKay’s 2010 political comedy The Other Guys—has maintained a crystalline kind of ideological purity, and perhaps gained a certain prescience. Its idea that America is less a bastion of betterment than a collection of corporate interests, and the simmering anger Brad Pitt’s Jackie Cogan captures in the film’s final moments, are increasingly difficult to brush off given the past decade or so in American life. This is not to say that Obama’s second term was a failure, but that it was defined over and over again by the limitations of top-down reform. Ceaseless Republican obstruction, widespread economic instability, and unapologetic police brutality marred the encouraging tenor of Obama’s presidency. Donald Trump’s subsequent four years in office were spent stacking the federal judiciary with young, conservative judges sympathetic toward his pro-big-business, fuck-the-little-guy approach, and his primary legislative triumph was a tax bill that will steadily hurt working-class people year after year.

The election of Obama’s vice president Joe Biden, and the Democratic Party securing control of the U.S. Senate, were enough for a brief sigh of relief in November 2020. The $1.9 trillion stimulus bill passed in March 2021 does a lot of good in extending (albeit lessened) unemployment benefits, providing a child credit to qualifying families, and funneling further COVID-19 support to school districts after a year of the coronavirus pandemic. But Republicans? They all voted no to helping the Americans they represent. Stimulus checks to the middle-class voters who voted Biden into office? Decreased for some, totally cut off for others, because of Biden’s appeasement to the centrists in his party. $15 minimum wage? Struck down, by both Republicans and Democrats. In how many more ways can those politicians who are meant to serve us indicate that they have little interest in doing anything of the kind?

Modern American politics, then, can be seen as quite a performative endeavor, and an exercise in passing blame. Who caused the economic collapse of 2008? Some bad actors, who the government bailed out. Who suffered the most as a result? Everyday Americans, many of whom have never recovered. Killing Them Softly mimics this dynamic, and emphasizes the gulf between the oppressors and the oppressed. The nameless elites of the mob, sending a middle manager to oversee their dirty work. The poker-game organizer, who must be brutally punished for a mistake made years before. The felons let down by the criminal justice system, who turn again to crime for a lack of other options. The hitman who brushes off all questions of morality, and whose primary concern is getting adequately paid for his work. Money, money, money. “This country is fucked, I’m telling ya. There’s a plague coming,” Jackie Cogan says to the Driver who delivers the mob’s by-committee rulings as to who Jackie should intimidate, threaten, and kill so their coffers can start getting filled again. Perhaps the plague is already here.

“Total fucking economic collapse.”

In terms of pure gumption, you have to applaud Dominik for taking aim at some of the biggest myths America likes to tell about itself. After analyzing the dueling natures of fame and infamy through the lens of American outlaw mystique in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Dominik thought bigger, taking on the entire American dream itself in Killing Them Softly. From the film’s very first second, Dominik doesn’t hold back, equating an easy path of forward progress with literal trash. Discordant tones and the film’s stark, white-on-black title cards interrupt Presidential hopeful Barack Obama’s speech about “the American promise,” slicing apart Obama’s words and his crowd’s responding cheers as felon Frankie (Scoot McNairy), in the all-American outfit of a denim jacket and jeans, cuts through what looks like a shut-down factory, debris and garbage blowing around him. Obama’s assurances sound very encouraging indeed: “Each of us has the freedom to make of our own lives what we will.” But when Frankie—surrounded by trash, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and eyes squinting shut against the wind—walks under dueling billboards of Obama, with the word “CHANGE” in all-caps, and Republican opponent John McCain, paired with the phrase “KEEPING AMERICA STRONG,” a better future doesn’t exactly seem possible. Frankie looks too downtrodden, too weary of all the emptiness around him, for that.

Dominik and cinematographer Greig Fraser spoke to American Cinematographer magazine in October 2012 about shooting in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans: “We were aiming for something generic, a little town between New Orleans, Boston and D.C. that we called Shitsville. We wanted the place to look like it’s on the down-and-down, on the way out. We wanted viewers to feel just how smelly and grimy and horrible it was, but at the same time, we didn’t want to alienate them visually.” They were successful: Every location has a rundown quality, from the empty lot in which Frankie waits for friend and partner-in-crime Russell (Ben Mendelsohn)—a concrete expanse decorated with a couple of wooden chairs, as if people with nowhere else to go use this as a gathering spot—to the dingy laundromat backroom where Frankie and Russell meet with criminal mastermind Johnny “Squirrel” Amato (Vincent Curatola), who enlists them to rob a mafia game night run by Markie Trattman (Ray Liotta), to the restaurant kitchen where the game is run, all sickly fluorescent lights, cracked tile, and makeshift tables. Holding up a game like this, from which the cash left on the tables flows upward into the mob’s pockets, is dangerous indeed. But years before, Markie himself engineered a robbery of the game, and although that transgression was forgiven because of how well-liked Markie is in this institution, it would be easy to lay the blame on him again. And that’s exactly what Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell plan to do.

The “Why?” for such a risk isn’t that hard to figure out. Squirrel sees an opportunity to make off with other people’s money, he knows that any accusatory fingers will point elsewhere first, and he wants to act on it before some other aspiring baddie does. (Ahem, sound like the 2008 mortgage crisis to you?) Frankie, tired of the crappy jobs his probation officer keeps suggesting—jobs that require both long hours and a long commute, when Frankie can’t even afford a car (“Why the fuck do they think I need a job in the first place? Fucking assholes”)—is drawn in by desperation borne from a lack of options. If he doesn’t come into some kind of money soon, “I’m gonna have to go back and knock on the gate and say, ‘Let me back in, I can’t think of nothing and it’s starting to get cold,’” Frankie admits. And Australian immigrant and heroin addict Russell is nursing his own version of the American dream: He’s going to steal a bunch of purebred dogs, drive them down to Florida to sell for thousands of dollars, buy an ounce of heroin once he has $7,000 in hand, and then step on the heroin enough to become a dealer. It’s only a few moves from where he is to where he wants to be, he figures, and this card-game heist can help him get there.

In softly lit rooms, where the men in the frame are in focus and their surroundings and backgrounds are slightly blown out, slightly blurred, or slightly fuzzy (“Creaminess is something you feel you can enter into, like a bath; you want to be absorbed and encompassed by it” Fraser told American Cinematographer of his approach), garish deals are made, and then somehow pulled off with a sobering combination of ineptitude and ugliness. Russell buys yellow dishwashing gloves for himself and Frankie to wear during the holdup, and they look absurd—but the pistol-whipping Russell doles out to Markie still hurts like hell, no matter what accessories he’s wearing. Dominik gives this holdup the paranoia and claustrophobia it requires, revolving his camera around the barely-holding-it-together Frankie and cutting every so often to the enraged players, their eyes glancing up to look at Frankie’s face, their hands twitching toward their guns. But in the end, nobody moves. When Frankie and Russell add insult to injury by picking the players’ pockets (“It’s only money,” they say, as if this entire ordeal isn’t exclusively about wanting other people’s money), nobody fights back. Nobody dies. Frankie and Russell make off with thousands of dollars in two suitcases, while Markie is left bamboozled—and afraid—by what just happened. And the players? They’ll get their revenge eventually. You can count on that.

So it goes that Dominik smash cuts us from the elated and triumphant Russell and Frankie driving away from the heist in their stolen 1971 Buick Riviera, its headlights interrupting the inky-black night, to the inside of Jackie Cogan’s 1967 Oldsmobile Toronado, with Johnny Cash’s “The Man Comes Around” providing an evocative accompaniment. “There’s a man going around taking names/And he decides who to free, and who to blame/Everybody won’t be treated all the same,” Cash sings in that unmistakably gravelly voice, and that’s exactly what Jackie does. Called in by the mob to capture who robbed the game so that gambling can begin again, Jackie meets with an unnamed character, referred to only as the Driver (Richard Jenkins), who serves as the mob’s representative in these sorts of matters. Unlike the other criminals in this film—Frankie, with his tousled hair and sheepish face; Russell, with his constant sweatiness and dog-funk smell; Jackie, in his tailored three-piece suits and slicked-back hair; Markie, with those uncannily blue eyes and his matching slate sportscoat—the Driver looks like a square.

He is, like the men who replace Mike Milligan in the second season of Fargo, a kind of accountant, a man with an office and a secretary. “The past can no more become the future than the future can become the past,” Milligan had said, and for all the backward-looking details of Killing Them Softly—American cars from the 1960s and 1970s, that whole masculine code-of-honor thing that Frankie and Russell break by ripping off Markie’s game, the post-industrial economic slump that brings to mind the American recession of 1973 to 1975—the Driver is very much an arm of a new kind of organized crime. He keeps his hands clean, and he delivers what the ruling-by-committee organized criminals decide, and he’s fussy about Jackie smoking cigarettes in his car, and he’s so bland as to be utterly forgettable. And he has the power, as authorized by his higher-ups, to approve Jackie putting pressure on Markie for more information about the robbery. It doesn’t matter that neither Jackie nor the mob thinks Markie actually did it. What matters more is that “People are losing money. They don’t like to lose money,” and so Jackie can do whatever he needs. Dominik gives him this primacy through a beautiful shot of Jackie’s reflection in the car window, his aviators a glinting interruption to the gray concrete overpass under which the Driver’s car is parked, to the smoke billowing out from faraway stacks, and to the overall gloominess of the day.

“We regret having to take these actions. Today’s actions are not what we ever wanted to do, but today’s actions are what we must do to restore confidence to our financial system,” we hear Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson say on the radio in the Driver’s car, and his October 14, 2008, remarks are about the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008—the government bailout of banks and other financial institutions that cost taxpayers $700 billion. (Remember Will Ferrell’s deadpan delivery in The Other Guys of “From everything I’ve heard, you guys [at the Securities and Exchange Commission] are the best at these types of investigations. Outside of Enron and AIG, and Bernie Madoff, WorldCom, Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers ...”) Yet the appeasing sentiment of Paulson’s words applies to Jackie, too, and to the beating he orders for Markie—a man he suspects did nothing wrong, at least not this time. But debts must be settled. Heads must roll. “Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still/Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still/Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still,” Cash sang, and Jackie is all those men, and he’ll collect the stolen golden crowns as best he can. For a price, of course. Always for a price.

“I like to kill them softly, from a distance, not close enough for feelings. Don’t like feelings. Don’t want to think about them.”

In “Bad Dreams,” the penultimate episode of the second season of The Wire, International Brotherhood of Stevedores union representative Frank Sobotka (Chris Bauer), having seen his brothers in arms made immaterial by the lack of work at the Baltimore ports and the collapse of their industry, learns that his years of bribing politicians to vote for expanded funding for the longshoremen isn’t going to pay off. He is furious, and he is exhausted. “We used to make shit in this country, build shit. Now we just put our hand in the next guy’s pocket,” he says with the fatigue of a man who knows his time has run out, and you can draw a direct line from Bauer’s beleaguered delivery of those lines to Liotta’s aghast reaction to the horrendous beating he receives from Jackie’s henchmen. Sobotka in The Wire had no idea how he got to that helpless place, and neither does Markie in Killing Them Softly—he made a mistake, but that was years ago. Everyone forgave him. Didn’t they?

The vicious assault leveled upon Markie is a harrowing, horrifying sequence that is also unnervingly beautiful, and made all the more awful as a result of that visual splendor. In the pouring rain, Markie is held captive by the two men, who deliver bruising body shots, break his noise, batter his body against the car, and kick in his ribs. “You see fight scenes a lot in movies, but you don’t see people systematically beating somebody else. The idea was just to make it really, really, really ugly,” Dominik told the New York Times in November 2012, and sound mixer Leslie Shatz and cinematographer Fraser also contributed to this unforgettable scene. Shatz used the sound of a squeegee across a windshield to accentuate Markie’s increasingly destroyed body slumping against the car, and also incorporated flash bulbs going off as punches were thrown, adding a kind of lingering effect to the scene’s soundscape. And although the scene looks like it’s shot in slow motion, Fraser explained to American Cinematographer that the combination of an overhead softbox and dozens of background lights helped build that layered effect in which Liotta is fully illuminated while the dark night around him remains impenetrable. Every drop of rain and every splatter of blood stands out on Markie’s face as he confesses ignorance regarding the robbery and begs for mercy from Jackie’s men, but Markie has already been marked for death. When the time comes, Jackie will shoot him in the head in another exquisitely detailed, shot-in-ultrahigh-speed scene that bounces back and forth between the initial act of violence and its ensuing destruction. The cartridges flying out of Jackie’s gun, and the bullets destroying Markie’s window, and then his brain. Markie’s car, now no longer in his control, rolling forward into an intersection where it’s hit not just once, but twice, by oncoming cars. The crunching sound of Markie’s head against his windshield, and the vision of that glass splintering from the impact of his flung body, are impossible to shake.

“Cause and effect,” Dominik seems to be telling us, and Killing Them Softly follows Jackie as he cleans up the mess Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell have made. After he enlists another hitman, Mickey (a fantastically whoozy James Gandolfini, who carries his bulk like the armor of a samurai searching for a new master), whose constant boozing, whoring, and laziness shock Jackie after years of successful work together, and who refuses to do the killing for which Jackie secured him a $15,000 payday, Jackie realizes he’ll need to do this all himself. He’ll need to gather the intel that fingers Frankie, Russell, and Squirrel. He’ll need to set up a police sting to entrap Russell on his purchased ounce of heroin, violating the terms of his probation, and he’ll need to set up another police sting to entrap Mickey for getting in a fight with a prostitute, violating the terms of his probation. For Jackie, a career criminal for whom ethical questions have long since evaporated, Russell’s and Frankie’s sloppiness in terms of bragging about their score is a source of disgust. “I guess these guys, they just want to go to jail. They probably feel at home there,” he muses, and he’s then exasperated by the Driver’s trepidation regarding the brutality of his methods. Did the Driver’s bosses want the job done or not? “We aim to please,” Jackie smirks, and that shark smile is the sign of a predator getting ready to feast.

Things progress rapidly then: Jackie tracks Frankie down to the bar where he hangs out, and sneers at Frankie’s reticence to turn on Squirrel. “They’re real nice guys,” he says mockingly to Frankie of the criminal underworld of which they’re a part, brushing off Frankie’s defense that Squirrel “didn’t mean it.” “That’s got nothing to do with it. Nothing at all,” Jackie replies, and that’s the kind of distance that keeps Jackie in this job. Sure, the vast majority of us aren’t murderers. But as a question of scale, aren’t all of us as workers compromised in some way? Employees of companies, institutions, or billionaires that, say, pollute the environment, or underpay their staff, or shirk labor laws, or rake in unheard-of profits during an international pandemic? Or a government that spreads imperialism through allegedly righteous military action (referenced in Killing Them Softly, as news coverage of the economic crisis mentions the reckless rapidity with which President George W. Bush invaded Afghanistan and Iraq after Sept. 11, 2001), or that can’t quite figure out how to house the nation’s homeless into the millions of vacant homes sitting empty around the country, or that refuses, over and over again, to raise the minimum wage workers are paid so that they have enough financial security to live decent lives?

Perhaps you bristle at this comparison to Jackie Cogan, a man who has no qualms blowing apart Squirrel with a shotgun at close range, or unloading a revolver into Frankie after spending an evening driving around with him. But the guiding American principle when it comes to work is that you do a job and you get paid: It’s a very simple contract, and both sides need to operate in good faith to fulfill it. Salaried employees, hourly workers, freelancers, contractors, day laborers, the underemployed—all operate under the assumption that they’ll be compensated, and all live with the fear that they won’t. Jackie knows this, as evidenced by his loathing toward compatriot Kenny (Slaine) when the man tries to pocket the tip Jackie left for his diner waitress. “For fuck’s sake,” Jackie says in response to Kenny’s attempted theft, and you can sense that if Jackie could kill him in that moment, he would. In this way, Jackie is rigidly conservative, and strictly old-school. Someone else’s money isn’t yours to take; it’s your responsibility to earn, and your employer’s responsibility to pay. Jackie cleaned up the mob’s mess, and the gambling tables opened again because of his work, and his labor resulted in their continued profits. And Jackie wants what he’s owed.

“Don’t make me laugh. ‘We’re one people.’”

We hear two main voices of authority urging calm throughout Killing Them Softly. Then-President Bush: “I understand your worries and your frustration. … We’re in the midst of a serious financial crisis, and the federal government is responding with decisive action.” Presidential hopeful Obama: “There’s only the road we’re traveling on as Americans.” Paulson speaks on the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act, and various news commentators chime in, too: “There needs to be consequences, and there needs to be major change.” Radio commentary and C-SPAN coverage combine into a sort of secondary accompaniment to Marc Streitenfeld’s score, which incorporates lyrically germane Big Band standards like “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries” (“You work, you save, you worry so/But you can’t take your dough”) and “It’s Only a Paper Moon” (“It's a Barnum and Bailey world/Just as phony as it can be”). All of these are Dominik’s additions to Cogan’s Trade, which is a slim, 19-chapter book without any political angle, and this frame is what met so much resistance from contemporaneous reviews.

But what Dominik accomplishes with this approach is twofold. First, a reminder of the ceaseless tension and all-encompassing anxiety of that time, which would spill into the Occupy Wall Street movement, coalesce support around politicians like Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, and fuel growing national interest in policies like universal health care and universal basic income. For anyone who struggled during that time—as I did, a college graduate entering the 2009 job market after the journalism industry was already beginning its still-continuing freefall—Killing Them Softly captures the free-floating anger so many of us felt at politicians bailing out corporations rather than people. Perhaps in 2012, only weeks after the re-election of Obama and with the potential that his second term could deliver on some of his campaign promises (closing Guantanamo Bay, maybe, or passing significant gun control reform, maybe), this cinematic scolding felt like medicine. But nearly a decade later, with neither of these legislative successes in hand, and with the wins for America’s workers so few and far between—still a $7.25 federal minimum wage, still no federal paid maternity and family leave act, still the refusal by many states to let their government employees unionize—if you don’t feel demoralized by how often the successes of the Democratic Party are stifled by the party’s own moderates or thoroughly curtailed by saboteur Republicans, maybe you’re not paying attention.

More acutely, then, the mutinous spirit of Killing Them Softly accomplishes something similar to what 1990’s Pump Up the Volume did: It allows one to say, with no irony whatsoever, “Do you ever get the feeling everything in America is completely fucked up?” The disparities of the financial system, and the yawning gap between the rich and the poor. The utter lack of accountability toward those who were supposed to protect us, and didn’t. And the sense that we’re always being a little bit cheated by a ruling class who, like Sobotka observed on The Wire, is always putting their hand in our pocket. Consider Killing Them Softly’s quietest moment, in which Frankie realizes that he’s a hunted man, and that the people from whom he stole would never let him live. Dominik frames McNairy tight, his expression a flickering mixture of plaintive yearning and melancholic regret, as he quietly says, “It’s just shit, you know? The world is just shit. We’re all just on our own.” A day or so later, McNairy’s Frankie will be lying on a medical examiner’s table, his head partially collapsed from a bullet to the brain, an identification tag looped around his pinky toe. And the men who ordered his death want to underpay the man who carried it out for them. Isn’t that the shit?

That leads us, then, to the film’s angriest moment, and to a scene that stands alongside the climaxes of so many other post-recession films: Chris Pine’s Toby Howard paying off the predatory bank that swindled his mother with its own stolen money in Hell or High Water, Lakeith Stanfield’s Cash Green and his fellow Equisapiens storming billionaire Steve Lift’s (Armie Hammer’s) mansion in Sorry to Bother You, Viola Davis’s Veronica Rawlings shooting her cheating husband and keeping the heist take for herself and her female comrades in Widows. So far in Killing Them Softly, Pitt has played Jackie with a certain level of remove. A man’s got to have a code, and his is fairly simple: Don’t get involved emotionally with the assignment. Pitt’s Jackie is susceptible to flashes of irritation, though, that manifest as a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and as an octave-lower growl that belies his impatience: with the Driver, for not understanding how Markie’s reputation has doomed him; with Mickey, for his procrastination and his slovenliness; with Kenny, for stealing a hardworking woman’s tip; with Frankie, when he tries to distract Jackie from killing Squirrel. Jackie is a professional, and he is intolerant of people failing to work at his level, and Pitt plays the man as tiptoeing along a knife’s edge. Remember Daniel Craig’s “’Cause it’s all so fucking hysterical” line delivery in Road to Perdition? Pitt’s whole performance is that: a hybrid offering of bemusement, smugness, and ferocity that suggests a man who’s seen it all, and hasn’t been impressed by much.

In the final minutes of Killing Them Softly, Obama has won his historic first term in the White House, and Pitt’s Jackie strides through a red haze of celebratory fireworks as he walks to meet the Driver at a bar to retrieve payment. An American flag hangs in this dive, and the TV broadcasts Obama’s victory speech, delivered in Chicago to a crowd of more than 240,000. “Crime stories, to some extent, always felt like the capitalist ideal in motion,” Dominik told the New York Times. “Because it’s the one genre where it’s perfectly acceptable for the characters to be motivated solely by money.” And so it goes that Jackie feels no guilt for the men he’s killed, or the men he’s sent away. Nor does he feel any empathy or kinship with the newly elected Obama, whose messages of unity and community he finds amusingly irrelevant. The life Jackie lives is one defined by how little people value each other, and how quick they are to attack one another if that means more opportunity—and more money—for them. Thomas Hobbes said that a life without social structure and political representation would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,” and perhaps that’s exactly what Jackie’s is. Unlike the character in Cogan’s Trade, Dominik’s Jackie has no wife and no personal life. But he’s surviving this way with his eyes wide open, and he will not be undervalued.

