Can I have McCree flirting with a bounty hunter after him?
He was here.
You knew he was here.
Your gloved hand hurridly brushed away a droplet of sweat trickling down your forehead. The blazing sun had already caught you out; pink singed your arms. You were thankful for the light serape and brimmed hat you had managed to pick up a few towns back. Your footsteps crunched quietly on the dirty floor, stones and sand littered the tiles in the abandoned diner. Glad to be out of the sun, you took off the hat and gingerly placed it on top of the counter whilst trying not to make any noise. You ruffled your fingers through your hair in a vain attempt to untangle the sweaty knots. The air was hot and dry. No breeze had passed through this place in a long time.
He had though.
Your lowered your hand to hover on top of your holstered pistol, the other resting on top of your hat on the counter. You tilted your head back, closing your eyes you took a deep breath. All you had