The contrast between Obama’s speech about “the enduring power of our ideas—democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope”—and Jackie’s realization that the mob is trying to underpay him for the three men he assassinated at their behest makes for a kind of nauseating, thrilling coda. He’s owed $45,000, and the envelope the Driver paid him only has $30,000 in it. Obama’s audience chanting “Yes, we can,” the English translation of the United Farm Workers of America’s slogan and the activist César Chávez’s iconic “Sí, se puede” catchphrase, adds an ironic edge to the argument between the Driver and Jackie about the value of his labor. Whatever the Driver can use to try and shrug off Jackie’s advocacy for himself, he will. Jackie’s killings were too messy. Jackie is asking for more than the mob’s usual enforcer, Dillon (Sam Shepard), who would have done a better job. Jackie is ignoring that the mob is limited to “Recession prices”—they’re suffering, so that suffering has to trickle down to someone. Jackie made the deal with Mickey for $15,000 per head, and the mob isn’t beholden to pay Jackie what they agreed to pay Mickey.

On and on, excuse after excuse, until one finally pushes Jackie over the edge: “This business is a business of relationships,” the Driver says, which is one step away from the “We’re all family here” line that so many abusive companies use to manipulate their cowed employees. And so when Jackie goes coolly feral in his response, dropping knowledge not only about the artifice of the racist Thomas Jefferson as a Founding Father but underscoring the idea that America has always been, and will always be, a capitalist enterprise first, the moment slaps all the harder for all the ways we know we’ve been let down by feckless bureaucrats like the Driver, who do only as they’re told; by faceless corporate overlords like the mob, issuing orders to Jackie from on high; and by a broader country that seems like it couldn’t care less about us. “I’m living in America, and in America, you’re on your own … Now fucking pay me” serves as a kind of clarion call, an expression of vehemence and resentment, and a direct line into the kind of anger that still festers among those continuously left behind—still living in Shitstown, still trying to make a better life for themselves, and still asking for a little more respect from their fellow Americans. For all of Killing Them Softly’s ugliness, for all its nihilism, and for all its commentary on how our country’s ruthless individualism has turned chasing the American dream into a crippling addiction we all share, that demand for dignity remains distressingly relevant. Maybe it’s time to listen.

#killing them softly #andrew dominik #andrew dominik film #brad pitt #Jackie Cogan #james gandolfini #richard jenkins #ray liotta #scoot mcnairy #ben mendelsohn #american cinematographer #financial crisis 2008 #independent film #beastie boys #oscilloscope laboratories #film writing #musings

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beholdme · 3 years

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All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 18

Chapters: 18/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17]

They cook, they feed him, they chat away about inane things. Their presence soothes Martin and their voices fill him with the warmth sucked away by his unexpected encounter.

Gerry helps him make tea after dinner, and they all sit at the table together, even the cats sleeping nearby, cuddled up into one big, grey and black fluff ball.

"I think," Martin begins, voice croaky, "That I would like to tell you now."

"We're ready to listen if you're ready to tell us." Jon offers softly. Gerry reaches over to take one of his hands, turning it over to kiss the palm sweetly.

Martin talks, voice quiet and even.

"In the beginning, it was just a normal relationship. Except for the fact that he was almost twenty years older than me, and about a million times richer. I didn't know that at first, of course. He was just a middle-aged man I met in a gay bar, who didn't seem to mind that I was trans. I felt secure in our relationship, if not exactly nurtured or adored. I had never felt very secure before, and it seemed like enough, you know?

"He took me out, brought me a few things in the beginning. He was very dominant, sexually, but I was a lot less sure of my own preferences back then and I thought it was fine. He never even blinked at my trashy flat or cheap clothes, and I didn't even realise just how much money he had for a long time. Maybe I just can't really comprehend that much money, even now.

"When I was twenty-two, my mother died, and…" He huffs out a shaky, emotional laugh. "Well, I was a real mess. I lost my job, and almost my flat. Peter started paying for things, my rent, clothes, meals. He said that I needed somewhere to live and had to eat and look presentable, and it was his pleasure to provide those things for me. It made me feel a bit gross, but I struggled to find another job, and so I accepted it."

Martin hesitates here, before continuing. "The problem started when I wasn't interested in sex one night."

"He forced you?" Gerry interrupts to ask dangerously, threat explicit in his quiet words. His eyes seem to glow faintly in the growing dark of the room, as the sun sets. He wishes, more than ever, that he had helped Jon kick the shit out of Peter Lukas, instead of stopping him.

Martin sighs, eyes pressed tight closed for a second. "Not exactly. He simply pointed out that he paid for me to exist. So I made myself interested."

Gerry's hands tighten into fists and he moves them under the table where Martin can't see them anymore. Jon suddenly looks very pale. They share a look, neither able to see much difference between 'forcing' and what sounds a lot like financial abuse to them.

Martin pulls his legs up to his chest, curling around them as he goes on. "Our relationship became a lot more transactional after that night. I disengaged whatever feelings I had left for him and simply drew all my emotions down deep into myself. I wasn't ashamed to be getting paid for sex, but I felt like I had lost my own consent in the matter. Peter honestly seemed like he had gotten exactly what he wanted. Money was nothing to him, and he had someone to take out on his arm or shag whenever he wanted, without the work of a real relationship, or the complications of unfortunate attachments.

"So, if I needed something, I told him. He set a date, took me out, fucked me. He gave me however much I needed."

Martin shrugs, looking down at his hands. "I honestly hated it. Not because of the prostitution itself, sex has always been very nurturing for me, and I sometimes caught the idea that it was only another way to care for people, and being paid for that is perfectly fine, if you're doing it for the right reasons. The real issue was Peter himself. He had this way of making me feel… bereft and hollow, even before the money came into it."

A few tears track down his face, although his face remains rather blank, in a numb way. It's only as he admits the next words that his voice breaks and the heartbreak works its way out again.

"I was very foolish. Looking back, I can see that I was still a child in a lot of ways. I put myself into a situation that damaged me, but I accept the consequences of those actions, both then and now. I- I-"

"Martin," Jon whispers, warm love clear in his voice. It's nothing but an offer of support, one that he desperately needs right now.

He presses his eyes shut, forcing away the stutter and the lump of tears. "I knew I wasn't going to be able to get out of it, even if I got a crap, minimum wage job that I was qualified for. So I started applying for any work that was available. I made every application exactly what they wanted, and I hoped for the best. When Elias offered me the job at Magnus, I took it happily. Since then I found out that Peter knows him, and probably arranged the job for me, but at the time I had no idea. Looking back, I know that it's a miracle that I got out of it at all. Peter could have chosen to make my life a living hell. Instead, he accepted the several firm rejections I offered him.

"He promised me that we weren't done, that I would be back, but he left me alone. I was done. I moved on with my life, even if I had to lie to do it." Martin sighs, shakes out his shoulders, the most difficult part over now.

"I had always planned to be open about it with my next relationships, but they were so fleeting that it never even came up. By the time I fell for Jon, it had become a secret, one I was loathed to dig up for a relationship I was convinced wouldn't last. I thought to myself, 'Why ruin something that makes me happy?' I assumed it would fall apart anyway, and it was easier to allow it to be in the past.

"But I am sorry. I'm sorry that I never told you. I'm sorry you had to find out from him. I'm sorry that we've been together for more than a year and we basically live together, and I've put you in this position. I love you both, very very much."

"When did you eventually decide that our relationship was going to last?" Jon queries, genuine curiosity in his voice.

There's a beat of hazy silence at the abrupt change in tone and topic.

"Oh, ah-" Martin stumbles over his words, unsure how blatantly honest to be. He chooses the real truth, no matter how unfortunate. "The day that I got Luna was the first time I really accepted that you both loved me."

Jon simply raises an eyebrow, completely unconcerned. "What about you, Gerry?"

"With you," Gerry responds easily, "at the hospital in Morden, when I was so panicked that I couldn't decide if I wanted to kill you or handcuff us together for the rest of our lives. With Martin-"

He breaks off with a laugh, colouring slightly. "It was the day we dyed my hair purple."

"The first time we had sex?" Martin asks, surprised at such a hedonistic answer.

He laughs again, more confidently this time. "No, actually, although that was spectacular. It was afterwards, when you braided my hair for the first time. That was the first time anyone had ever braided my hair. It made me feel so… So honoured. Like I was the most precious thing to you."

"Gerry, you are the most precious thing to me. You both are." Martin whispers, tears creeping back into his voice.

"Good, because the feeling is mutual, and we desperately need you around to keep us in line," Jon tells him, voice unusually firm and confident.

"What about you?" Martin remembers to ask him, at risk of floating away in his post confession haze. "When did you know?"

"With Gerry, it was when we were teenagers. I kissed him for the first time, and he laughed at me. I just knew he was my soulmate." Jon rolls his eyes at this, but his voice is full of blatant affection. "With you, Martin, it was- Well, to be quite honest with you, there was no one special moment. It was a million tiny moments, all of them special and perfect to me. Every cup of tea, every frown while you were writing poetry, glasses pushed haphazardly up into your lovely hair. The easy, glorious look on your face the day you met Gerry for the first time, as if you weren't even capable of not falling in love with him, just as I hadn't been. It was especially the days that I would come out of the library and find you waiting for me after work. This weight of total surety would fill my chest and leave me gasping, needing you."

Jon sighs, his own eyes a little bright. "I suppose it was really the night you kissed me in the rain, and every soft moment since then has only affirmed the way I knew you were it for me."

Jon smiles at Martin so beatifically that he forgets to breathe for a moment.

"We love you too, Martin," Gerry tells him, reaching out to grasp a hand. Jon takes the other. "And we wouldn't want you any other way."

***

The next morning, Martin wakes to find Jon eyeing his phone intently. Gerry is asleep on his other side, and he feels warmly cocooned between them. Gentle cloudy light fills the space, encouraging the comfortable cozy atmosphere of their bed.

"What's wrong, love?" Martin asks sleepily, snuggling into his side.

"I got-" Jon pauses, utterly flummoxed. "I got paid a bonus."

"What?" Equally perplexed, Martin takes his phone, squinting as he tries to read the screen.

The banking app is open, and there is indeed a deposit there, Jon's normal salary amount, but on completely the wrong date.

In the purpose box, it simply reads 'Entertainment Value'.

"You don't think," Jon starts, hesitant, "that Elias paid me…"

"For hitting Peter Lukas?" Martin finishes, "His own husband."

They blink at each other, bewildered.

"Does that seem… slightly cursed, to you?" Jon whispers as if Elias might hear him. Even worse if Elias could hear them, and would probably enjoy being accused of having a cursed relationship.

"Yes, completely cursed. What is up with those two?" Martin looks as if he's smelled something bad.

"We absolutely cannot spend this money, right?" Jon asks. "Lest we are cursed with their relationship dysfunction."

"Correct," Martin responds firmly, shuddering. "Can we donate it to the animal shelter?"

"I think that's a wonderful idea." Jon's relief at this resolution is palpable.

He does it straight away, as if even having the money in his bank account might ruin their lives.

They let out a simultaneous sigh as the transfer goes through.

"That is wild," Martin mutters as he snuggles back down.

Jon tosses his phone away, no longer interested in it. Instead, he wraps his arms around Martin, burying his nose in his lover's hair. It smells of bergamot and tea leaves and the ocean in winter, just like Martin himself, and Jon luxuriates in the moment.

"I love you, Martin K. Blackwood." He whispers into the soft air.

"Even if I don't actually have a middle name?" Martin whispers back.

"Especially because of that." Jon chuckles.

They lay together, the gentle moments of the morning flowing around them. Later, they get up and shower together. They drink tea in front of the big windows in the living space. Martin reads a book from Gerry's shelves, his own books still packed, and Jon wanders off to play his piano where it is randomly set up, right in the middle of Gerry's typical painting area.

Gerry himself appears downstairs, still sleepy and bleary-eyed. He curls up with his head in Martin's lap, listening to Jon fill the flat with gentle music.

It's the soft sort of moment that each of them had been wishing for all their lives, full of love, and family, and a home of their very own.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #fic #also on ao3

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a-woman-apart · 4 years

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Separating the Boys from the Men

Yes, that title is click bait, and if you keep reading, you’ve been warned. I’ve got a lot to get off my chest, and it’s going to involve defending masculinity, femininity, and our right to BEHAVE LIKE CHILDREN FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES because in many ways, we already do.

Let’s get straight to the point. As Millennials, regardless of our age, financial status, or level of “success” (air quotes 100% intentional) we have been accused of being lazy, entitled, and way too enthusiastic about avocado toast. At the same time, we have been described as having enough power to decimate the napkin industry, the diamond industry, and the concept of traditional marriage. We have been accused of a collective “Peter Pan” syndrome, because we “refuse” to cut off papa’s apron strings and get off the proverbial mama’s teats.

Wonderful to know.

Let’s unpack the “lazy” bit. Supposedly, this is tied to the fact that we have access to higher education, we [often, not always] have parents who financially support or house us well into adulthood.

So now, my question is, Gen X (the entitled ones, ironically) and Salty Boomers, YOU DIDN’T?

What do you call that “inheritance” you received? What do you call that education your parents paid for that was less than 1/3 what we have to pay? For Boomers, how do you explain the lavish weddings, cheap [and apparently nuke proof] home appliances, and “nights out on the town” that you were able to afford by working at whatever passed for a McDonald’s back in the day? Working on a farm, at a grocery store, or in retail used to ACTUALLY provide a livable wage; for us, those are a “side hustle” and we still have to get a “big boy job” that usually requires an education that can put us over $100,000 in debt by age 30.

Hate to say it, but if you hadn’t made most of your income “during the War” or in the absolute economic boom that followed it, you wouldn’t survive 24 hours in our shoes before having an emotional collapse.

Despite the disastrous living conditions of the U.S. in the 21st Century, not much has changed in how men define their level of “manliness.”

Financial gains (stocks, bonds, portfolio, bank account)

Bro “gains” (a.k.a. “gym gains”, how “Gaston” they are, including whether they want to go for the Adonis, Apollo, or Brawny boi look, or just how far they can throw something or how “boyish” they look if strength isn’t an option and they suffer from femme-levels of body dysmorphia)

Body count (since we’re in a time of peace and not literally war, this is LITERALLY a modern term describing how many people you’ve slept with, and I have never heard an adult man, regardless of sexual orientation, who isn’t a little concerned about putting those notches in the bed post, and if not that, VERY concerned about his bedroom performance: it’s quality vs. quantity)

Kill death Ratio (I know this is a video game term now, but did you know that before video games, men in England used to regularly get on horseback, get a bunch of hounds together, and chase down tiny foxes and rabbits? FOR FUN?!?!? Did you know, that before modern sports ((including Esports)), men used to just fight to the death, regularly, even if an official war wasn’t going on? It was known as “dueling”, and in less socially developed societies, men still behave like this. So the next time you complain about “male rage” and how heartless it is to make live chickens fight, note that even though we’ve quelled male anger and hostility on some level, you will NEVER be able to take away man’s urge to destroy. Boys and men will always like knocking things over, building things from the rubble, and ruling shit. It’s what they do-- and we women can and do, too, but we have a LOT more risk-aversion and self-preservation, which is a blessing and a curse for our species-- but we just need to make sure humanity as a whole stays...chill)

So what, say ye, has changed about how WOMEN define themselves now vs. in the past. I would say that very little has changed, but the level of internalized misogyny, insecurity, and good-old fashioned denial has SKYROCKETED.

Let’s look at some terms of how the majority of women value themselves.

Financial Security (few women will admit to “wanting to be rich”, because that sounds kind of “Trump”, but plenty will talk about having minimum income requirements for their partner(s), wanting to retire at a young age so they can “travel the world”, wanting to eliminate their debts, etc. It’s different language but essentially it translates to: I want to work so hard or marry into so much wealth that I never want to worry about money after age 35. #Hustle)

Looks (it doesn’t matter if you want a Kardashian butt, you’re in the body positivity movement, or you just want to “dress like a bawse” women are just as obsessed with clothes, image, and body weight/shape/size as they ever were, it is just that now that we’ve “slain the patriarchy” we have more fashion options than ever before, because “boy clothes” are just as “in” as femme ones)

Ability to attract a partner (some women, like me, “chase”, but thanks to biology, most women, regardless of sexual orientation, seem to enjoy being pursued more than being Artemis-style hunters. This is evidenced by the fact that when the feminist owner of Bumble changed the rules of the dating website to where women had to start conversations with men rather than vice versa ((a move that had ostensibly zero effect on lesbian matching)) 72% of women that she later surveyed stated that they liked it better when men were approaching them rather than the other way around. I am sure Bumble’s female CEO was shook ((as was I)), especially because she made the change to empower women, and apparently 72% of women didn’t want the power because it meant they now had the power to face rejection, and it made them uncomfortable. Big yikes. So much for #EndPatriarchy and #ChivalryisDead ?)

Playing house (this is probably going to get me some unfollows, but I’ll take my chances. Women, regardless of sexual orientation, often seem to be REALLY into having babies or just “playing house.” There’s also men like this, too, “Family men” as they’re aptly called, men in love with fatherhood ((or just being called “daddy”, and that will never not be weird)). So many women who never want to pop out a baby describe being taken by an OVERWHELMING urge to fuck during their “fertile window” ((or is that just me?)) and seeing every baby alive as the cutest human being ever once we pass the tender age of 25. The biological clock is REAL, and I learned the hard way that being bisexual and having immense fear of pregnancy and childbirth didn’t spare me from the awful truth of my biology.

I really don’t want to keep making references to modern video games, but they seem to serve the dual purpose of being deeply satisfying and helping us to quell “problematic” urges, including that one to dominate and destroy the world. For a lot of women gamers, though, our choices ((on a broad scale, every #girlgamer is different)) deviate from men’s in some interesting ways.

#1: We still love The Sims Franchise way more than guys do

Not only do we love it, but while a lot of men (again, #notallmen) tend to build elaborate neighborhoods to extensively mod and destroy them in terrifying ways, I still see women gamers taking obscene amounts of time to design homes, raise happy little families, and cause TERRIFYING blood feuds by having Sims marry Sims from rival families ((I guess we’re more Shakespeare than we thought, eh ladies?))

#2: We make up most of mobile gaming

Most male gamers think mobile games “aren’t real” and I tend to agree, but a mobile game is invaluable for when I, a woman, have time to kill between the 3 jobs I hypothetically have and I and don’t want to whip out something like a Nintendo 2DS that is both unwieldly and attracts the eyes of every impoverished, thieving human being in a .5 mile radius. #RiskAversion. These games are often low-quality, mindless, and insanely easy, but that is WHY WE LIKE THEM. Our entire life is a job. #Hustle

#3 We also love farming sims and RPGs

While we-- and most male Millennials-- beg god to not have to birth calves, milk cows, or labor in the tomato fields under the hot sun, most of us have no objection to having our virtual avatars perform the same back-breaking tasks to the tune of cheerful chiptune music. Also, even though men definitely enjoy them, too, I have never met a woman gamer who didn’t enjoy a nice RPG; why do you think we’re such avid readers of fantasy/romance YA?

We want to be transported to a different world, and if you won’t take us there, we’re happy to go there virtually ((because we probably can’t afford travel; we’re still millennials)).

Ability to murder people who threaten our young or our partner(s) (Okay this one is a bit more complicated, but I’m just going to tell you a bit about female animals. DON’T MESS WITH THEIR BABIES IF YOU WANT TO LIVE. Human females, are, in that regard, just as savage, if not more so, than our male counterparts.

I’ve never heard of any woman ((outside of prison, maybe)) who killed another woman for “looking at her weird” or saying “your mama” too many times. I’ve heard plenty of women threaten literal murder because another woman ((or man, we’re #progressive)) came too close to her romantic/sexual partner, or another human being threatened harm on our kids or our “squad.”

I don’t know where the meme truly originated from, but “Don’t talk to me or my son ever again” is SUCH a Mom thing to say. So much misandry is wrapped up in the idea that men are predators, and that is true, but not in the excessively sexually deviant ways you think ((that’s only sometimes true)). They just like hunting things, including people, but if you give them a toy to play with ((I MEAN ACTUAL TOY OMG)) they seem alright. Let them go play with their cars, Xbox, [insert whatever] or something. They’re men, okay, they’re easily distracted/impressed/occupied.

Women, on the other hand, have seemed to be having an EXTREME amount of trouble curbing that baby-making urge, or the Excessive Nurturing Urge, that one that makes you ask your grown husband if he’s remembered to pack lunch for work or if he remembered to pack money for his playdate with his bros, because he’s gonna need money at Six Flags and you aren’t going to bring it to him because he should’ve remembered, you reminded him 30093390 times.

THAT’S NOT HIS FAULT. HE HAS MANAGED BY SOME MIRACLE TO STAY ALIVE FOR 33 YEARS. THAT’S YOU, SWEETIE. STOP BEING SUCH A MOM. GO BE A NURSE, DOCTOR, OR SOCIAL WORKER OR SOMETHING OMG.

In summary...

What separates the “men from the boys” or the “women from the girls” isn’t the era that we were born in to, our economic status, or whether we’ve been able to “conquer” our biology. That’s definitely not possible yet, chiefly because transhumanism involves a lengthy, ethics-guided process, and even if we all turn into cyborgs, the goal is to become BETTER humans, not LESS humane. Societal advancements have done more in terms of making us healthier, less destructive citizens of planet earth than raw technology ever can and ever will. Rapid technological advancement, when not combined with respect for morality, ethical standards of living for humans and all other life forms, almost always leads to human slavery, widespread abuse of animals, sex trafficking, and environmental destruction, because the “rules of supply and demand”, when not governed by strong international trade laws, dictate that consumers should be supplied with whatever they demand, because the suppliers can profit, and their right to profit should be defended at any cost.

So, in summary, I believe that “adulting” involves giving up on entitlement. What separates a truly childish human being-- regardless of their actual age-- from someone who is, in essence, “adulting” is experience, and how much those experiences serve to broaden that person’s perspective. It is an extremely childish, self-centered view, to think that you “deserve” anything for being “a good person” or, in the case of many a “woman child” or “man child” in media and in real life, just being “not so bad.”

Grown-ups are able and willing to do something that is known as “delaying gratification” which is the simple ability to delay a temporary pleasure for a long-term gain. Grown-ups are also able to perform true “cost-benefit analyses” to determine if a course of action, business deal, or even relationship is worth their time and effort. Finally, grown-ups are able and willing and able to make an informed choice and stick to it; in essence, we don’t try to “have our cake and eat it too” we understand that once we’ve eaten that cake, the cake is gone, but we also realize that if we are willing to work hard and make sacrifices, we can earn the ingredients to make ourselves another cake to eat, even if we might need a lot of help from other adults in getting those ingredients (we call this teamwork and cooperation).

Children, on the other hand (in literal and metaphorical terms), are very impatient. They get angry when things don’t go their way, and instead of taking the steps needed to improve their situation, they storm off and return home. It doesn’t matter if their home is with their parents, with their 3 roommates, or with their husband or wife, these people throw tantrums, refuse to communicate/cooperate, and stew in their displeasure until someone feels sorry for them and fixes their problem for them. They lack the ability to work through daily life problems and refuse to take any responsibility for how their actions or inaction contributed to their dilemma.

There is one difference with an actual human child or teen, though, is that they have an excuse. Their brains are still developing, and they haven’t had the chance to live through these situations yet; these are new challenges to them. Even if they do have a “bad attitude”, with help from peers and patients, principled adult mentors and teachers, these cantankerous kids can grow into well-adjusted, able adults. The high levels of neuroplasticity in their brains actually make it so that it is easier for them to accept large amounts of sensory data and to learn from processing and practicing using it.

An “adult child” is someone who, more often than not, has been coddled instead of challenged. These people have often faced no significant hardships in life. There is a reason why, even after we have recognized the immense downsides of authoritarian parenting and have demonstrated psychological harms of corporal punishment for kids, we still call “bad kids” and “irresponsible adults” spoiled.

Authoritarianism produces rigid, scared people who often struggle with critical thinking and self-esteem or end up being authoritarian parents themselves, but that last one is actually one of the less likely options. Children of authoritarian parents often develop Borderline Personality Disorder or become defiant against authority (shocker). Overly permissive or overly neglectful parenting, though, are parental styles most associated with producing narcissists, who often become authoritarian parents, because when their kids challenge them, they completely lack the patience or emotional capacity to deal with it and resort to “because I said so”, stonewalling and/or physical abuse as forms of “character-building.”

The reason why overly permissive parents spoil their kids is because kids actually do need discipline and guidance, and so these kinds of parents produce kids who are outwardly capable and confident but completely lack any of the life skills to justify it, and when they ask their parents for advice they are just met with a bunch of hippie mumbo jumbo or told to just avoid the conflict rather than resolve it. These kids grow into adults who are still sad little kids inside, because they never grew up, but now they’re sad little kids who are articulate and well-spoken and now can-- and often have no choice-- but to con their way through adult life because they’ve maxed out Charisma and they have almost no points in Strength, Intelligence, Wisdom, or Dexterity.

The only parenting style worse than Authoritarian and Neglectful/Permissive is Mixed, in which a child grows up in a COMPLETELY unpredictable environment where the rules of the game change from day to day, and parents either give their children no attention at all, or they practically lock them up and throw away the key. Being raised like this is associated with the worse outcomes for the child throughout life.

So, why am I now talking about parenting styles? Because, for all that we love to trash Boomers and large swaths of Gen X on this page, we can’t forget where they came from, so we cannot allow them to forget WHO THEY MADE. It isn’t an accident that even though we live in the times of incredible economic hardship, WE are the generation (and Gen Z, to some extent) that got hooked on reality TV, video games, and social media in incredibly unhealthy ways. A lot of us 30+ millennials are growing out of it, and a lot of us have realized that it is an invaluable (and damn near unavoidable) way of marketing our products and talents. We’re often self-employed because that’s our only option in most cases.

The issue with Gen Z (who, while we called “Zoomers” now just all themselves “Doomers” and I think we should be a bit concerned about that) is that unlike us, they have no memory of “Before the Internet.” We remember dial up, we remember before that when you played outside untl the sun went down. They don’t have the privilege of being linked to that history.

Now, we have to be the Bigger Person. It’s our time to be Grown-Ups. Gen Z feels really fucking lost right now, and hearing us whine about our parents probably makes them pretty pissed off, when some of us older millennials are the parents, aunts/uncles, and older siblings to Gen Z kids. Even if we can’t be mentors, we have to lead by example, because we have a responsibility to these kids. A lot of them aren’t stupid, they see exactly what’s happening and they feel incredibly hopeless about it. Greta Thunberg is still 16 years old. She shouldn’t be out there doing that; I mean seriously, climate change is accelerating, but it isn’t even as bad as Al Gore said, it’s still reversible, but the fact that SHE FELT SHE HAD TO makes us shitty people. ALL OF US.

So you know, we all need to stop being hypocrites. We need to stop being entitled. We need to stop thinking this is about us. It isn’t. Not even close. We’re not important, even if our videos go viral or if we’re swimming in cash next to hot models by a huge swimming pool. America’s fucked up. I hate to sound Republican, but it’s because of our values. We suck at valuing what’s important, and if we don’t change that soon, it’s really going to suck to live in America.

It already does.

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theliterateape · 3 years

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Why Can't We Just Share the Last Slice of Pizza?

by Don Hall

I had the first TV dinner in possibly forty-years a few weeks ago and it was kind of incredible.

Sure, it was a Hungry Man® chicken and mashed potatoes concoction and had more sodium than a bucket of sea water but it was still oddly delicious and covered in a gravy comprised of nostalgia and gluten. I didn't buy the frozen tray in a cardboard box. No, my wife has, in the pandemic, taken to rebranding her self as a 'resource locator' otherwise known as a 'dumpster diver.'

It sounds odd but I'm convinced that when the Second Great Depression takes hold, I'm married to the most resourceful and extraordinary partner on the planet. She finds brand new shoes, genuine Shriner fez's, and food. Cans of food thrown away. Expired bags of pretzels. And still-frozen TV dinners.

The nostalgia of consuming this marvel of the fifties, the fully-prepared dinner, ready to heat and eat in front of the television comes from my youth. In terms of economic status there were times in my earliest days when we were 'poor'. Now, mom wouldn't let us use that word to describe our situation. She preferred to say we were 'broke'. That distinction was my first lesson in reframing your perspective to fuel optimism.

Whichever it was called it was common practice growing up to eat TV dinners and mom would cut each portion in half (even the weird lava-like brownie or apple-crunch) so we had a meal the next day as well.

When we couldn't afford a Swanson-manufactured meal, she'd make what she called 'Spanish Rice'—Minute rice, a green pepper, tomato sauce, and Tabasco—another rebranding that certainly made this odd and rough cultural appropriation seem both unsavory and about as white as it could be.

Mom worked hard. My recollection was that she was often working several jobs and doing the best she could to keep us in clothing and food with a roof over our heads despite the fact that the minimum wage at the time was $1.60. She also had a way of reframing things so that, at no point, did we feel like we were missing out on much.

On top of that raising me could not have been easy.

We moved around a lot so I was always the new kid in school. Even with teachers and administrators, there is a tribal imperative to put the new members in their place, establishing the rules of behavior and assigning the slot for the newest members. I was never much of a conformist so this dance of going along to get along didn't take. All of which made my struggling mother's life one of battling the powers that be to protect her less than socialized monkey-son.

There are stories. The time I was forbidden to speak in class so I drew pictures of a butt and a butt pooping to silently curse some kids out. The incident of my failing to stay put during classes and finding escape routes during lunch that caused an epic battle as the Vice Principal decided to ban me from the Free Lunch program out of pique and spite. The summer when I was caught beating up Cub Scouts because they wouldn't let me join due to my mother's financial inability to buy me the requisite uniform.

There's an image I have in my head of my tiny mother almost coming to blows with a much larger woman because the woman called us "poor white trash." We were white but my mother wouldn't abide her children embracing the twin ideas of us being poor or being trash.

“No, Donald. You cannot just eat the last piece of pizza. You need to learn to share.”

In Chicago there's a thing called 'dibs.'

Sometimes it snows big and the streets are plowed but the parking spots are all but obliterated by small mountains of snow. The diligent among residents get their shovels out of the garage and clear out the snow from in front of their homes so that they will then have a place to park. They have done the work, so they feel entitled to the benefits of that labor.

The problem lies with those who do not shoulder in and remove the snow yet still feel entitled to park on public streets that they, after all is said and done, have paid for with their tax dollars.

Thus 'dibs.' The shoveler decides to put a lawn chair or card table or statue of the Virgin Mary in the spot they have labored over so when they come home from work, the spot has been saved for them and them alone.

It all sounds silly until you look at from an economic perspective. There are more cars in Chicago than there are legal places to park. It's a fact. The demand for spaces is greater than the supply. Parking tickets cost drivers thousands of dollars a year and the 'ticket dicks' are as numerous as the homeless. When it snows and the plows come through there are suddenly even less spaces than there were the night before.

Given the city will clear the roads but not the curbs the solution for half the population is to carve out their own space and the other half parks wherever they can. Those who take the spots but do not shovel are capitalizing on the labor of those who do and it pisses them off.

“No, Donald. You cannot just eat the last piece of pizza. You need to learn to share.”

I was thirteen. I was growing. I ate like a fucking locust with the table manners of the Cookie Monster. There it was—the last piece. I wanted it. My sister was small and weak. What was she gonna do?

“Offer your sister the last piece.”

“…do you want the last…”

“YES!” she barked and shoved the whole piece in her mouth.

“That’s NOT FAIR! We coulda split it! That’s not sharing, that’s theft!”

That’s Capitalism. Cut throat. Haves and Have Nots. It is simply not in human nature to share. In all of recorded history there has always been, in every society and civilization, when approached with abundance, a small percentage of those at the top and a much larger percentage at the bottom. Call it what you want—winners and losers, the One Percent and the Ninety-Nine (great name for a prog rock band), Bourgeoisie and Proletariat—it all amounts to the same dynamic.

It occurs to me that in the fight to get people fired from their jobs for tweeting arguably terrible things the double standard in place is exceptionally capitalist. On the ‘cancel culture’ side is the idea that people should be held accountable for their words in the world and, if they cross the line, then employers should fire them. On the other side, these same people will scream that an employer who decides that a kid wearing the costume of his culture or using grammatically incorrect language cannot be fired.

Both are individuals putting themselves and their ability to express themselves at the center of a business that has little to do with the individual. Everyone should have the right to their own specific identity as they see fit but no one should have the right to exert themselves above a business that pays them a salary in order to center things on them.

It’s frustrating. Economic class is the true great divider in the world. Because it is so ingrained in the human experience to live with those who have the cash and many who do not, economic class seems an unassailable unfairness. It’s an immovable and undeniable trait in societies of every stripe.

The landlord who leverages herself to get loans to buy an apartment building, fix it up to be livable, and rents it out to people has shoveled the snow. The tenant who claims it is unfair to be evicted from that apartment building because they cannot pay the rent is parking wherever there is a spot.

And it pisses everybody off.

No, it is neither race nor gender that is the engine of inequity. It’s almost entirely economic class.

Since the existence of class is so ever-present and unmoving, we focus on other things to change society. The battle to curb billionaires has never really taken hold despite the obvious problems they present. So we focus on race, we focus on gender. We spend our energy ignoring that most of inequity that exists between humans is about economics and find as many differences between those of us on the Have Not side as we can.

Why is it so hard to get rid of billionaires and that pernicious One Percent? Because we all want what they have. We all want the last piece of pizza and the parking space. We all want the luxury of luxurious things. We resent the things we'd have to do to get that luxury so instead we tear at anyone and everyone to gain whatever slice we can.

No one wants to shovel out that goddamned parking space. Trust me. In thirty years of living in Chicago, I shoveled tons and tons of snow to get that coveted spot. I never did the 'dibs' thing but I empathize with the fury at someone taking that spot I've labored over.

Study after study indicates that it is economic class that holds us back far more than race or gender but the road to power is through a perception of grievance these days and the only evil when presenting poverty as the problem is human nature. Men and women can be demonized. That game has been around for-freaking-ever. African Americans can demonize whites (but not black Americans because African immigrants in America do, on average, far better economically than whites). We can go the People of Color vs White People but, in order to make that case, Asians have to be ignored or made white-adjacent.

No, it is neither race nor gender that is the engine of inequity. It’s almost entirely economic class. Not that acknowledging that will change anything.

The utopian ideals of Socialism and even Communism sound better than Capitalism. The problem is the humans are built from the DNA to compete. Compete for resources, for sexual partners, for jobs, for shelter. Competition is as instinctual as our desire to procreate and Capitalism is a competitive sport. Throughout history, progress toward learning to truly share that slice of pizza is slow because it goes against our very nature. Not impossible and thus worth the effort but fucking S-L-O-W.

A friend recently posited that maybe I have gained some wisdom in my aging. He then switched and decided that maybe what we think is wisdom is just age plus exhaustion. Whichever it is, I have learned to share. I've also learned that in order to share, I have to assume my offer of the last piece of pie is going to be taken and stuffed into my sister's mouth. I can be wounded by the gesture, I can even be annoyed by it. I have to let it go.

I'm comfortable with the concept of enough. Meaning, if I have enough to share, I have enough to survive. Even if it's only enough of my mom's Spanish Rice.

There will be those, always those, who are so imbued with the need to compete that there is never enough. There will be those, perpetually those, who have not had enough and are willing to tear it out of the mouths of those who have.

And there will always be those, unendingly those, who are fine parking in the open spot knowing that someone else put in the work and not caring enough about anyone else that they take up the space and benefit from the labor without contributing.

On the best days, I don't run into them.

#Class

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brightmoonprincess · 4 years

Text

Scorpia/Adora Coffeeshop AU for @blackbyakko for the @sherawintergiftexchange!

it’s very cheesy and rushed, but hope you like it!

paring: Scorpia/Adora rating: G length: 2.1k words

- - -

For my best friend Entrapta! Good luck on ur robot! (^ ᴗ ^)/

Since her first day working at the cafe, Scorpia has always written kind and encouraging messages onto every single customer’s cup. Sure, her coworkers complain about not being to find the name quickly enough when it’s time to call it out. And sure, sometimes the queue of customers get irritated by the longer wait...

But it’s fun! And it keeps people happy! It’s part of the reason why Scorpia loves her job. It makes the coffee shop feel more like family, rather than business.

For some quirky reason, Entrapta insists on her espresso being served in the smallest sample-sized paper cup that’s available. It’s made it difficult for Scorpia to write out her message on it. Her hands aren’t exactly danity, and neither is her penmanship.

(These meaty claws were meant for sweet sweet loving, not for writing tiny tiny letters.)

The bulky, fluffy letters cover almost the entire surface area of the cup. The emoji at the end barely makes the cut, but she manages to squeeze it in.

“Another mini espresso, coming right up!” Scorpia says, setting the cup down at the end of the line of pending orders. “Hey, uh, Entrapta… Do you think you should slow down a bit?”

It’s the tenth coffee in a row that her eccentric pig-tailed friend has bought, and Scorpia is starting to worry about her caffeine intake… Can baristas start cutting people off? Or is that only a thing for bartenders?

“What? And waste my precious time unconscious when I could be working? Never!” Entrapta proclaims when the notion of “slowing down” is suggested to her. She’s practically vibrating.

Scorpia sighs.

After Entrapta goes to wait for her drink, Scorpia takes the next customer’s order-- but she notices that her trusty marker is almost out of ink. Man, this things really go quick-- this is the third one this month!

“Mermista! Do you know where we keep the markers?” Scorpia calls out to the other side of the bar.

Her less enthusiastic coworker groans in response. “You do know that we’re getting paid minimum wage, right?”

Just as Scorpia is about to remind her about the importance of kindness and customer service. Mermista holds up her hands and says, “Hold up, forget I asked. I’m clocking out in two minutes.”

“Already? I thought you were working until closing with me!”

“Oh, right. You don’t know yet,” Mermista realizes. “We have a new girl. She started yesterday, and she’s taking over the rest of this shift.”

Scorpia’s eyes light up. A new coworker! This could be a new friendship opportunity! Not that Mermista isn’t great, but sometimes she can be a bummer when working. The Etheria Coffee Co family could stand to gain another member who has the same passion for the art of barista-ing that Scorpia has!

Right on cue, another person comes in from the back room. She greets them joyfully, “Hi!”

Immediately, Scorpia’s excitement turns into huge disappointment.

Really? Really???

Of all the eligible working young women in this town, they just had to pick the most irritating person to ever exist, with the most obnoxious personality and the most ridiculous forehead-enlarging hair poof.

They make eye contact, Scorpia’s sharp glare battling against Adora’s wide-eyed surprise, and the two buff baristas say in union--

“Oh.”

/ / / / /

“Two non-fat peppermint mochas, a sixteen-ounce americano, a salted caramel latte, and a orange-mango-agave smoothie are on the bar!”

It’s been a week, and Adora is absolutely insufferable.

She somehow manages to make six drinks simultaneously, putting together even the most complex drink orders as if she’s made them all a million times before. It’s like she’s some kind of latte-making superhuman!

Of course, she’s great at the job. Why wouldn’t she be great at everything she does?!?! Grrr.

She even convinced Entrapta to drink decaf coffee for a while instead, telling her that it’s a missed opportunity to experiment with placebo effects of caffeine. Why didn’t Scorpia think of that?!

But the worst part?? Despite the fact that Scorpia has been working at the shop for two months, Adora keeps asking her if she needs help with something. It’s like she’s always looking for a reason to swoop in and play the hero, like someone needs her to save the day from coffee shop mayhem. It’s infuriating!

And no, it has absolutely nothing to do with the Catra situation, thank you very much. Scorpia is irritated by all of this for completely unrelated reasons! Adora is a terrible coworker! That is the one and only explanation.

“Phew! I’m glad the place is finally starting to slow down! How’s it going over there, Scorpia?” Adora asks.

When Scorpia doesn’t reply, Adora looks over at her, and she becomes concerned at the completely crushed cup in Scorpia’s clenched fist. “Er… Scorpia? Do you want to take a break? I can handle it from here.

Oh here we go again. Scorpia doesn’t need Adora acting like she’s better than her all of the time! She is the furthest thing from a damsel in distress. And after the past week of having to tolerate all of this, Scorpia can’t take it anymore!

“Alright, alright! We GET it, Adora! You can handle it! You can handle everything! Well, I, for one, don’t need your help!” Scorpia snaps, too loudly.

“What? I’m just trying to be nice!”

“... W-o-w.” Mermista’s draws out her monotone reaction as she pokes her head in from the back room. “So can both of you, like, stop being weird and help me lift some of these boxes?”

Adora and Scorpia glare at each other, but-- now that it’s incredibly awkward and uncomfortable-- they silently agree to move on. For now.

They follow Mermista to the back storage closet, where she directs them to a tall stack of boxes to carry out. They’re small but surprisingly hefty. Nevertheless, Scorpia lifts one onto her shoulder with ease.

Adora picks up two.

So, naturally, Scorpia picks up three more.

Yes, in fact, this just became a weight-lifting competition.

They keep at it for a bit, stubbornly matching the number of boxes that the other person is carrying until they’re huffing and wobbling around. But there’s no way Scorpia is backing out now! This is easy-peasy. The sweat on her forehead means absolutely nothing, except that maybe the air conditioner stopped working.

“Can you hold the door open for us?” Adora asks Mermista, her voice strained.

“Nope,” Mermista answers, swiftly closing the door.

“Uh,” Adora says.

“Um,” Scorpia echoes.

They give each other confused side-glances.

“Neither of you are leaving this closet until you learn how to at least pretend to like each other,” Mermista says calmly from the other side, followed by the sound of the door being locked. “I do not get paid enough to listen to you argue all the time.”

Adora sets down her boxes-- (phew, game over! Scorpia wins)-- and goes to jiggle the doorknob. “Mermista, this isn’t funny! Open the door!”

No response.

She lets out a groan and turns to Scorpia. “What was that all about, anyways?”

The totally-innocently-and-not-petty-at-all barista shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You blew up at me for no reason!”

“I had a reason! Many reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Like... I just… I don’t need you coming here and beat me at this, too!”

Adora pauses for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Scorpia mutters. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to compete with you...”

So Adora asks the big question, “Is this... about Catra?”

“No!!! I mean, sort of! But not really! I just… ugh...” Scorpia sinks to the ground, cupping the sides of her face with her hands. “I’m over all of that-- really!’

Well, guess it’s out there now. If she dies in this cafe storage room, it might as well be with an honest heart.

Although things didn’t work out between her and Catra, she really is over it!

What she’s not over is how jealous Adora made her feel. Even if Catra and Adora are only friends, it didn’t feel great to be compared to someone... even if she herself was the one doing the comparison.

Scorpia tries to explain, “It’s more like... I don’t like being reminded that you’re better than me, ok? I know that it’s not a competition, but for some reason, I still feel like I’m always competing with you!”

Adora stays silent, unsure of what to say.

“You’re really amazing,” Scorpia admits. Her cheeks redden. “I know you are, but you don’t have to rub it in…”

After a few moments of sitting in the awkward silence, Adora crouches down with her. “If we’re being honest… I think you’re more amazing than I could ever be.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, I do!” Adora insists. “I know we haven’t gotten along after the drama with Catra happened, but... I think you’re a good person! You’re strong, you’re loyal, and you genuinely care about people… You do kind things because you want to, not because anyone expects you to! I don’t even know if I can say the same for me...“

“Oh, uh…” Scorpia wasn’t expecting this. If she hadn’t been blushing already, she definitely was now. After all, Adora’s an honest person. She wouldn’t have said all of that if she didn’t mean it.

“It’s never been a competition,” Adora assures her.

Scorpia lets out a slow, shaky laugh. “... Ok, I might have been letting the past get to me. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’ll get over it, I promise!”

Adora smiles at her. “Sooo does this mean that we’re friends now? Or at least friendly coworkers?”

“At least friendly coworkers,” Scorpia agrees with a grin.

Adora stands up, offering her hand to help Scorpia up as well. “Now let’s get out of here!”

She helps Scorpia up knocks on the door again.

… Still no response. Uh oh.

“Uh… Mermista?” Adora calls out.

Scorpia wonders, “It was almost closing time when we came back here… She wouldn’t leave us in here overnight, would she?”

Oh no… she totally would. Scorpia can’t die in a coffee storage closet! She had so many plans! Who is going to water her plants? Who is going to inherit her motorcycle? Who will take over the duty of writing her signature coffee cup messages???

“I’m going to break the door down,” Adora announces.

“Wait, I don’t know if that’s the best idea--” Scorpia beings to tell her, but Adora is already preparing to throw herself at the door.

With a mighty battle cry, Adora rushes towards the door, shoulder braced for impact-- but just before she hits the wood, the door swings open to the other side.

“Whoa there!” Scorpia lunges forward to catch Adora before she falls onto the floor. Who’s the hero now, huh?

“Two things,” Mermista says.

“One, you’re not supposed to use your shoulder; you’re supposed to kick. You would know this already if you read Mer-mystery: The Vanishing Clownfish, like I told you to many many times.

“Two, I am not getting my pay docked because two idiots broke the door.”

/ / / / /

It’s been a month, and work has been great! Once Scorpia let go of her gay pettiness, she and Adora have been getting along really well. She can’t believe that she used to hate her!

That isn’t to say that Adora doesn’t have her annoying moments-- she does-- but Scorpia feels like she’s learned a lot more about her. Once Adora gets more comfortable, she actually has a very silly, fun side.

Like she does this really cute thing where she puts weird emphasis on some of the drink orders when she calls them out, like frapPUcciNO-- wait, cute? Uh. Scorpia meant funny. Funny and not adorable at all.

Oh no. Not again.

Scorpia is finishing up a latte and sorting out her thoughts, when she notices Adora walking in through the front door.

“Oh, hey, Adora! Are you working today?”

“Hey, Scorpia! Ah, about that…” Adora says, “I came here to tell you that I’m quitting.”

“Aw, man… Really?”

“I got a promotion at my other job,” Adora explains. “They gave me a lot more hours, so I don’t have enough time to work this one, too...”

“I didn’t even know you had another job!” Scorpia gawks. She hopes that Adora hadn’t been overworking herself this entire time. “But... congratulations!”

“Thanks! So... we can still be friends, right?”

“Of course!” Scorpia affirms.

She’s happy for Adora, but she can also feel her heart sinking. A few weeks ago, she wished that Adora would quit-- but now... it’s heartbreaking. Talk about a one-eighty. She and Adora had the start of a beautiful friendship going on, and it sucks that it might come to an end.

And now, after realizing how much she’s going to miss all of the time she’s spent with Adora...

Scorpia also realizes something important.

“... Can I get you some coffee?” she asks Adora. “On the house!”

Adora grins back. “Sure!”

Alright. Here is it. Possibly the most important coffee cup message that she has ever written in her entire life! Gotta make it good!

Her heart is pounding, and she writes out:

For Adora, the best coworker I’ve ever had! (Don’t tell Mermista! )

(Also, want to go on a d hang ou maybe if you’re at all interested we could go out sometime? Together?)

#she ra winter gift exchange #she ra secret santa #adorpia #scorpiadora #scorpia #adora #words

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mykpopconfession · 4 years

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k-pop is so very interesting even from a business point of view. there’s no messing about the companies have the reigns over the idols but the idols sign contracts without thinking. I will never get the fuss over an idol? I don’t really care to care about them specifically k-pop as a whole is not music its business. fans need to understand that contracts aren’t permanent even if idol groups didn’t last long, which the majority don’t these days

fans need to understand that they can’t and don’t have possession over their idols no matter who they like or love, no matter if they are sasaeng or not this righteous behavior and claiming of biases is the reason why fans don’t have much interest in their own life, they’d rather pour it into someone from another country in a way it’s oh so interesting because why are the idols surprised? why are fans bothered about stalking? when something like stalking it is bound to happen, come on. but I was watching the stray kids interview with the Australian network out of pure curiosity, the problem is the way “their dreams” have been marketed as is why they have a lack of privacy

they act like they didn’t have a clue what they were actually signing up for, it’s not a regular 9 to 5 job with night shifts, I don’t really get the pity party they kind of throw in interviews where they say things like oh it’s so hard and tiring to be an idol or the tours are exhausting and taxing or I only got paid this much I had to live with others in a low rented apartment but again did they expect luxury straight away?

no at the beginning especially if they are foreign of course its gonna seem wrong and even toxic or unhealthy working environment it’s business

is they think they can get by with doing just one or two dance routine sand call it a night? no cause there’s so much more than just dance. if young ppl are so easily swayed by this dream then they really need to think about it because it’s not realistic, nothing about doing what any celebrity does is ever going to be realistic and I think it’s one of the things where ppl go oooh I wanna be like that dancing away on stage and doing tours

it's not just about dance, it’s naturally going to be such a hard working environment where the companies are gonna expect more from the frisbees and if they don’t put 100% in well, they’re gonna take years before they debut. they don’t just go yep that guy can earn more than others and get treated differently or better

the idols are just pawns for the companies but obsession for the fans, contracts are gonna end if and when they break them, so i don’t get why idols or fans got so worked up over hyuna and whoever it was when rules are rules if they don’t stick by them then adios

at the start it would be like any other part time job, bc they going expecting to go straight to the top so they can get well paid enough but get away with doing whatever they like or not be treated so harshly well, then its going to be the opposite approach bc it doesn’t just gravitate to them they might generate some hype but there’s too ,any it’s overbearing and you have to really be so,etching other than another hype train if they want to really go to the top, bts mint be the top but they certainly aren’t all they cracked up to be because they wanted to go for this kind of dream now i feel like they could care less hence awful music that hasnt been up to their usual standard

if they’ve got to give so much to the fans be it online or otherwise the fans are naturally going to be obsessed they’re naturally going to stalk because the idols are part of the problem. they encourage streaming, voting, bullying others for just sharing opinion online, it’s stupid. I feel like the way idols encourage backlash by engaging in it shows to me they don’t really know how to deal with it again, what do idols expect? when this is what they sign up for. the purpose of idol is so the fans feel like they have connection to them in some form of way as twisted as it is, so no one should be shocked that when an idol does something out of the normal behaviour or acts up on social media, then later comes back grovelling and being all self pity just so fans feel bad

it seems that the idols and fans are somewhat alike because the fans easily bash both the idols and others for speaking against the idol if they don’t agree with what is being said or done, but then when it comes to the idol suddenly it’s the other way around and the idol speaks up or tries to be the mediator in the very drama they created and evoked

this is what happens in 2020, kpop might be all about mental health and being respectful of one another but they sure as hell don’t act on it when it really comes down to the things they do and say that could easily be avoided, the idols seem to quickly respond to shit but then get surprised when they get told off? I mean what do you expect? sunshine and rainbows 24/7? I don’t think so the k-pop idols r the reason sasaeng behavior exists, the company can do as much as they like to try and protect but it’s always going to be there because this whole idol fan dynamic where the fans feel they should have every bit of their idol in their life as much as possible

it’s exactly like me going to my workplace and expecting to get more pay when what I receive at the moment is minimum wage, they don’t shoot to the top, it’s naturally going to be a tiring exhausting environment to be in the public eye, u don’t have to be in it to know that either but this is what they chose for themselves so they can’t expect anything more they can’t have raged on social media whining about fans who follow them around cause again it’s in the contracts that they signed for or did they forget about it? it seems to me idols would rather blame someone or something else for making the choices that they did than to face the music or deal with the public

no one really could see the racism coming from when bts went to the west? do u all really think that western artists actually adore them or it’s because their another hype train to hop in the bandwagon… they mention bts, get articles written, draws in fan's attention equals to that artist trending using bts or any other group

the thing is it seems that idols don’t know how much they encourage fan behavior be it good or bad, they are the influence over the influenced. they are the driving force for whatever is said and done about them or to them just cause they’re in the system means nothing can go unscathed, the company watches them so if when they decide to do something that could potentially damage the reputation of course the company is going act on it potentially by removing said member from the group but again kpop is business

its not about the fans when it comes to money or reputation it’s about whether the idol is suited enough to be considered part of the group, whether they did anything wrong doesn’t matter, the companies will handle it how they think is best for both the company and group, the fans can be whiny about it but rules are put in place not to be broken

the other thing is that fans act like they don’t cause any problems either, they never apologise to kaachi for bullying those girls, whom i felt sorry for, when it comes to their precious idols they demand apologies for them whether it’s from company, or some random article writer, radio person, whatever. the double standards both from the fans and idols are the reason why it’s never peaceful or easy going for anyone in the kpop business

plus it strikes me that for whatever reason the idols that get up to stuff they really should know better about or speak just a little too much about unimportant matters or get shocked and react badly to what’s being said about them when it’s their actions and their choices lead them to be heavily watched so it’s just as much their responsibility as it is the fans, sasaengs whatever whoever, because they’re in the public eye, of course, they’re not gonna get privacy, of course, stalking is gonna occur, and of course there is going to be a backlash and they act like they don’t have a clue about how much of what they do really has the opposite effect and that is why it is the way it is

#kpop #kpop confession #kpop confessions #general

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orange-plum · 4 years

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What is your advice for taking commissions? Like how do you know how much to charge? I opened mine like a week ago but no takers so far :( should I just lower the price?

That’s a hefty question. I’ve watched a lot of vids, seen blogs, seen tweets, read artist’s tips on commissions, so here’s my personal take on it. This isn’t everyone’s, so feel free to go out and seek out sources to help you better gauge how you wanna do it.

Commissions should be at the very base level minimum wage in your country/region etc. But that’s depending how your financial state is. I’ve had a time when I had my tumor back in 2016 where I didn’t have a job and was in the hospital a lot and I still needed to pay my rent. So I took a lot of commissions at my lower price at the time just because I needed to pay bills.

Now, however, for example, money is not soooo tight (hhh it’s still tight but not dire) that I’d need to lower prices if I offered commissions. So at the end of the day that’s gonna be a call on you for the commission purposes. And I hate to say that because it goes against every fiber of my being to undersell art. Art isn’t a necessity, it’s a luxury. So you deserve to be paid properly for all the time put into the work. And lowering commissions too low sets a bad example to clients because they’ll expect artists to make less than a livable wage. So on the large scale I’m against lowering prices too low (like when I see someone charging $10 for a full color piece I’m like nooo you’re worth more than that!!), but I’ve also been on the other side. At the end of the day, if you need money you do what you gotta do. I was there so I get it.

Commissions are also not thought of in a marketing sense, too. You shouldn’t expect people to go find you, you need to go out and find them. So many people offer commissions. If you just say “I’m open” on your blog and that’s it, that’s not good marketing or advertising. You need to look up where people are looking for commissions in forums, on youtube, on twitter, on tumblr, facebook, wherever, and offer yourself. But def don’t just go to someone’s space and drop that shit uninvited cuz that’s rude af. Just go to places or people who are looking and offer your work to choose from. Craigslist I’ve heard oddly enough pays very well for art commissions and there are a lot of people looking there, so maybe even try that?

This last part is kinda just my own opinion and trickier. It’s kinda on the line of “Good for you, you deserve to be paid higher for your work I support that” and being realistically critical of your skill level. Def don’t use this to beat yourself up because you’re your own worst critic. So don’t do that. But I kinda look around at other commission prices, look at my current skill level, and see what people who are around my level are charging. That’s why this is hard because if you are too hard on yourself you’re going to set super low prices. I encourage everyone to set a price they believe they’d be satisfied getting paid at, but it’s also like, if you set TOO high (and by this I mean exorbitantly so), it might discourage you if you’re not getting clientele like you wanted, and then you could potentially take a hit to your self esteem. For example, if my skill level was this (and I’m only going to use my old art here as an example):

I’m not going to charge $40 for this because, realistically, I’m not sure if I’d get a lot of commissions because I don’t deem this skill level from myself ias something I can feasibly charge that much for. What I charge $40 for rn is this:

But that’s just me. It’s all relative with what price you wanna set, but this is just what I do for me, from my experience with commissions. I charge rn taking into account my current belief of skill level, and what I see from others with “my skill level” and what they’re charging, and how much time I know goes into a piece. Rn I think I charge fair for my work, but I def don’t think I’m at a level where I could charge hundreds of dollars for pieces like I’ve seen some people do. But that’s just a personal preference.

A week of not getting anyone isn’t the end of the world. I wouldn’t lower your prices rn. Taking all this into account if you want to, I’d def just start out by finding people who are seeking commissions and going to those spaces. You can take it from there afterwards with whatever happens. But def don’t get discouraged. It took me yeeeeeeeeeeears before I was able to have enough of a following to get more than one or two slots filled at a time. It’s def harder now on the internet than it was when I started out too back in like 2012 or whatever.

Good luck! I believe in you :~)

PS: Make sure your commission sheet and prices are clean and easy to understand. Your price/example sheet really matters

#asks #commissions #this is all just personal opinion take everything with a grain of salt #Anonymous

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1a-imagines · 5 years

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@darkseptigirl Request: Hey hun, can I get a Todoroki, Shinsou and bakugou scenario where their s/o suffers from social anxiety and agoraphobia so she has to like squeeze their hand tightly when out in public, and/or hides behind the boys when they’re talking to someone or just clings to their clothes? You can skip this one if you don’t want to, I’ll totally understand❤️

Type: scenario

Characters: Bakugou, Todoroki, Shinsou.

Bakugou:

"What's the big deal?"

"If I go and pay for this I'll be forced to talk to the cashier!"

"So?" Bakugou pressed you which only caused you looked away from his gaze, not wanting to see the judgement in his eyes.

"What if I say something stupid and everyone laughs at me." You shyly squirmed in your place, feeling your cheeks heat up from embarrassment. Of course that wasn't likely to happen but your brain had already come up with 20 different things that could go wrong with such a simple interaction. You could already feel your heart beat accelerating at the thought of everyone whispering about you, judging you, laughing at you. You wanted to avoid making any mistakes at all costs, and what better way to do that than to completely avoid the situation altogether?

Bakugou was already well aware of your social anxiety, and he never judged you for it, but he also didnt understand it. You're scared of social interaction? But it's such a common thing in day to day life. When you told him about it you had to explain everything to him because he really didn't get it. He didn't particularly like talking to people either but he wasn't scared of it. After a long explaination he did finally start understand. It was like your brain was tricking you into thinking bad things were going to happen to you. Even if it was really unlikely, truthfully, people probably weren't going to judge and evaluate everything you did in a negative way, but your brain told you otherwise.

Bakugou didn't want you to close yourself off from the world, however. He knew the only way you would overcome this would be to push you into these situations so you could see they weren't as scary as you thought. He may come off as a little harsh about it but he didn't mean to. He just wanted to help you realise that there was nothing scary about doing these things. They were apart of life and you couldn't avoid them forever.

Of course he tried not to be insensitive about it. It was a hard thing to deal with, he could see that, and he didn't want to make you feel even more inferior and self conscious than you already did. So he never pushed you too hard.

When he saw you starting to shake and your breathing becoming uneven he felt bad for being too harsh on you. You couldn't help it. He sighed and ruffled the top of your head in a loving way. He just wanted to tell you how wrong you were. He personally thought you were amazing and there was nothing to be self conscious and embarrassed about. If people were looking at you it was more than likely because they were admiring how beautiful you are. How your smile lights up any room. Not because they were judging you.

"Deep breaths, babe. You know nothing bad is going to happen. It's just talking to someone extra with a minimum wage, shitty job. What's so scary about them?"

You pouted when you felt him messing up your hair but appreaciate the gesture none the less. You took a deep breath and looked up at him with your hands clenched tight. "Will you come with me at least? A-and hold my hand?"

"If that's what it takes." He muttered and grabbed your hand with only a little hesitation. You both made it over to the line and once stood in it you realised how close you were to the other people around you. It made you slightly uncomfortable. What if you accidently bumped into someone and they get the wrong idea and get mad? You squeezed the blonds hand tightly, to which he looked down at you. He couldn't see your expression, you were practically pressed up into his arm. When the line moved he made sure not to stand so close to the people in front of you two and shot a deadly glared to the people behind you. It scared them just enough so they kept their distance and it gave you a lot more space.

When you looked up again you felt a bit more relaxed seeing the extra space. You smiled up at bakugou gratefully knowing he was being thoughtful even if he wouldn't admit to it. He pretended not to see it but when he turned his head away from you, You knew he saw how you were looking at him. He really did make you feel so safe.

When you first met him he was terrifying to you. He was so eccentric, loud and pretty much the opposite of you, and yet, surprisingly you two became friends. Turns out having someone so intimidating as a friend is nice. When you told him about your social anxiety he got a lot more protective over you. He would scare away anyone who was making you uncomfortable, anyone who got too close, he even went as far as talking for you when you didn't want to. Little did you know he was also doing those things out of jealousy, but you don't need to know that.

All of your classmates were so suprised when they found out you were friends, so you can imagine their faces when they found out your started dating. You two were pretty opposite but that's what worked so well with you two and he loved you exactly as you were.

Your smile was soon replaced with a look of terror when you heard the words. "Next, please." And realised you were at the front of the line. It was your turn and you didn't feel prepared at all. You hadn t even went through the interaction in your head to plan it out! You squeezed his hand even tighter, you were suprised he wasn't in pain from how tightly you were holding onto him, then again he was really strong.

You went up to the lady behind the counter and she smiled at you sweetly. You placed your things on the counter and she began scanning them through. "Are you having a nice day today?" She said, in an attempt to make small talk. You appreciated it but another part of you also didn't want to speak. You half shuffled behind your boyfriend when you replied. "Y-yes. Thank you." You had said it so quietly you weren't entirely sure she heard you.

You didn't let go of his hand for a second and as much as he was against PDA he knew he couldn't push you away when you were like this. He wasn't a monster. So he just ignored it. Sending glares to anyone who looked at you for a second too long.

Once the cashier was finished you paid for your things and as soon as you walked out into the empty street you let out a breath that you had apparently been holding. Your heart was still racing and your cheeks were flushed red.

"See? That wasn't so bad. You've got nothing to be afraid of, dumbass."

"Th-thats not true! I should've asked her if she was having a nice day too! She probably thinks I'm horrible and impolite! Which I am! I-"

"You're not helping yourself. She's probably already completely forgotten about it. You did great. The more you do it, the easier it'll get."

"It's just... scary to me. I wish it was that simple but I'm trying to fight against my own brain here! Its not easy katsuki." You muttered softly, eyes downcast to the floor. He felt like punching himself for making you upset. He really had no clue how to deal with this stuff but he was trying his best. He just wanted you to be happy.

To Bakugou you had done really well compared to some of the other times.

Sometimes you would give him the money and wait outside so he would have to pay. This time you faced your fears and you hadn't done so bad. If fact, it had went pretty smoothly from his point of view. So he couldn't understand why you didn't see it as an achievememt.

"Did you feel better holding onto me? Having me there with you?" He asked. You were confused by the sudden question but nodded slowly to answer it. You didn't know where he was going with it. "Then we can practise more, and every time you do something like that I'll hold your hand. I'll let you hide behind me if you need to. Just make sure you're at least try."

Your eyes widened in suprise. You hadn t expected to hear him say that. You knew he didn't like PDA. And now here he was offering it to you. This was an opportunity you couldn't miss! You smiled brightly at him, about to say how happy that made you but he beat you to it.

"But I'll only do it when you need it. Don't get too cocky, babe." He smirked and pulled his hand away from yours. You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest. "Jerk, I always need it!" You retorted. Holding out your hand again for him to grab but Bakugou shook his head. "No one's even around, you're fine. You can't pull that bullshit on me."

"Can't you just let me have this?! My heart is still racing so bad!"

He eventually gave in and took your hand back into his. Though he pretended to be unhappy about it.

He really would do anything to make you happy, But he also knew he had to help you overcome this. Help you until one day you don't even need to hold his hand when talking to someone, when around strangers. As much as he loves it, he loves you more. He didn't want you to live in such a small, closed off world. Especially when he knew you could do this! When he had first met you he barely could hear what you were saying, you spoke so quietly. You wouldn't even look at him, and now you weren't anxious around him at all! In fact when you were alone and you were completely yourself he loved it.

You're amazing, you just needed to show the rest of the world what you showed to him.

"Hey." He got your attention by squeezing your hand.

"Hmm?"

"I'm proud of you."

Shinsou:

You held onto his jacket sleeve tightly as you two walked through the market place. You were feeling really anxious because of how busy it was. Even after you two had agreed to leave early so neither of you would have to deal with a big crowd of people, it turned out everyone else had the same idea as you did. It was still pretty early in the morning and yet there was so much going on. It was unbelievable!

Your hands were currently intertwined with Shinsou's as you glanced around at all the stalls. You stayed as close to his side as possible, knowing his presence gave you comfort. You could even see on his face he wasn't all too happy about the amount of people either. Shinsou couldn't deny that he did love having you so close, but not when he knew it was because you were anxious.

As soon as he felt your grip tighten on him he didn't need you to say anything for him to know what was wrong. He had to admit he also felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave as soon as possible too. Shinsou grabbed onto your wrist and gently began leading you through the crowd until you reached the end. When you made it out of the crowd you looked around and took notice you were by a park. You both breathed in relief that you had gotten out of that situation and now you two could just go relax in the park, alone.

"Are you ok?" He asked you softly. He was happy to see your relieved expression. Your whole body had seemed to relax as soon as you walked into the deserted park area. There was only a few people walking their dogs but there were far away from the pair of you.

You couldn't even begin to tell him how grateful you were he had so quickly took you out of there. You told him you were fine and walked over to sit on a bench that overlooked the lake. He sat beside you and didn't complain when you pressed your face into his shoulder, you were blocking out the rest of the world, even if just for a moment. But also your boyfriends scent was just comforting for you.

Neither of you really loved big crowds or were socially gifted, so you both understood each other's feelings. It was nice to have someone who knew the signs and what steps to take to help. You both sat on the bench for awhile. The park, unlike the market, was quiet and peaceful, the breeze was so cooling on such a hot day. You felt so much better now that it was just you two. You could feel shinsou's thumb running across the back of your hand.

"Thanks for always saving me." You whispered as you rubbed your face furthur into his arm. "Don't thank me. I'd do anything for you, kitty." You smiled at the nickname. You had gotten it when he compared you to a cat. Saying you were always so quiet, sometimes even skittish, how you would always stick around him and avoid every one else. Just like how a cat would do with their owners. He first time he had said that you found it so cute you burst into a fit of giggles.

You sighed happily and closed your eyes for a sweet moment but not even 3 seconds later you wished you had kept them open. You jumped at the sound of someone calling your boyfriends name and running up to him. It was, what looked to be, an energetic old man. Shinsou stood up and sent him a lazy smile.

"I thought I recognised that hair! It's been a long time kid." The old man laughed. You had no idea who he was but you felt a little awkward just sitting there whilst the two conversed. You slowly stood up hoping the man wouldn't notice you so you could slip away from the situation and wait somewhere else for your boyfriend.

"Who's your friend?"

You cringed when he addressed you. Knowing now you couldn't walk away so easily.

You were stuck here, and you were probably about to completely embarrass yourself in front of this man and your boyfriend too.

You stood there tensed up and turned back to look at them. You really weren't good at talking to strangers but now the old man was expecting you to introduce yourself! You completely froze up. You felt your heart race just as fast as it had back at the market place, your face began to heat up as you tried to force some words out but you couldn't even get past the first letter.

"I-I-I-"

"That's (y/n)" shinsou saved you from having to speak, before reaching out to take your hand. He already knew it helped calm you down when he did this. You shyly moved to stand behind shinsou's back. Your head being the only thing that was peaking out.

"That's (y/n)?" The man asked in shock before letting out a hearty chuckle. "So you finally got 'em huh?"

His question made you curious but you didn't have enough courage to ask what he was talking about. Though the man seemed to notice the curious look on your face and smirked in amusement.

"Oh, Shinsou here had had a crush on you for quite sometime. It's been a good few years now."

You almost choked on your on spit. Years?!

Shinsous rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and turned his face away. "Come on... You didn't have to tell them that." He muttered, but you however felt your heart beating faster by the second. You two had been dating for awhile but certainly not years! Had he really liked you for that long? He had hidden it so well! You softly squeezed his hand. Wanting him to know he shouldn't be embarrassed about that. It was so sweet!

"Your right, but they deserve to know don't you think?" The man chuckled again. "He would always come around to my shop and sit there texting you for hours. He never smiled more than when he was talking with you. I'm suprised it took him this long to ask you out."

"Ok you can stop now." Shinsou muttered.

The old man made eye contact with you and you jumped back behind shinsou's back. "I should get back to the shop now. Come along anytime! I'll give you coffee, on the house!" The man waved as he walked away. You looked up to your boyfriend who was avoiding all eye contact. You stepped out from behind him, looking at him with love filled eyes.

"Who was that? How do you know him?"

"He-... well-..he owns the cat cafe down the street."

You couldn't help but giggle, wrapping your arms around him tightly. "Now I understand how you two know each other so well~" you teased him, his cheeks turning red in the process. He thought the teasing was over but he was wrong.

"I think we should talk about how you never told me you've liked me for years."

"Please don't."

Todoroki:

It was easy to tell you were quiet and shy but as a matter of fact that wasn't exactly what it seemed. You had social anxiety, and you had yet to tell your boyfriend about it. Which is why every time you avoided talking to people by hiding behind him, or when you held onto his jacket sleeve so tightly it almost ripped, Todoroki was utterly confused. He didn't understand why you acted this way. He figured maybe you were just wary of people? He knew it wasn't just shyness. At first? Yeah. He figured you were just shy but it seemed like something more to him. He just didn't know what.

Whenever he tried to ask you about it You dodged the question with. "Im just shy around strangers." But in actuality it was a lot more serious than that. You just didn't know how to tell him.

There were these three students who would come up to you in the hallways and everytime they did so you looked in incredibly uncomfortable. Like you wanted to completely disappear from the situation. This caused Todoroki to believe they were harassing you, and he wasn't happy about it. Of course he knew you did act that way around most people but it still caused him to worry to the point he would try and observe you to see what things would make you uncomfortable. Lately it seemed to be those three people from the support class. He knew he couldn't just Stand by and let this continue.

He was walking with you to class, the hallway was almost completely empty and so you didn't feel the need to cling onto your boyfriend for comfort. You knew he was becoming more suspicious about your mannerisms and you didn't want to worry him anymore than you already where. But you just weren't sure you wanted him to know about your struggle with your mental illness. What if he thought less of you because of it?

Those same three students from the support class were running up to you with grins on their faces. You had talked to them a few times- well no, let's rephrase that. They've talked to you. You didn't really say much unless they asked you a question. You did like them though. They were helping you with your costume and they didnt mind that you were quiet and a bit awkward either! That still didn't make it any less nerve wrecking to talk to them. You didnt know them well enough to be comfortable around them so when they came running over you grabbed onto Todoroki's arm, your fingers digging into his sleeve. He stopped walking when he felt this. Here you were again; looking uncomfortable as the support students were running up to you. It made him more than annoyed, could they just not see you were uncomfortable?

The three students exctiedly surrounded you, talking about the adjustments they made for your quirk and how they can't wait for you to try it out. You sent them a small smile, you felt more than happy they were helping you out. They were putting all this effort in for you, you just wished maybe they wouldn't crowd you like this. That's what made you feel anxious when talking to them. Three pairs of eyes all on you as they practically circled you.

You felt Todoroki take his arm away and you panicked for a small second before it cane back and secured itself around your waist. He pulled you to his side, glaring at the three in front of you. "Excuse me, but can't you tell you're making them uncomfortable. I suggest you leave them alone or else I'll have to get involved." He said in a stone cold voice.

You were suprised to hear him talking like this. The three students hadn't done anything wrong.

"U-uh.. ok? Sorry (y/n)."

The slowly walked away and you knew you would have to make an effort to apologise to them later that day. You turned to for boyfriend unable to comprehend the coldness in his eyes. "S-shouto! What was that for?"

"I thought they had been harassing you lately. Everytime they show up you seem to get so uncomfortable. Was I wrong?"

You sighed, knowing you would have to explain yourself. This couldn't happen again, and you didn't want to confuse him. "I-i think we need to talk. Or at least I need to talk, but it might be long so let's do it after class ok?"

It was safe to say the whole class he was silently panicking. 'We need to talk.' That was playing in his mind the whole time. About what? Had he messed up?

When he saw you stay back after class, he too stayed back until the class was empty. He walked up to you, you were currently leaning back against your desk. Noticeable worry in your eyes as you chewed on your bottom lip.

"(Y/n)?"

"I'm have social anxiety.."

"What?"

You blurted it out thinking it was just the best way rather than waiting any longer.

"You always get so confused when I hold onto you for too long. When I hide behind you or squeeze your hand too hard. Well, I get anxious around people... i always feel like i'm going to say or do something wrong, and then everyone will hate me for it. Those students weren't harassing me. I just don't always know how to act around people. I don't want to screw up. Don't you remember when we first met? I could barely talk to you. I was so scared you'd end up hating me."

Todoroki thought back to when you use to stutter and become breathless when talking to him. You even seemed to get dizzy at times and experiance faint spells. You had told him they were just side effects of your quirk which was an obvious lie but he didn't push it.

"I hold onto you because you make me feel calmer. You make me feel safe." You admitted, shyly. You didn't want to look at him in fear he would be judging you, so you didn't. What if he thought you were too much of a handful now? Surely there are much better people out there than you. Why bother with someone who can't even function correctly? Someone who can't even talk to people without getting dizzy and sick?!

"Well I suppose that gives me a good excuse to hold your hand then."

Your head shot up hearing his words. He was smiling down at you gently. It wasn't a big small, just the corners of his mouth had twitched upwards slightly. "You should've told me sooner. I would've tried to help you take the right steps to help you overcome this. Or at the very least just supported you through it. You dont have to hide anything from me."

"I didn't want you to know how I really am.."

"(Y/n), You accepted me for who I really am. If you think I wouldn't do the same thing for you. Maybe you don't know me that well after all."

He hooked a finger under your chin and lifted your head up as he leaned down, placing his lips to yours in a soft, delicate kiss.

"I love you. Don't ever feel ashamed of who you are because you're the best person I know."

#bnha scenarios #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #bnha headcanons #bnha #bnha bakugou #bnha todoroki #bnha shinsou #mha headcanons #mha imagines #mha scenarios #mha #mha bakugou #mha todoroki #bakugou x reader #todoroki x reader #shinsou x reader

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haileybeehappy · 5 years

Text

Ashton Irwin - Oh baby!

Word count . 2,028

Warnings . Lil angsty

Summary . After Ashton completely cuts you out of his life you find out your pregnant. Nine months later you have a run in at your favorite coffee shop

You and ashton had dated roughly a year ago. The breakup was messy. Really messy, there was rumors of the both of you cheating long eachother and that you were sleeping with all the other members of the band. Small fights started everyday. Small fights turned into screaming matches and throwing things. It became toxic. So after the two of you broke up. And when you broke up everyone cut you out of there lives. They said it was for the better of both of you but you know its because they didn't want there to be any chance of you and Ash getting back together.

Two months after you and Ashton broke up you noticed you hadn't had a period in a while. You took like a million pregnancy tests, all positive. Every single one. When you tried to tell Ashton no one listened. Thought you were just trying to get him back. Of course you didn't tell them why you NEEDED to talk to him because you needed him and only him to know.

So here you were almost ten months later with a baby. He's only a few weeks old but he looks just like his dad. You named him Cash. A combination between His dad's name and your old best friend. You had kept in contact with Calum for a while, he said that someone in management found out and freaked at him. He kept talking for a while but slowly faded out.

It was hard being a single mom with a minimum wage job. After the breakup no one really paid attention to you. Paparazzi stopped spotting you about a month after the breakup. You deleted all your social media and now you have become a little hobbit. You had a few work friends and a woman from mommy and me that you had coffee with once in a while but that was it.

So here you were sitting outside of a coffee house drinking decaf coffee, because if you drank caffeinated Cash would be up all night. Breastfeeding was hell sometimes. You were searching up daycares and daycare assistance when some familiar voices floated by. Ash. Youte head shot up. You watched as the boys walked by Ash was holding a woman's hand. She was beautiful. You stood up and grabbed the carseat dashing after them. You have no idea what you're doing but you were doing it.

"Ash!" Nothing. "Ashton!" The boys must have not recognized your voice because they turned around with smiles. That instantly turned to straight faces as they saw it was you. You got the the group and faced Ashton.

"I really need to talk to you," you say out of breath. He looks down at the carseat and there's an unreadable emotion on his face.

"Um. Yea. Guys give us a second," the two of you walk back to the coffee shop not saying anything. You realize you left your purse, laptop and diaper bag there carelessly. You shut your laptop and set the carseat back in the table.

"Well, hi," is all Ash says.

"I know you don't want to be here so I'll make it quick. I had a baby, yes he's yours. And as much as it sucks. being a single mom I'm not going to ask you to be in his life. I won't ask you for child support and I won't tell anyone that THE Ashton Irwin is a deadbeat dad. I just thought you should know that you have a kid. Of course I would love for him to have a dad and for you to be in his life but we will be perfectly fine without you," you had tears running down your cheeks. Those last few words were hard to squeak out.

He sighs.

"I'm not leaving you in the dust. I could never do that to you. Or our son," he looks into the carseat. Cash is awake but content. Hes not perfect but hes an easy baby. Only ever cries when he needs to be changed or fed. "Can I hold him?" You nod and stand up, getting him out of his carseat. You rest him on your shoulder holding him with your right hand while grabbing his blanket. You wrap the blanket around him and hand him over to his father. Ash's large hand make the baby in his arms look even smaller.

The boys and the girlfriends have made their way over. Some of them look at you with pity. Not Cal he's got his arms wrapped around you in seconds.

"Hey princess," he just holds on to you for a second. It's what you need right now. He separates from you and sits by his friend. He looks at your small bundle of joy for a moment. His fingers run across your sons head. "What's his name?"

You smile. Slightly embarrassed.

"It's Cash. Wanted to name him after his daddy and my best friend," they both remove their eyes from the small baby and instantly to you. Calum has a huge smile.

"I love it," Ash whispers. He looks back down at his son. "I love you," after a minute he hands the child to Calum and he heads over to the group.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He's now undistracted and confused.

"I tried. But you blocked me and no one would let me talk to you. Granted I didn't tell them why I needed to talk to you," you look over at your old best friend holding the love of your life.

"Was it hard?" You nodded.

"When I was pregnant, he really didn't like food. Any food really. I'd have to take a shit ton of vitamins. If I got cravings I was lucky. I ate a lot of cereal. That's really the only thing I could hold down," you grabbed the diaper bag and pulled some pictures out. They were from when he was first born. You always kept them on you, it was the best day of your life. "Labor was hell, the nurses really helped me through it. He was not wanting to breastfeed. I was in the hospital for a week before he would latch,"

He listened intently. He hated that he wasn't able to be there for the both of you. That he missed one of the most important stages of his son's life. Being born.

"He's a pretty easy kid tho," you laugh. "He's been sleeping almost through the night. Only waking up two or three times a night. He only really cried when he's ready to be changed or hungry. But that will probably change soon," You hear the soft cries of your baby and instantly stand up to see what he needs. Calum seems panic bringing the small bundle back to you. You can't help but laugh. You swiftly grab your son from his grasp and hold him to your body.

You feel his diaper and he's wet. Knowing this coffee shop doesn't have a changing table you pack him Into his carseat. You live in a small studio apartment less than a block away. It's about time for him to sleep and you like feeding him in the privacy of your home.

"I'm going to head home, he needs go ne changed and fed. Maybe even a nap. So I mean you can come with. You too Cal but my apartment is not nearly big enough for all of you. Ash nods. He relays the message to his friend. He hugs the woman I presume to be his girlfriend and him and Calum walk back to me. Michael waves and Luke has really been avoiding me the whole time so you weren't surprised when he just left without anything. You and Luke were close at one point, hell he was the one that introduced you and Ash.

The two of you fought before you left. He said that you needed to stay, saying that you were still part of the group and that it wasn't going to change, it didn't have to change. He said that if you left he wouldn't forgive you. That leaving them all behind was a selfish bitch move. He wouldn't talk to you again. So you weren't sure if he was guilty or sticking to his promise.

The three of you made it to your apartment. Cash still whining in the car seat but mild down because of the pacifier in his mouth. It only takes you a few minutes until you're punching the code into your building. The boys followed you up the three flights of stairs. Ash tries to carry the car seat but you do it everyday so it's no problem. You make it to your apartment and you quickly unlock the door and enter your small home. You gesture for them to sit on the couch (that turns into your bed). You make your way back into the sectioned off part of the living space where Cashes 'room' is. You quickly change him and make your way back to the boys.

You hand him to Ash and start to clean up a little.

"Wasn't really expecting company. Sorry," you throw some toys into a small plastic bin and fold up a few blankets.

"Y/n please. Leave it. Come sit and talk," Calum says. You sit on the other side of Ashton who is sitting in the middle of the fold out sofa.

"This is quite the place," Ash says letting his son hold onto his long fingers. He has them pulled to his mouth.

"Yeah, it's not much buy it'll be good for the two of us for a while, when he gets a little bigger he's gonna need his own room and space," Ash shakes his head.

"No, like I said I want to help. I want to be in his life. I know this is a big offer you could come stay with me. Please come stay with me. I want to be able to spend as much time with my little man as possible, don't answer yet. Let it sit for a few days? Please?" You don't give him a response because you're shocked. You just nod.

"So, I get god father rights right? You didn't pick someone else?" Calum speaks up a bit later breaking the slightly awkward silence.

"Of course Cal, as long as you stick around and change a few diapers definitely," you laugh. Cash suddenly begins to cry and Ashton tries to soothe him. You know what he's crying for and Ashton does not have the ... assets to give him what he needs.

You shake your head and motion for Ashton you bring him to your chest and remove the flap from the 'maternity clothes' and feed your child. Calum looks slightly uncomfortable and is distracting himself with his phone. Ashton watched his son eat and you weren't uncomfortable with it. One, you have become used to it, people watching you as you feed your son. And two, as bad as the relationship was in the end you loved him and he made you comfortable, always.

Cash made these cute little noises whenever he ate. He'd clench his fists until he was full and then he'd slowly release them. He only ate for a few minutes until he was content and pulled away. His little eyes opened and they were just the same as his fathers. You put yourself away and grabbed a burp rag from the coffee table and throw it over your shoulder. You bring your son up to your shoulder and begin to burp him. He gets fussy so you stand and walk him around the room.

"Can I help?" Asks Calum.

"Have you ever burped a baby?" He shook his head. You motion for him to come to you and show him how. It's not rocket science. "Bounce a little as you walk to," he nods and begins to walk him around the small apartment. Humming to him as he does so. You sit on the couch next to Ashton.

"So how are we going to do this?" He asks.

#hotfwrting #hotfwritings #hotf5sos #hotf ashton irwin #hotf ashton #ashton irwin fluff #ashton 5sos #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fanfiction #ashton irwin fanfic #5sos fanfic #calum hood imagine #calum hood fanfic

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bugrambles · 4 years

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Why are there not very many people talking about this? Did I miss everything or is it just not that big of a deal to anyone else??

You do realize that there are things that never hit the walls of Facebook, right? I’ve seen a cop body cam video or two (or more, let’s be real) of a person being shot, and yeah, sometimes it’s blurred out but it still shows that someone is dying.

If you think that’s bad, it gets worse.

https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dv8GDAFQ8E64&t=YzE1OWY4MDI4NzlhZjVlYjZjODlhOThiNjA4M2YwYWNmMDRjNDhiOSwxY2RjMzRhNzBjYWI2ZDhmOGU1OWYwOGE2MDM2NDQ2Mjk5OGEyNGU1

youtube

Every. single. day. there are people who try to upload the most vile of content that you could ever imagine. I’m talking brutal murders, stabbings, suicides, child pornography, literally thousands of these videos that people try to put on Facebook.

What you may not know, is that there are about 15,000 contractors who are watching these videos, for content moderation, making sure that they don’t hit Facebook.

Now, you would think that these contractors (who, might I add are generally military personnel, ex military, ex cops, people who have already been subjected to immense trauma) get amazing benefits, such as a substantial wage, some mental health resources, help, insurance, but no.

Let me tell you what they get:

They have 9 minutes of supervised wellness time per day, and I think Congresswoman Porter puts it best when she said, “that means nine minutes to cry in the stairwell while someone watches them.”

Most make under 30,000$ a year (to put that into perspective, when I was working as a shift leader for a fast food restaurant I made 25,000 per year, that’s about 11.50 an hour, and I sure a shit wasn’t watching disturbing videos all day), in Zuckerberg’s own words, he pays them, “at least a 15$ minimum wage.”

A few reports from the Verge highlight the poor working conditions, such as one employee dying at his desk after suffering a heart attack.

And you know what Zuckerberg says about these? They’re a ‘little overdramatic’

The cherry on top of all of this, though, is how Zuckerberg responded to Ms. Porter’s questions in the video above. I think it’s very telling that for one, he can’t give a straight answer, side stepping and trying to focus on what they do offer rather than what they don’t, when they offer far less than what they don’t, if that makes any sense.

Two, he tries to find a way out of saying no, he wouldn’t do it because he knows, he absolutely acknowledges that the conditions are messed up for the kind of work that they do.

He has people doing easy, surface level stuff, eating free food in a playful work environment, while the contractors basically sit in dark rooms, getting paid 2-3 dollars more than I make to work nights in a hotel, to watch the most brutal videos out there, while they are supervised to make sure they don’t hurt themselves, or break down, or run off fro the job, and THEN, if they decide to leave because it’s too much, they don’t get any kind of therapy help for the PTSD they will suffer from because of this job.

I’m honestly really worked up about this, and kind of upset that not many are talking about it.

#congresswoman porter #zuckerberg #facebook #latest news #news #news updates #contractors #content monitors #poor working conditions #bug rants

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diannaphantomfiction · 5 years

Text

Karivarry LifeSwap AU Writing Prompts. Prompt 12/♾: Day in the Life

Prompt requested by Anonymous

Kara, Barry and Oliver and their interactions with their teams + how they live their civilian lives

____________

“You can’t be serious.” Kara stared at her manager, sorry former manager, in shock.

“I’m sorry, Kara. The owner didn’t give me a choice. She said the police called. That you lied about your criminal history?”

It had taken Kara weeks to get a job at this stupid theme diner. She hadn’t even wanted it, but she needed the work desperately. So, during the day she stuffed herself into the stupid uniform (A pink dress with a fancy black apron tied around her waist and a pair of kitten heels), plastered a smile on her face, laughed at customers’ bad jokes, and hoped her feet wouldn’t be bleeding at the end of her shift. It wasn’t a good job per say, but they paid her minimum wage before she got her tips and gave her daytime hours.

And Maggie had lied to her boss and cost her it.

“I was never convicted of anything! They let me go every. Single. Time.”

“I’m sorry, Kara. You’re a good worker, but…”

Kara sighed, “You need a job too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I’ll change out of my uniform.”

“Thanks, Kara.”

Kara changed out of her uniform and returned everything, before leaving the building. She shoved down her anger and marched to the nearest bus stop. She was running out of options. Sure, she still had her inheritance, her mother had removed the excess requirements when Kara had come home broken and mentally scared. Cat Grant may have believed in hard work, but she wasn’t a monster. She would never leave her daughter to the streets if her PTSD prevented her from working. So she had a nice apartment, more than enough money to take care of Carter as his guardian, put food on the table, and pay for anything they would need, but she wanted to work. She hated sitting around doing nothing and John had literally pushed her out of the “Arrow Cave” a few times because “being the Arrow 24/7 isn’t healthy”.

Unfortunately, no one wanted to hire a girl with a BA in Anthropology. She supposed she could go back to school somehow, get her Master’s and PhD. But, the idea of field work made her heart race, her organs to chill, and her stomach to flip. She was actually terrified of it now when before it had excited her, and she wasn’t willing to admit that. Kara waved down the bus and rode it until she reached her favorite coffee shop. Apparently it was time to start looking for jobs. Again. So, that’s what she did, applying to everything she came across that she’d be able to do for hours until it was time to go home. She’d be there just long enough to fix dinner and wrangle Carter into homework and sleep before she was due at the Arrow Cave.

“Hey kid.” Kara said, ruffling Carter’s hair as she walked past him on the way to the kitchen. He was working on his Math homework, which would give Kara plenty of time to throw together something mostly healthy for them to eat.

“Hey Kara. I thought you got off work earlier today?”

Kara paused. Damn it, this kid was too smart. “So chicken or fish tonight? I think I have some Cod in the fridge…”

“Did you get fired again?”

Kara turned away just long enough to pull the cod and some vegetables out. “Yeah.”

Carter didn’t say anything for a few minutes, letting Kara work on cooking as he half-focused on a Math problem. As soon as the food was left to simmer, knowing that all Kara had to do was watch it, he spoke up again.

“You know you don’t have to work right? Mom said that if your PTSD was too bad…”

“Oh Car…” she turned to face him, “It’s not that simple. I like working. I like keeping busy. If I don’t work, it will just keep getting worse. Staying busy helps. Besides, what would I do with myself all day if I didn’t have a job?”

Carter shrugged. “I don’t know. I just...I don’t want you to end up getting hurt because you’re not ready for something, Kar.” Kara smiled at the old nickname. It had been a joke from Alex that had stuck. Her baby siblings: Kar and Car. Eventually the two of them had claimed the names for themselves, Carter actually declaring that only Kara was allowed to call him that.

“I’m glad you care, but it’s not your job to worry about me. I’m the big sister and you’re the teenage boy. It’s your job to do stupid shit and make mistakes and learn and it’s my job to worry about you.”

Kara was extremely glad that Carter was old enough to be left alone as she slipped out of the apartment to go to her “second job”. Kara had told Carter it was a managing job at Lena’s club and it was a good cover...for people who didn’t know who was on staff at Lena’s club or what was in it’s basement. So, Carter believed it. He was a smart kid, but he didn’t have all the facts and Kara was going to make sure he didn’t until he was older. Kara walked down to find John and Winn arguing about something lightheartedly, Lena elegantly stuffing her face with french fries, Mike and James arguing about something significantly less lightheartedly, and Kaldur and Artemis sparing.

“Kaldur! Artemis! What have I told you about sparing right before a planned patrol?”

They stopped. Kaldur at least looked reasonably chastised, he released his hard water construct swords, but not back into his water pack or as water vapor. No, he just let it fall to the ground. He then looked more embarrassed and even more chastised, luckily he realized his mistake and touched the puddle with a finger, he made his markings glow and evaporated it into the air.

Artemis on the other hand, just rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Kara loved Artemis like a little sister, she really did, but that girl had more bitterness in her pinkie toe than the rest of Kara’s team combined. Kara would never blame her for that, no teenager should have to suffer through being raised in the League of Assassins. Unfortunately, it did make it difficult to act as her mentor. Kara had learned that, for the most part, Artemis needed to make her own mistakes and Kara let her as long as the mistakes wouldn’t get her killed. So if it had just been Artemis going some intense training, Kara would have let her, lecturing her after she tried to spin kick someone with a sprained ankle and wouldn’t be able to walk on it for a couple weeks. Kaldur didn’t learn like that though and if he’d pulled a muscle or gotten hit wrong during sparring and injured himself more in the field, it would only serve to put him in a funk and it could take him days to get back to normal.

“I want you two on petty crimes tonight. And remember; back here by 2:30, back home by 3:00.”

“Petty crimes? Again?” Artemis snarled, “We’ve been on petty crimes all week!”

Kaldur bit his lip. He clearly thought something similar, but was thinking up a way to say it more respectfully. “We’re just...concerned you’re going easy on us. How are we supposed to learn if we aren’t challenged.”

Kara’s shoulders slumped. “I know. But...what we’ve been working on...I’m trying to make sure everyone comes out alive. You’re both extremely talented and skilled, but the man we’re fighting won’t hesitate to kill you, even if you are just teenagers. I want you both alive, and if that means keeping you on the sidelines for a while, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Neither teen looked particularly happy about that, but they didn’t argue. Simply nodded and sulked off to do their job.

“That’s probably going to come back to bite you.” Winn said, spinning just a little too hard in his chair and taking a couple extra circles, which almost completely undermined his point.

“They’ll get over it when they’re still alive,” Kara said, walking over to her suit. “So, have we found something more about Ra’s Al Ghul?”

“Nothing more than the usual chatter,” John said.

“You know if Alex was here…” Mike stops as everyone glares at him.

Kara stares him down for a few seconds. “Wildcat. Petty crimes.”

“What?”

“You’re on petty crimes. Mentioning my dead sister is in very poor taste and if you’re not going to provide meaningful contributions I’m going to treat you like one of the teenagers. Petty. Crimes.”

Mike stared at her, but eventually he left to join the teenagers on petty crime duty. Kara turned to the rest of her team and zipped up her leather jacket.

“Alright. Let’s get to work, then.”

----------

Oliver sat at his desk at the courthouse, mindlessly clicking through a form as he waited for his lunch hour. Usually, Oliver was busy. Criminal Psychologists who were willing to work for one city were rare. They were always sending him “insanity defenses” to examine, children to interview, or even sending him to Iron Heights to do prisoner interviews. Today he just had to interview a couple of “unstable” defendants (off his meds and mad because a cop pulled a gun on her ten year old) and fill out some forms. The computer didn’t move at super speed or he’d have been out of here hours ago. It was days like this Oliver hated his job.

“Knock, knock, big brother.”

Oliver looked up from his computer. “Sara? What in the world are you doing here? I’m sure I would have known if Captain Cold was on trial…”

Sara laughed. “Please. I would totally wear my parka to my own trial. I’m just here as a character witness.”

Oliver looked over her tasteful slacks and light blue blouse. “...For who? Are you going to perjure yourself for one of your girls?”

Sara waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not going to tell you. You wouldn’t believe me if I said no and you’d have me arrested if I said yes.”

“Because you would have left me no choice, Sara. Honestly. Do you not understand any of our jobs?”

“Meh.” She shrugged.

Oliver sighed, “Why are you in my office specifically?”

“I’m grabbing you and Laurel for Lunch.”

“...You’re just going to walk into the DA’s office and invite your sister to lunch?”

“Well how else would I do it?”

“Are you forgetting that you are Captain Cold?”

“No one can prove that.”

“You literally don’t wear a mask.”

As it turns out, Sara could just waltz into the DA’s office by changing her body language, speech patterns, and letting her hair down. Gone were the familiar hard lines around her eyes, the sarcastic lift in her voice, the confident swagger, and the tight ponytail. Instead she was walking with more swing in her hips, had pulled her hair down and fluffed it so it looked wavy, wore a smile that just didn’t look right, but did make her look younger and sweeter, and spoke in that way Oliver was sure women only did when they wanted something.

But, it got her past security without anyone questioning her. Somehow.

Laurel barely glanced up from her paperwork as they walked in. “Hey Oliver. Sorry, I can’t talk. I just got assigned a case from Major Crimes and I’m pretty sure they think I’m some sort of miracle worker.”

In an instant, Sara’s body language shifted back to normal. Her smirk and sarcastic lift returned as quickly as she relaxed back into her usual self. “Come on, Laurel. Even ADAs get lunch breaks.”

Laurel froze and looked up suspiciously, already stuffing the paperwork back into files and locking her computer. “Sara? How did you even get in here?”

“She walked. It was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen and I hope I don’t see it again.” Oliver said, completely serious.

“Come on,” Sara said as she tugged Laurel from her seat and out of her office, “If we hurry we can help Roy play hooky. Have a real sibling bonding experience.”

Laurel and Oliver exchanged a glance as they followed her, too familiar with her antics to try to fight her or stop her.

“You know, if you just told her…” Laurel started.

Oliver glared, “Shut up. Why don’t you tell her?”

Neither of the two superheroes had an answer to why they didn’t tell Sara as they followed their super villain sister to lunch.

It took a grand minute and a half for Thea to crash right into a wall and knock herself out. Oliver winced as he slid into a stop next to her. That was a new record. Her mask was off center as well, they’d have to fix that so it wouldn’t slip off or accidentally blind her.

Her eyes flickered open and she tried to shake her hair out of her eyes and failed. “Mr. Queen? Did I win?”

Oliver smiled and sat down beside her. “No. Sorry. Don’t worry, turning is hard at first, you lasted a long time. Well, a long time for a speedster. Come on, sit up. Caitlin will be down soon to force water down your throat and check you for a concussion in a few seconds. And I imagine your father will be freaking out.”

Thea sat up with a groan as she pushed her mask up onto her forehead, messing up her hair even more, which she would definitely complain about once her concussion passed in a couple hours.

Oliver has never expected to have a mentee of his own, not really. He’d seen Kara’s protégées training as she watched, shouting out corrections and encouragement at them. They were brilliant, Kaldur was fast, silent, and smart, Artemis was creative and her aim was nearly as good as Kara’s. Oliver hoped he could be as good a mentor to Thea was Kara was to Kaldur and Artemis.

The air chilled as Caitlin walked into the speed lab, her white waves bouncing and her blue lips pursed in the disappointment Oliver knew all too well from the dozens of times he had hurt himself and she had to patch him up.

Mac was right behind her, his usually blank, hard face was awash with worry and concern. When anyone except Thea was in trouble, he showed his care with anger and frustration. It was strange, but oh so Mac. None of them would have him any other way.

“What happened?!” Mac demanded.

Caitlin rolled her eyes and kneeled down, ignoring Thea’s flinch and hiss as Caitlin’s ice cold hands cupped her chin.

“Thea still hasn’t figured out how to make sharp turns. It takes some time to figure out.” Oliver assured Mac, placing a gentle, comforting hand on Thea’s shoulder.

“Why isn’t it like normal?” She moaned.

“Because we’re really, really fast. It’s like a cheetah. It takes extra thought, extra energy.”

Thea groaned. “Stupid…”

Oliver merely laughed. Yeah. It kind of was.

Caitlin was asking Thea the standard concussion questions and shining a light in her eyes.

“Why are you so cold?” Thea whined, pulling away with a shiver.

“My people are from a frozen planet.” Caitlin said dryly.

“Shouldn’t you have fire powers then?”

“That’s not how we evolved.”

Thea huffed and everyone else shook their heads and chuckled. Caitlin pulled back and nodded. “You’ll be just fine with some rest and some food.”

Mac sighed and scooped his daughter up. “You know, if you’re going to be doing this you're going to have to be more careful.”

“Hmmm...I love you too, Dad, but I’m very very hungry.”

Oliver chuckled as he and Caitlin followed the father and daughter. Now that he thought about it, he was also very, very hungry.

----------

Barry was bored. He was absolutely, positively bored out of his mind. As Dr. Tina McGee’s executive assistant, he was supposed to be paying attention and taking notes. Instead he was unprofessionally trying not to fall asleep in the middle of a board meeting that started at 5:30 and still wasn’t finished after lunch. Barry startled himself awake and adjusted his wire framed glasses as he tried to look like he’d been focused on his tablet. It probably didn’t work considering Dr. McGee gave him a fond look.

“I think that’s enough for today, gentlemen. Clearly we aren’t going to get any further and I think we all need a break.” She rose to her feet and left the room, Barry quickly stumbling to his feet and following after his boss.

Dr. McGee sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Well, that was a waste of time. How much did they screw up my schedule, Barry?”

“Uh…” Barry clipped on his tablet with his stylus. “Very. The minute it went past eight I set up automatic alerts asking one of the receptionists to reschedule your appointments.”

“Is Wayne Enterprises still on the schedule?”

“Yes ma’am. They’re going to be here in an hour and a half.”

Dr. McGee nodded. “Alright. Well, after that disaster of a meeting I need caffeine and sweets. Would you head down to the nearest Starbucks and get me something? Oh, and get something for yourself too. You looked dead on your feet in there.”

Her smile was kind, clearly making an excuse to give Barry a chance to get some much needed caffeine. What Barry actually needed was sunlight, but he quite liked the idea of a Frappecino. It would be a nice treat. So Barry sped walked down, the balance between “I’m totally a normal human” and “I’m literally not a human being” led to him looking very, very clumsy as made his way to the nearest Starbucks.

Barry ordered two very sweet iced coffees and hopped back upstairs, giving Dr. McGee her drink before returning to his desk to send emails and do other assistant things. It was very, very boring and Barry wished, not for the first time, that his keyboard could withstand super speed. And that he wasn’t in full view of everyone. It would make his life so much easier. Luckily, he only had to make it through that one last meeting and then he’d be able to go to his real job.

“Your patrol route for the day.”

Barry smiled at Len as he took to the tablet. “Hello to you too, Len”

Barry was already in his Superboy suit, having flown over, his hair windswept since he wore his longer than Clark’s and didn’t include a pound of hair products. Len, currently in his human form smirked and rolled his eyes, fondly. Barry’s route was outlined in blue as usual and intersected occasionally with Iris’s (gold) and Ronnie’s (orange). The routes were randomly generated by Cisco every day as a way to avoid a pattern that their enemies could pick up on.

Barry memorized his route quickly and handed to tablet back to Len. “I’m going to check in on everyone first.”

“Go right ahead, Bar.”

Barry smiled at his friend and mentor before running from the room. Bette shooed Barry away from Cisco because apparently they were in the middle of an assignment, but Barry had managed to catch up to Iris and Ronnie as they were getting ready for patrol.

“Rondi! Iris!” Barry called.

They turned. Ronnie Raymond, a Tamaranian whose real name was Rondi’ander, but was better known to the public as Brightfire, smiled at Barry kindly as he came up.

“Bar-El, how was your day?”

“Long and boring. You?”

“Jax got upset and he has set our television room ablaze.”

Barry winced. Jaxin’ander, or simply Jax, was Rondi’s younger brother and he had the same problem all teenagers with dangerous powers seemed to. Namely, control. That was why they had Jax, Wally, and Jessie all training together under whoever was willing to lend a hand. Usually it was Len or Barry, sometimes Bette felt comfortable enough to lend a hand and every once in a while Clark would show up. One time he even brought Diana with him. Barry was pretty sure they like Diana more than the rest of them combined.

“What am I? Chopped liver?” Iris asked. She was already sitting on her motorcycle, but her mask, which usually covered her lower face, was around her neck and her goggles were sitting on her forehead.

“Of course not!” Barry hugged his sister, smiling brightly again. There was a reason people called him a golden retriever. “How was work?”

“Fine. They’re bugging my to get an interview with Guardian.”

“They want you to interview...yourself?”

“You see my problem? Maybe I should ask Clark for advice, he interviews himself all the time.”

“I think he actually has Lois ask the questions.”

“Hm. That’s not a bad idea. Well, I’m good to go if you two are,” Iris said, tugging her mask and placing her goggles on her eyes.

Barry smiled and nodded and the three of them headed out to work.

#fanfiction #writing prompts #Karivarry Life Swap AU #Arrow #The Flash #Supergirl #AU #prompt #Karivarry #Life Swap AU

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emospritelet · 5 years

Text

Turn Left

After her encounter with Detective Weaver and his apparent lack of interest in taking things any further, Lacey arrives back in Storybrooke disillusioned and spoiling for a fight. She and Mr Gold have been trading insults for some time, but Lacey finds to her surprise that beneath the sarcasm, her attraction to him is growing. She decides to act on it.

Part 3 of the Small World series [Part 1] [Part 2] [AO3 link]

Lacey French had never believed she would be glad to get back to Storybrooke, Maine. Especially not in October, when the air was already cold enough to snow, and the rain threatened to freeze around her. She stepped off the bus from Boston into a dull, dark afternoon, her bag in one hand and a scowl on her face. Still, at least she was no longer in Seattle. It was unlikely she would ever have to set foot in the city again, which meant she was unlikely ever to see him. Just as well.

She had not gone to the other side of the country expecting to meet someone in a bar. She had also not planned on going back to his place and having the best sex of her life. His lack of interest afterwards was something she could have anticipated, however. Story of her fucking life. Every guy she’d ever hooked up with had turned out to be a total loser, and she’d made a mistake in thinking Detective fucking Weaver might have been different.

The rain was falling harder, and she shivered, looking around as the bus pulled off with a squeak of hydraulics. Too late to grab a shift at Granny’s, even if she wanted to, and she sighed as she remembered she had the breakfast shift the next morning. For a moment the future seemed to open up before her, years of minimum wage jobs and one-nighters with assholes. It was a depressing thought, and one she shoved to the back of her mind as soon as it took form. At least it wasn’t far to her apartment, and she could take a long hot shower, open a bottle of wine, and pretend her life was something other than a steaming pile of crap.

In the end she finished the wine and poured herself a whisky, and as a result she was hungover and sullen the following morning, her limbs heavy and aching and her head feeling as though it had been slammed against the wall. Fortunately the diner was fairly quiet at seven a.m. Just Leroy and his buddies filling up on eggs and bacon before work, and Dr Hopper getting tea and a bagel before heading to his office. Lacey poured coffee and carried trays of food in a daze, Ruby flitting around her wiping tables and clearing away dishes. Lacey envied her bright smile and cheerful demeanour; clearly Ruby had done the sensible thing and gotten an early night.

The day was every bit as dark and miserable as it had been when she arrived back in Storybrooke, and it did nothing to lift Lacey’s mood. She stomped to and from the kitchen, tiny red skirt swishing around her thighs and her white shirt tight enough to make the buttons strain. Granny had cast disapproving looks at the outfits she and Ruby wore, but to her credit she hadn’t told them to change.

A brief sound of traffic and driving rain and the feel of a cold breeze hinted at the door being opened, and Lacey glanced over her shoulder as she set down Dr Hopper’s toasted bagel. She sighed to herself at the new arrival. Mr Gold was a regular, although he rarely had anything but coffee. He was as immaculately dressed as always, three-piece black suit over a red silk shirt and a heavy wool overcoat over the top. A furled umbrella dripped water on the floor, but the wind was gusting, and some of the rain had caught in his hair, tiny droplets catching the light. His hair was longer than was fashionable, brushing his collar and hanging around his face, streaks of silver in amongst the brown. Gold was a short, thin man, with angular features and sharp brown eyes that flitted suspiciously around the room before meeting hers. Lacey swallowed hard.

Great. I’m marked.

She wasn’t sure why his gaze always made her feel nervous. Perhaps it was his reputation. Gold was landlord for most of Storybrooke, including her, and was renowned for keeping strictly to the letter of every rental agreement. No ifs, no buts, no extensions. Lacey was fortunate that she had always been able to make rent, and had therefore never attracted his ire, but she knew plenty of people who weren’t as lucky. It didn’t stop him being a sarcastic asshole with her, either. Luckily she had always managed to hold her own with him, despite Ruby warning her not to bring his attention onto her any more than was necessary. It seemed like she just couldn’t help herself; she had to snarl and bite at the shitty world somehow, and Gold made an easy target, if perhaps not one a sensible person would aim at.

Gold glanced away from her, heading for an empty table by the window, leather-gloved hand tightening around the brass-handled cane he used. She had always wondered how he had injured his leg badly enough to have a limp that had never healed, but as far as she knew no one had ever had the balls to ask him. He shrugged off his coat and hung it carefully over the back of his chair before sitting down and looking pointedly in her direction. Glancing around in desperation, she saw with irritation that Ruby was taking another order, and so she dug in the pocket of her tiny apron for her pad and pen and stomped over.

“What can I get you?” she asked grumpily, and Gold sat back, one corner of his mouth drawing up in a twisted smile as he looked her over.

“Miss French,” he drawled. “I haven’t had the pleasure of your surly expression and monosyllabic responses in what feels like an eternity.”

“Miss me, Mr Gold?” she asked flatly. “The feeling isn’t mutual. What’ll it be? Cup of dark and bitter with a side order of asshole?”

Gold’s twisted smile grew.

“I see your brief absence wasn’t due to taking a course in customer service,” he said snidely.

“Yeah, well, I spoke to the college admin, and it turns out you took the last spot on Human Interaction 101,” she said. “I figured you needed it more than me.”

He swallowed the grin, eyes narrowing, and she let one hip swing out, raising a brow.

“You ordering, or are you just gonna sit there scowling at me?”

“Black coffee,” he said ungraciously. “I’ll take a cinnamon Danish if they’re fresh.”

“They’re always fresh.”

“Could have fooled me, dearie.”

“Yeah, well, give ‘em a break,” she said. “Two minutes in your company and I feel like I’ve aged ten years, what chance does a Danish have?” She scribbled on the pad. “I’ll bring ‘em right out.”

She sashayed off, grinning to herself as she felt his glare between her shoulder blades.

“You got a death wish or something?” hissed Ruby, following her into the kitchen. “Gold’s put people on the street for less!”

Lacey snorted, using a set of tongs to lift one of the fresh pastries onto a plate. She set it on a tray with a clean coffee cup.

“What’s he gonna do, evict me for sarcasm?” she asked. “Bastard’s got nothing on me. My rent’s paid up and he knows it. Besides, he started it.”

“Just be careful,” warned Ruby. “I keep trying to tell you, but you don't listen! He’s got a long memory and he’ll just bide his time until you need something from him.”

“Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.”

“Oh, so we’re just up and tempting fate now, are we?”

“Rubes, don’t worry so much!” said Lacey impatiently. “I promise I won’t piss him off anymore, okay?”

She stomped out again, tray in hand, hips swinging as she grabbed the pot of coffee and carried it over to Gold’s table. He was watching her, one hand folded over the handle of his cane, fingers drumming slowly against it.

“One black coffee and a Danish, as requested,” she announced, and put the plate in front of him with a loud clunk before pouring the coffee.

“That’s an apple Danish,” he said coldly.

“So?”

“I requested cinnamon.”

“Yeah?” She squinted at the pastry. “That has cinnamon on it, I can smell it.”

“Are you going to bring me what I ordered, or not?”

Lacey sighed, snatching up the plate and stomping off again. Ruby gave her a look that said ‘I told you so’ as she passed, but she ignored it, hurrying to swap the apple pastry for a cinnamon swirl.

When she returned to his table, Gold’s finger-tapping had increased in pace, his irritation clearly growing. Lacey set down the plate with a bad grace.

“Cinnamon Danish,” she said curtly. “Enjoy.”

“Assuming the coffee isn’t cold by now, I’ll endeavour to oblige.”

She decided to ignore that.

“Yeah, well, if you want a refill, just holler.”

“If I ask for one now, perhaps it’ll be ready in ten minutes,” he said in a snide tone, and she rolled her eyes and stomped off.

“You’re playing with fire, girl,” whispered Ruby.

“I’m not playing with anything,” snapped Lacey. “I’m just not in the mood for that bastard today.”

“So I see, and you’ve been in a terrible mood ever since you got back from Seattle,” said Ruby. “What gives?”

“Nothing I wanna talk about right now.” Lacey sighed, glancing around the diner to check the status of its customers. “Look, you want to go out tonight? Few drinks at the Rabbit Hole?”

“Sure thing, but I can’t stay too late,” said Ruby. “I promised Granny I’d do the early shift tomorrow.”

“You can stay long enough to get me drunk, right?”

“Depends how quickly you drink,” said Ruby, with a grin. “When d’you want to meet?”

“Eight o’clock?”

“It’s a date.”

The Rabbit Hole was half-empty, not an unusual sight on a Monday evening, and Lacey had shoved a bunch of quarters in the jukebox to try and get a little atmosphere going. She wasn’t sure it was working. There was a small group of men clustered by the pool table, Ashley Boyd staring awestruck at that Sean guy, and she and Ruby sitting at the bar on their third drink. Lacey had been trying to explain how her trip to Seattle had gone, and was getting more agitated by the minute. She took a swallow of her rum and coke, gesturing with a finger.

“So anyway, the moment I mentioned that I was Belle’s cousin, his whole attitude changed,” she said, finishing up her story about the encounter with Weaver. “All of a sudden he couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. Fucking jerk.”

“Agreed,” said Ruby. “Did he say anything at the wedding?”

“No. Well, yes, but he was weird,” said Lacey, wrinkling her nose. “Kind of - I don’t know - kind of polite and distant, like he hadn’t had his face buried between my legs two nights before, you know?”

“Not sure I have an experience to match that one,” said Ruby, grinning. “The last person to bury their face between my legs kind of hung around.”

Lacey grunted in amusement.

“Where is Dorothy, anyway?”

“Still on that field trip,” said Ruby. “She’s back in town next week, so I’m afraid my nights off are gonna be pretty full.”

“Hey, no problem here, at least one of us should be getting some.” Lacey slumped on the bar, arms folded in front of her, feeling morose.

“So how did you guys leave things?” asked Ruby, and she sighed, pushing up again and grabbing her glass.

“We didn’t,” she said. “I mean it’s pretty obvious he wanted nothing to do with me once he found out who I really was.”

“Who you really were?” Ruby looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s Belle’s friend, right?”

“So?” said Ruby. “Why should that stop him liking you?”

“Because it’s Belle!” said Lacey plaintively, as if that explained everything. “She’s always been fucking perfect! Perfect grades, perfect attendance record, perfect poise and dress and fucking manners, and then she goes away to college and gets a perfect score and her perfect job and a fucking perfect physics professor husband! And in a year or so’s time she’ll start popping out perfect babies and have her perfect fucking picket-fence house in the suburbs!”

“Wow,” remarked Ruby. “What a bitch.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that…” Lacey let her head drop onto her folded arms with a groan before pushing up straight again. “I know I sound like a crazy jealous person, and I - well, I am, but It’s not her fault, she’s a good person. It’s just - she’s everything I never was, and my parents made damn sure I knew about it. Every time I cut class or went out drinking they’d be all like ‘oh, Belle would never do that’ and ‘Belle knows what she wants out of life’ and ‘why can’t you be more like Belle?’ It sucked!”

“I’m guessing it didn’t make you any more inclined to hit the books, either,” said Ruby knowingly, and Lacey grumbled, reaching for her drink.

“Just made me drop out even harder than I was going to.”

“So why is it a problem that the guy you banged knows this paragon of virtue, then?”

“Because!” said Lacey insistently. “Isn’t it obvious? He knows Perfect Princess Belle, and he’s embarrassed that he slept with her hot slutty mess of a cousin! That’s why he couldn’t get me out of the room fast enough!”

“I think you’re over-analysing this way too much,” said Ruby. “Lots of us like your brand of hot slutty mess.”

“Well, everything was going just fine until he found out we were related,” said Lacey sourly. “What’s your explanation?”

“I don’t know.” Ruby shrugged, and took a sip of her margarita. “Maybe he knows her a little better than you think, and that’s what he’s embarrassed about.”

“Huh?”

Ruby sighed, setting down her drink.

“Maybe the guy has a thing for petite brunettes with Australian accents,” she said patiently. “Maybe he screwed her, and he doesn’t want you two comparing notes.”

Lacey stared at her.

“What?”

“Think about it!” persisted Ruby. “The two of you hook up, have some good sex—”

“Great sex.”

“—and it’s all going fine until he finds out you’re the cousin of his best friend’s bride to be?” Ruby went on. “Why would that be a problem? Unless he already banged her and he doesn’t want you telling her he banged you and the whole thing coming out on the day of the wedding.”

Lacey blinked rapidly, thinking it over. It made a weird kind of sense, but she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “No way. Belle’s not like that. She wouldn’t cheat on the guy she was gonna marry.”

“How do you know?”

“Did you miss the part where I said she was perfect?”

“Well, it’s always the quiet ones,” said Ruby, reaching for her drink again. “Even oh-so-perfect Belle must have a few skeletons in her closet.”

Lacey was silent for a moment.

“He’s not even her type,” she said.

“Didn’t you say he wasn’t yours either, and it was the screw of the century?”

More silence. An unpleasant sinking feeling weighed heavy in Lacey’s belly, and she took a slurp of her drink in an attempt to numb it.

“If that’s true, it’s even worse,” she said gloomily.

“How do you figure that out?”

“It means she’s better in bed than I was. Fucking typical.”

“Oh, for crying out loud…” Ruby sighed and slumped forward.

“Sorry,” said Lacey. “Kind of on a downer tonight.”

“Yeah, I can see.” Ruby pushed upright, draining her glass. “Look, I gotta go, I’m on the early shift tomorrow. You want to come and have a sleepover?”

Lacey hesitated, but shook her head.

“We’d only stay up talking for hours, and you’d be tired as hell tomorrow,” she said. “Besides, I’m not very good company. Think I might play a few rounds of pool. At least that way I get to have the upper hand with a guy.”

“You sure? I don’t want you walking home on your own.”

“Yeah.” Lacey sat back, reaching over to hug her. “I’ll get Leroy to walk me.”

“Okay, cool.”

Ruby gave her a final hug and a concerned look, and trotted out of the bar, dark hair swinging behind her. Lacey turned her glass between her fingers moodily, and raised her hand to signal for another. It felt like a night for getting shit-faced.

She had intended to play pool, but found she wasn’t really in the mood, and so instead she sat staring into her fourth rum and coke, a pleasant buzz going through her. If she had any sense, she’d go home, pour herself a glass of something and watch some crap on TV until she could fall into bed. Instead she was leaning on the somewhat sticky bar, listening to someone else’s idea of decent music and wondering why her life was so fucked up.

“God, this place is dead tonight, huh?”

She rolled her eyes as Keith Nott sidled up beside her, leaning on the bar and standing a little too close. He was sending her what he no doubt thought was a winning smile, white teeth gleaming above a neatly-trimmed goatee. She wondered how she had ever found him attractive, and put it down to considerably more booze than she’d downed that evening.

“Drinking alone, Lace?” he said.

“Trying to,” she said dismissively. “Not really in the mood for company.”

“Oh, me neither,” he said. “Wanna get out of here? I got Netflix.”

“Good for you.” She took a slurp of her drink. “Don’t let me stop you binge-watching something.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he wheedled, and she turned her head to face him, giving him what she hoped was a scorching look.

“Go creep on someone else, okay?” she snapped, and he scowled.

“Well, if you want to be an uptight bitch—” he began, but then he seemed to see something unpleasant. His expression changed from annoyance to wariness, and he slipped away without a word. Lacey shrugged to herself. Good riddance.

There was movement in the corner of her eye, and she sat up, glancing around. Mr Gold had entered the bar, and Lacey was amused to see some of the customers melt away into the shadows. He spotted them, she was sure of that. No doubt adding their names to his list of those he needed to chase up for something. Guess Keith doesn’t have the rent. Gold stepped up to the bar, cane tapping against the floor, dark eyes sweeping around, restless and searching.

“I see you finally decided to come out and hang with the cool people,” she said.

She doubted he was there for pleasure; Gold was known to collect rent at unusual times, but the thought of him coming to The Rabbit Hole for an evening of drinking and fun was making her want to giggle. He glanced at her, mouth thinning a little as his eyes flicked from hers to her drink.

“Miss French,” he said, in an even tone. “I see you’re maximising your potential as always.”

Bastard.

“Well, if you mean the potential to get wasted, then yeah,” she said, pretending she hadn’t understood the insult. “Wanna help me get there?”

“Apologies,” he said coldly. “Some of us have work to do.”

“Didn’t you spend all day working?” she said. “Take a break, live a little.”

“I fail to see what business it is of yours how I spend my time.”

“Fine, excuse me for taking an interest.”

He ignored that, his eyes fixed on the barman who had just appeared from the cellar carrying trays of bottled drinks.

“Rent!” said Gold curtly, and the barman hesitated, glancing from right to left as though searching for a way out.

“Right,” he said lamely. “Uh - I’ll have to go make sure it’s all there.”

“It had better be,” said Gold, and the barman put down the drinks, nervously wiping his hands on his shirt.

“Can I - can I get you anything while you wait?” he asked. “On the house.”

“Obviously,” said Gold, in a dry tone. “Whisky. Neat. Single malt, not that swill you tried to give me last time.”

The barman gulped, and snatched at a glass, hunting for the decent whisky and pouring a large measure. Lacey watched as Gold took a sip, and the barman hurried off, presumably to fetch the rent money. Gold wasn’t looking at her, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of him, and she took the time to look him over, to note the way his hair gleamed in the light, the sharp lines of his nose and jaw and the swell of his lower lip. She found herself wondering what he looked like beneath the three-piece suit. Whether anyone in town knew.

It wasn’t the first time she had thought about it, by any means, but her interest had certainly increased over the past few months. Perhaps it was the fact that the ongoing battle of wills between them appeared to have entered a new and more sarcastic phase. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t afraid to stand toe-to-toe with him and trade insults, and that he seemed to rather enjoy that fact. She wondered what he thought of her; did he see her as a worthy adversary, or merely an annoyance, something to toy with when bored and then flick away when his interest had waned.

He glanced at her and away again, and took another drink, a droplet of whisky shining on his lower lip before he licked it off with the tip of his tongue. Lacey licked her own lips in response, enjoying the sudden lurch in her belly. She had once considered seducing him just to see the look on his face, and had dismissed the idea almost immediately, but now the thought returned, nagging and insistent, and refused to leave. To her surprise, she realised he reminded her of Weaver. The two dressed very differently, and Gold was thinner in the face and body, but each had the same intensity, the same air of danger and capacity for violence against those who deserved it. It made excitement ripple through her as she imagined how it would feel to let him unleash that intensity on her in a far more stimulating way. The accent didn’t hurt, either.

“Is there something I can do for you, Miss French?”

He always talked that way, she reflected. Polite, but with an air of menace, as though he could slit someone’s throat without blinking but would apologise profusely for the mess it made. He sometimes had another man accompany him on his rounds. Mr Dove was a giant of a man, and few dared to argue about their rent payment with him staring silently at them from behind Gold. Lacey got the sneaking feeling that Gold was more than capable of enforcing his rights himself, if it came to it, but he probably didn’t like getting blood on his suits.

“Just thinking that you reminded me of someone, that’s all,” she said.

“Really?”

His voice was uninterested as he set down the glass again.

“Yeah. Someone I met in Seattle. A cop.”

“Well, I won’t ask how you two crossed paths,” he said dryly.

“I picked him up in a bar much like this one, went back to his place and banged him like a screen door in a hurricane.”

Gold’s eyes flicked towards her briefly.

“Rest assured, I’m just here for the rent.”

His tone was very dry, and she tried to hold in a giggle. Lacey let her eyes run down his body, following the lines of his suit. Gold’s fingers drummed impatiently on the bar, and she noticed how long they were. Long and slender and - careful. A man with attention to detail, she imagined, taking a drink to wet her suddenly dry throat. Okay, so the last time I ended up in bed with a guy twice my age it didn’t end so well, but it was fucking hot while it lasted. Wonder what tricks this guy knows...

“So, Mr Gold,” she drawled. “How long’s it been?”

“Since what?” asked Gold dismissively, taking a sip of his drink.

“Since you had a good, hard fuck.”

Gold choked on his whisky, spraying it over the bar and making her chortle as he turned to face her with narrowed eyes.

“Are you drunk?” he snapped, and Lacey pulled a face.

“Little bit.”

“In that case I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the question,” he said curtly, whisking the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing at his chin.

“Wow,” remarked Lacey. “That long, huh?”

“You are on thin ice, Miss French,” he growled.

“What are you gonna do, spank me with your cane?” she asked, grinning. “I’m not saying no…”

Gold’s jaw clenched, his eyes glinting.

“If you’re looking for me to raise your rent, you’re going the right way about it.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” she said, and he leaned on the bar, glaring at her.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” he said softly.

Lacey met him stare for stare, and picked up her glass to take a slow sip.

“Nah,” she said. “You don’t break deals, right? I’ve kept to every one of the terms of that damn contract, so there’s no way you can raise the rent. Not without breaking your own rules.”

One eyebrow flicked, the corner of his mouth twitching a little.

“You’re sure you read all the sub-clauses, are you?” he said.

“Pretty sure,” she said. “Maybe you should add in some kind of penalty for bad flirting.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” he said flatly. “Can’t say I noticed.”

“Yeah, I get the feeling you don’t always pick up on those social cues we earth humans rely on.”

“Social interaction is something I neither require nor pursue,” he said.

“We all need to make a connection, Mr Gold.”

“Speak for yourself, Miss French.”

“Hey, I’m just reaching out here,” she protested. “Can’t you at least meet me halfway?”

“I’m busy,” he said curtly.

“Well, that’s probably why you always look mad,” she said, poking his forearm. “You should smile more, you’d be prettier.”

His eyes gleamed, and she thought he was amused, despite himself.

“I think my days of being pretty are very much over,” he said.

“Couple more drinks and I won’t care.”

His mouth definitely quirked at that.

“Maybe you should.”

She sat back at that, unnerved by what seemed like an uncanny ability to see right through to the heart of her, and her own insecurities.

“I’ll do what I want with my own body,” she said, irritated by her own defensiveness. Gold shrugged a little.

“Assuming it is what you want, of course.”

Lacey glowered at him, but he had turned away again to sip at his whisky. The barman returned, a brown paper envelope in one hand and a nervous expression on his face. Gold set down his glass and took the envelope, pulling out a sheaf of bills and counting them out on the bar. He eyed the barman, licked his thumb, and counted the money a second time.

“You’re short by fifty,” he said coldly, and the barman started.

“Oh. Right. Uh - let me take it out of the register.”

“Get me another drink while you’re over there,” called Lacey. “Mr Gold’s paying.”

Gold shot her a narrow-eyed glare, but nodded when the barman looked at him.

“One drink,” he confirmed. “I’m sure Miss French has no desire to be in my debt for anything more.”

“Hey, you get the pleasure of my company,” protested Lacey. “Can’t say fairer than that.”

Gold didn’t respond, but went on counting the money. He added the crumpled bills handed to him by the barman and peeled one off the top for Lacey’s drink. He then slipped everything back in the envelope and reached into the inside pocket of his coat for a receipt book.

“Paid in full,” he said curtly, as he scribbled the date and amount paid. “Wonders will never cease. I’ll see you next month.”

The barman gave him a sickly grin and took the receipt between stubby fingers. Gold slipped the receipt book and pen back into his pocket and drank the last of his whisky.

“Exhilarating though it’s been, Miss French, I still have work to do, so I’ll say goodnight,” he said. “Enjoy your drink.”

“I’d enjoy it more with some company.”

“In which case, there are any number of lumbering oafs in this bar no doubt eager to oblige,” he said. “Good evening to you.”

He inclined his head to her, almost a bow, which amused her greatly.

“You’re really not like anyone else in Storybrooke, are you?” she said. “D’you ever get tired of feeling out of place?”

He showed his teeth, a gleam of gold showing on the lower jaw.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

He turned on his heel, limping off with that sinuous stride, and Lacey watched him go, sucking rum and coke through a straw and savouring the low-down burn of her new and unexpected desire. She finished the last of the drink, and the barman poured another, setting it in front of her. A pleasant buzz was going through her, a looseness in her limbs and a feeling of contentment. It vanished as Keith leaned on the bar next to her with an oily grin.

“So,” he said. “Where were we?”

“Don’t you have rent to pay?” asked Lacey, in a bored voice, reaching for her drink.

“Not if I can stay out of Gold’s way.”

“Why don’t I call him back here, then?” she asked. “It’d be worth running down the street in these heels if it means you disappear again.”

“God, you really know how to tease a guy, huh?”

“Would I be less of a tease if I told you to fuck off and leave me alone?”

Keith frowned at her, then glanced at the door, through which Gold had recently vanished. He turned back to Lacey with a slow smirk twisting his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you’re making a pass at Gold,” he jeered.

“Does it look like it?” said Lacey, feeling herself blush, and cursing in her head.

“You’re wasting your time,” drawled Keith. “Something tells me you’re not his type.”

“Hey, what a coincidence!” she exclaimed. “You’re not mine.”

“Not what you said six months ago.”

“Yeah, that’s how I know.” Lacey took a slurp of her drink. “Would you piss off? I’m trying to get drunk in peace.”

“There a problem here?”

To Lacey’s relief, Leroy had stepped up from the pool table, thick arms folded across his chest as he scowled at Keith above a bristling black beard.

“Get lost, dwarf,” snapped Keith.

“Oh, making a comment about my height, huh?” sneered Leroy. “Real original. How about you leave the lady alone?”

“Lady?” Keith curled his lip. “She’s the easiest piece of ass in town. Surprised you don’t already know that.”

Outraged, Lacey slammed down her glass and slipped from her stool, but Leroy had already thrown a punch, hitting Keith in the stomach. He doubled over with an oof as the breath was driven from him, clutching at his belly.

“Apologise, you piece of shit!” growled Leroy.

“No fucking way!”

Keith was grimacing, but he straightened up more quickly than Lacey had thought possible, right fist flying out and striking Leroy firmly on the nose. There was a dull crack and a bellow of pain before he went down, and Lacey rounded on Keith in fury.

“You asshole!” she shouted. “Get the fuck out of here before I have you arrested!”

“He started it!” whined Keith, still holding his midriff.

Lacey noticed his eyes flick from left to right as Leroy’s friends, Tom and Walter, came over, and then he pushed past her and stomped off, muttering something under his breath about her being a slut. She dropped into a squat beside Leroy, who was holding his nose, blood running between his fingers.

“God, are you okay?” she asked anxiously. “That piece of shit! You want me to call the Sheriff?”

“Forget it,” he grumbled. “Worth it to land one on the creep. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but you’re bleeding!”

“Come on.” Walter stepped up, reaching down to grab Leroy’s arm and haul him to his feet. “Let’s go get that nose straightened out, or you’ll be even uglier.”

“Fuck you,” muttered Leroy, but without any heat, and Walter chuckled.

“You couldn’t afford it, dumbass. Come on, I think Whale’s on duty tonight. Should be able to patch you up.”

“You want me to come?” asked Lacey, but Leroy shook his head.

“They make you wait around for hours,” he said thickly, and jerked his head at Walter and Tom. “These two losers have nothing better to do with their night.”

She kissed his whiskery cheek.

“Text me when you’re patched up,” she said. “And your breakfast’s on me tomorrow, okay?”

He grinned at that, and let his two friends lead him away, a little unsteady on his feet. Lacey chewed her lip as she gazed after him, anger at Keith warring with worry for Leroy. She glanced at what remained of her drink, and sighed. A crappy end to a crappy night. Throwing back the last of it, she straightened her dress and grabbed her jacket. Time to go.

The music coming from the jukebox had changed, the twang of hard rock guitars making way for something slower and darker. It was raining, a fine drizzle, and Lacey hitched at the lapels of her jacket as she left the club, shivering a little at the sensation of cold air against her bare legs. There was a hint of ice in it, the threat of snow, and she kept an eye on the ground in front of her as she slipped into the alley that led back to the main street.

Her footsteps echoed, keeping time with the steady drip of water from one of the gutters, the distant streetlights sending out enough of a pale glow to see her path around the dumpster and a pile of discarded cardboard boxes, grown soggy and soft in the rain. A dark mass loomed out of the shadows, and Lacey stumbled a little as Keith was revealed, scowling at her.

“Tell your buddy if he tries anything again it’ll be worse for him,” he said, and Lacey sighed.

“Look, I don’t have the energy to referee your next pissing contest,” she said. “He punched you, you punched him. Would you just get lost? It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

She stepped to the side to go around him, but Keith moved with her, blocking her way. His mouth had turned up in a smirk, the scent of beer heavy on his breath, and Lacey felt the first prickle of unease.

“You know he was defending your honour, right?” he said. “Such as it is. Kind of cute, if you think about it. If kind of pointless. We all know what kind of girl you really are.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” she said, in a withering tone. “What, you get me drunk enough to think blowing you was a good idea, and suddenly you can see into my soul? Go fuck yourself.”

“Don’t be like that, Lace,” he whined. “Come back to my place, what do you say? We kind of cut things short last time.”

“Yeah, because I had to go throw up,” she said. “Not sure if it was the bourbon or your company. Let me past.”

“In a minute. I just want to talk, what’s your hurry?”

He moved closer, and she took a step back, heart thumping.

“Keith, I mean it!” she said, hating the way her voice wobbled. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Oh, they all say that,” he said lazily. “How about I do?”

He reached out to grab her arm, and Lacey squeaked in alarm, trying to pull away. His low chuckle turned into a strangled sound as a gleam of gold appeared at his throat and he was jerked back from her, stumbling in the alley and falling to his knees.

“Excuse the interruption.” Gold’s calm, menacing voice made Lacey want to sag in relief. “I’ve been looking for you, Mr Nott.”

Keith was on his hands and knees, coughing hard, and Gold grounded his cane between his legs, the gold handle glinting.

“Your rent is due,” he said. “Past due, in fact. I’m here to discuss payment.”

“I don’t have it!” wheezed Keith.

“Then I suggest you remedy that,” said Gold quietly. “Or I’ll be taking payment in my own way. I doubt you’d appreciate the additional charges.”

“You can’t touch me, you fucking psycho!”

“Oh, I beg to differ.”

“I got - I got a witness!” blustered Keith, and Gold glanced at Lacey.

“I just witnessed you attempting to assault Miss French,” he said. “You really think she’s your guardian angel?”

“I didn’t see a damn thing.” said Lacey flatly, and Gold grinned at her, his gold tooth gleaming in the dim light.

“Seems your witness is unreliable,” he said. “Such a pity.”

Keith pushed up on his knees and swung a punch at Gold, who stepped back smoothly on his good leg to avoid it. Quicker than Lacey could believe, he lashed out with his cane, catching Keith with a blow across the ribs and causing him to let out a hoarse cry as he slumped to the ground again.

“Fuck you!” gasped Keith.

Gold tutted, shaking his head.

“Well, it’s really no’ your night, is it sunshine?” he said. “Rent. Now.”

“I don’t have it!”

“God, this conversation is going in fucking circles,” drawled Gold. “What did I just fucking say?”

He lashed out again, and Keith cried out, raising a hand.

“Okay, okay!” he groaned. “I don’t have it here, but I can - I can get it!”

“When?”

“Uh - Friday!”

Gold leaned on his cane, bending over so his mouth was close to Keith’s ear.

“You’ll get it to me by ten a.m. tomorrow, or I’m gonna come looking for you, and I promise you, it will not be pleasant,” he growled. “Do you understand me?”

“Okay, okay!”

“Good.” He straightened up, fingers flexing on the handle of his cane, and jerked his head. “Ten a.m., Mr Nott. Not a minute later. Now fuck off.”

Keith got to his feet, shot a venomous look at Lacey, and staggered off down the alley, clutching his side as he went. Gold glanced at her. His chest was heaving, breath billowing out into the cold air in thick white plumes, his body quivering with rage, and Lacey licked her lips, that low-down burn tugging at her belly again.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She took a step towards him. “Uh - thanks for that. He’s like twice my size; I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do.”

“No matter.”

“Guess I understand why everyone in town’s afraid of you,” she added.

He turned slowly to face her, the distant streetlight picking out golden highlights along his nose and cheekbones and casting him in shadow.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, his voice a low growl, and the tug in her belly became an ache.

“No.”

His fingers opened and closed, black leather gloves squeaking a little.

“And why is that?”

His voice was soft, and she licked her lips, taking a step towards him.

“Because you keep your word,” she said. “And because I pretty much offered it on a plate back in the bar, and you turned me down. Doesn’t often happen.”

“Sorry if I offended you.”

“I’m not offended.” She took another step closer. “I’m - intrigued.”

There was silence, but for the rhythmic dripping of water. The rain was still falling, fine drizzle catching in Gold’s hair and wetting her cheeks

“Intrigued?” he said softly.

“Kind of turned on, if you want the truth,” she added, and his mouth twitched.

“Is that right?”

Lacey took the final step, until she was almost touching him, his lips only an inch or two from hers. The air was heavy and close, as though a storm was coming, and she could feel his breath against her mouth, his dark eyes gleaming as they held her own.

“You never answered my question,” she said softly, and he swallowed hard.

“Which question was that?”

His voice was a little unsteady, and it gave her courage, made her think that perhaps he wasn’t completely indifferent to her.

“How long’s it been?” she whispered, and he glanced away, his jaw tightening before he looked back.

“Too fucking long,” he growled.

He reached up to cup her cheek, and she leaned in to kiss him, fingers sliding into his hair as his mouth met hers, hard and hungry. Rain had wet their lips, making their mouths slide over one another, and she slid her hands down his sides to slip around his waist, pulling him against her. Gold parted her lips with his tongue, making her moan as she tasted him, as she felt a part of him push inside her. It made her arousal grow, the pull of desire making her ache between the thighs.

He pushed at her, and Lacey hummed in approval as her back hit the alley wall, his body pressing against hers. There was a rattling noise as his cane hit the ground, and then his hands were on her, sliding down to cup her breasts and squeeze. Lacey moaned, pushing into his palms, and he pulled his mouth from hers, kissing down her neck, his tongue swirling over skin made wet with the rain. She opened her legs a little, a surge of desire going through her at the feel of him there, hard against her. Gold stroked a hand down over her hip to her bare thigh, pushing beneath her dress and sliding up to cup her mound. His lips found her ear, and she shivered.

“What do you want, Lacey?” he growled. “You want to get fucked, is that it? You want to get fingered until you come?”

She moaned, dragging her hands through his hair as she nodded agreement, and he wrenched at the edge of her lace thong, tugging it aside and letting his fingers slide over her flesh. A low groan rumbled out of him, and she let out a cry as he grazed her clit.

“Fuck, you’re wet!” he breathed. “I want to feel you all around me. Slide deep inside you and feel you come!”

Lacey rose up on her toes with a moan of pleasure as a finger entered her, pushing deep, and Gold groaned, sweeping his tongue over her pulse point, making her let out a tiny cry of pleasure. His thumb rubbed over her clit, spreading her fluids with slow, circular movements, and she clung to him, her breathing ragged, eyes closed as jolts of sensation went through her. Gold nipped at her jaw, mouth finding hers, the kiss hard and messy as he pushed a second finger into her. His free hand plunged into her hair, twisting in her curls as his tongue stroked against hers.

Lacey pulled her mouth free with a gasp, head thudding against the wall, and his fingers moved in short, sharp thrusts, his thumb flicking over her. She could feel herself working up to climax, and she bent her head to his neck, sucking on his skin and making him growl. His lips found her ear again.

“I always wondered what you’d feel like,” he whispered. “What you’d taste like. I’ve thought about spreading you out on my dining table and taking my sweet time with you, Lacey.”

The sound of his voice was almost too much, its low burr vibrating through her, and she raised her head to look at him, her body tingling, sensations rising up and brimming over. Gold was staring at her, eyes black in the dim light, lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl as his rigid fingers fucked her hard. Lacey let her head roll back with a loud wail as she came, heat flooding her cheeks, pleasure washing over her, and he groaned with her release, fingers thrusting as she jerked against him. She sagged against the wall, the tension leaving her body with a wave of bliss, and his kisses became gentle, his tongue swirling over her pulse.

She tried to catch her breath, her heart thumping hard, and Gold slowly drew his fingers out of her, slipping them into his mouth and letting out a deep rumbling groan of pleasure at the taste of her. Lacey watched him through heavy eyelids, still panting, and he drew them out, lips curving upwards in a slow smile.

“Well well,” he said quietly. “It appears my evening took an unexpected turn, Miss French.”

“Yeah.” She licked her lips, heaving a shuddering breath. “And if you take a left out of this alley, you’ll end up at my apartment. How about it?”

He stroked a stray wisp of hair back from her face, cupping her cheek with fingers still warm and sticky, and kissed her again. His lips pulled at hers as he drew back, and he bent his head to whisper in her ear.

“Now that I know how you taste,” he breathed. “I want all of you. I want to taste you when you come.”

“Fuck!” gasped Lacey, and felt him smile against her neck.

“I want to lick you until you scream,” he whispered. “Suck the cum from you and drink you down.”

“Jesus—” She pushed him back from her, bending to pick up his cane and handing it over. “Hurry the fuck up and take me home before I shove you down and ride you in this alley, okay?”

“It’d be hell on the suit,” he said lazily, as he got the cane underneath him. “My dry-cleaning bill is quite high enough as it is.”

“Less talk, Gold, more walk.”

He chuckled at that, letting her pull him towards the mouth of the alley and turn left. Lacey walked quickly, his hand clasped in hers, her heart still thudding in her chest. If the man’s as good with his tongue as he is with his hands, I’m in trouble. Can’t fucking wait.

It didn’t take them long to reach the apartment, and Lacey let them in, tossing her keys onto the little table in the hallway and shrugging off her coat. He took off his own, hanging it carefully on the rack as she tossed hers across the back of the couch. The lounge was what she called comfortable: cushions piled in one corner of the couch for binge-watching TV and the coffee table strewn with the usual clutter of books, dirty plates and wine glasses.

“Well, I love what you’ve done with the place,” he remarked, looking around.

“Shut up. You get the rent paid on time, you don’t get to judge how I live.”

He chuckled softly, following her through to the bedroom. It was relatively tidy for her—she had even made the bed that morning—and she flicked on the bedside lamp before turning to face him. Gold was watching her, hands folded over his cane, still in his leather gloves and his three-piece suit. Lacey put her hands on her hips, suddenly nervous, and trying to hide it. She raised her chin.

“Your move,” she said.

A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, and he lifted a hand, one finger raised.

“Take off the dress.”

She eyed him for a moment, but grasped the hem of her dress, tugging it up and over her head and throwing it aside. He looked her over very deliberately as he took off his gloves, plucking at each leather finger in turn before drawing them off his hands. He folded the gloves, slipping them into the inside pocket of his jacket, and Lacey bounced on the toes of her high-heeled shoes, goosebumps starting to ripple over her skin. Gold nodded to her.

“Now the bra,” he said.

“What about you?”

“I’m not wearing a bra.”

She sent him a flat look.

“I mean you’re kind of overdressed for the occasion.”

“We’ll get to me in time. For the moment I want to enjoy seeing you naked.”

She grumbled under her breath, but reached behind, unhooking the bra and letting it fall at her feet. He released his breath in a long, slow sigh, his eyes glinting.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “You’re perfect, Lacey.”

“First time for everything, I guess.”

“Ah, the obligatory self-deprecation of the insecure,” he drawled.

“Fuck you, Gold.”

“I certainly hope so.”

She scowled at him, dropping her gaze to the patterned rug, but he took a step forward, slipping a finger under her chin and raising it so that he could look into her eyes.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “Beautiful and perfect. Believe me.”

There was an intensity in his gaze, dark eyes fixed on hers, as though he meant every word, and she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see it, her thumbs hooking under the waistband of her underwear. She felt the press of his lips against hers, and opened her eyes.

“Let me do that,” he said quietly, and his hands covered her own, gently pushing them away from her underwear.

Lacey let them fall to her sides, closing her eyes again as he began to kiss down her neck, his hands stroking up her body to cup her breasts. His palms were warm against her cool skin, his mouth soft, fresh stubble on his chin grazing her as he kissed lower. She rose up on her toes as he put his mouth to her breast, moaning as he sucked at her, his hands cupping her. He lowered himself down, coming to rest on his knees, and she wondered if it hurt him, if his leg was paining him as he sucked at her. His mouth moved lower, over her belly, fingertips grasping the waistband of her panties and gently pulling them down over her hips to fall around her ankles.

He glanced up at her, brown eyes gleaming in the lamplight, and Lacey ran her fingers through his soft hair, letting her head roll back with a moan as he put his mouth to her. His tongue stabbed and swirled, pushing between her folds, circling her clit as he groaned in pleasure. Lacey spread her legs a little wider, and he slipped an arm between them, lifting her leg and slipping it over his shoulder so that he could reach more of her. She gasped as he licked at her, his nose rubbing against her.

“God, you taste good,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her breath cool on her wet flesh. “I need more.”

His finger stroked over her, and Lacey moaned again, her flesh still sensitive from her earlier orgasm. The finger pushed inside her, and Gold let out a low growl as it pushed deep.

“Beautiful, silky little cunt you’ve got,” he breathed. “I want to get inside you, Lacey. I want to sink deep into you and fuck you hard.”

“Oh my God!”

Her fingers twisted in his hair, her breath coming in pants as his tongue swirled over her, his finger thrusting in and out. Her body was shaking, and she could feel her climax building, rising up through her and making her muscles tense, her breathing fast and shallow. He quickened the pace of his thrusts, his thumb rubbing over her clit, and she whimpered, her cheeks flushing, pleasure blooming within her and sending a wave of heat through her body. She came with a moaning cry, jerking against his mouth, and Gold groaned, pulling out the finger and grasping her hips, his tongue sweeping through her folds to catch every drop of her cum.

She let her fingers slip from his hair, her body tingling all over, and licked dry lips, trying to catch her breath. He pressed a final kiss to her before sitting back on his heels, a slight wince the only indication that he was in pain. His chin was slick with her fluids, glistening in the light, and he swiped his thumb across before sucking it clean and letting out a low rumble of approval, dark eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured. “Get on the bed and lie back. Leave the shoes on.”

She swallowed the comment she had been about to make and climbed onto the bed in nothing but her black high heels. After a moment she rummaged in the drawer for a condom, tossing it onto the bed beside her. Her heart was thudding hard, the air cool against her hot skin, and she sat back against the pillows, drawing up her knees a little. He seemed to be taking off his shoes and socks, and she watched as he straightened up with a grimace, unbuttoning his jacket and letting it slide from his shoulders. Gold ran his eyes over her, the tip of his tongue sliding across his lower lip, as though trying to catch the last taste of her. A tiny, smug smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth, and she got the impression he was pleased with himself. As he fucking should be, that was awesome!

“Touch yourself,” he whispered. “Let me watch.”

Lacey’s breath caught, and she let a hand slide over her belly, inching slowly downwards. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, draping it over the back of the chair where he had hung his jacket and reaching for his tie. His eyes followed her fingers, and she slipped one in between her legs, finding slippery-wet heat and tender skin. Lacey sucked in a shuddering breath, watching his fingers pluck at the knot of his tie. Her clit was hard and swollen, and she circled it with the tip of her finger, letting out a tiny moan at the sensation. Gold’s smile grew, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Open your legs a little more,” he said. “Let me see how beautiful you are.”

The soles of her shoes were flat on the blankets, and she pushed them outwards a little, drawing up her knees as she stroked through her soft flesh. He had pulled the tie from around his neck, and went to work on the cufflinks, taking them out and slipping them into the pocket of his pants. Lacey teased her clit, rubbing and stroking, gasping at the jolts of pleasure going through her. He was unbuttoning his shirt, revealing flashes of tanned skin as his fingers moved down to his belly, and his lips were parted, his breathing hard and heavy as he watched her.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his eyes gleaming. “Finger yourself. Push inside. Feel where I’m gonna fuck you.”

She moaned, sliding a finger inside herself, where she was slick and hot and ready. He had got the shirt off, his chest smooth and lightly tanned, small, firm muscles jumping in his chest as he tossed the shirt aside. She licked her lips at the thought of having him pressed against her, at tasting his sweat as he pushed inside her, and she pushed the finger deeper, arching her back, toes curling in her shoes. When she opened her eyes, Gold was watching her with dark intensity, his breath coming hard, and she added a second finger, making him let out a low growl. His hands dropped to his belt.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered. “I need to get inside you, Lacey. I need to know if you feel as good as you taste.”

She moaned again, lifting her hips a little, eager for him, and he crawled onto the bed, hands sliding over her knees and pushing them apart as he kissed his way up her inner thighs. Her fingers were still inside her, and his lips brushed over her knuckles, his tongue pushing between them to taste her. Lacey drew out the fingers, letting him pull them in between his lips and suck the juices from them. He groaned as he did it, his mouth hot and wet, and he let them slip out, swirling his tongue over her clit and making her let out a loud moan of pleasure.

She stroked wet fingers through his hair, closing her eyes and losing herself in the sensation of his tongue sweeping over her. He pushed it inside her once, twice, and then began kissing his way up over her belly, gently pulling at her skin with his lips. His mouth found her nipple, sucking hard, and she moaned and pushed her hips upwards, feeling the hardness of him against her inner thigh, wanting him inside her. Lacey reached to her right, searching for the condom, and he took it from her, kneeling up between her thighs to put it on. She let her eyes drop to where his cock jutted outward, hard and thick, the dark hair around it spreading up a little way towards his belly, and licked her lips in anticipation. Gold fell forward onto his palms, transferring the weight of his body to one hand as he used the other to reach between her legs. Two fingers slipped inside her, pushing deep, and she writhed, lifting her hips a little, wanting more.

“So wet for me,” he breathed. “You feel like silk, Lacey. God, I want to feel you come!”

He drew out the fingers, taking himself in hand and teasing her entrance with the head of his cock. Lacey gritted her teeth, the anticipation almost painful, her belly tight with need. Slowly, achingly slowly, he eased into her, and she moaned, arching upwards as he sank deep with a long, low groan. He began to move with slow twists of his hips, grinding against her as he thrust in and out, and Lacey ran her hands up his arms, fingers combing through his hair.

“God, you feel so good!” he rasped. “So good to fuck!”

She moaned in response, her ability to form words having disappeared, and he raked his fingers through her curls, tugging her head back to draw his tongue up the length of her throat. She cried out as he bit down, and his tongue swept over her skin, soothing her. His mouth found her ear, his breath sending shivers coursing down through her body to her toes.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Lacey,” he whispered. “I’ve thought about you so long. How good it would feel to be inside you, to taste you on my tongue. To lick the cum from your tight little cunt and hear you scream!”

He thrust into her hard, pulling a cry of pleasure from her, and kissed along her jaw, warm, sticky fingers cupping her cheeks as his tongue parted her lips. She kissed him hungrily, thighs gripping his hips, the heels of her shoes digging into him, and he slipped an arm behind her knee, lifting her leg up onto his shoulder, allowing him to push deeper. Lacey let her head roll back, a cry bursting from her lips as he thrust into her with a rumbling growl. He was rubbing against her in just the right place, heat and wetness and friction making pleasure ripple through her body, and she whimpered, clinging to his shoulders with her fingernails, pumping her hips against him as she chased her climax. His cock was hard and thick inside her, the head rubbing against her deep inside, and she could feel sweat form between their bodies, making their skin slick, running between her breasts and beading on her upper lip. Gold licked it off with a deep growl, tongue pushing in between her lips as he thrust into her, and she held her breath, skin tingling, feeling the wave building inside her, feeling it swell and break.

She pulled her mouth from his as she came with a scream, pumping her hips, nails scoring his shoulders, and Gold let out a long groaning cry as he followed her, his cock pulsing deep inside her. The feel of it was incredible, increasing her own pleasure, wave after wave of bliss washing over her, heat flushing her cheeks and chest and her pulse pounding in her ears. His movements had quickened, his thrusts rapid and shallow, and she tried to keep pace with him, her flesh clenching around him, squeezing every drop from him. Her belly was starting to hurt from the strain of rocking her hips against him, and she collapsed back into the blankets, gasping for breath as his pace began to slow.

Gold thrust deep inside her one last time, the muscles in his upper arms taut and straining, damp strands of hair sticking to his cheeks as he let out a final, shuddering groan of pleasure. For a moment there was only the sound of them trying to catch their breath, and he lowered himself onto her with a sigh, his head pushing into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. Lacey stroked his hair, licking sweat from her lip, her heart pounding and her entire body tingling. She could feel him start to shrink inside her, and after a moment he pushed up on his elbows, a twisted little smirk on his face, heavy-eyed and contented.

“Well well,” he said softly. “That was certainly worth all the verbal sparring it took to get here.”

“Yeah.”

It was as much as she could manage. She was beginning to wonder if half her brain had blown out the back of her head. Absently, she stroked a trembling hand through his hair, and he turned his head to kiss her fingertips, the gesture of affection surprising her. He was still smiling at her.

“So,” he said. “Shall we call it even?”

#fic: turn left #golden lace fic #my fic #golden lace #fic: small world #rumbelle smut #lemons #some non-con touching #nothing major #in that Keith puts his hands on Lacey without her consent #and pays the price

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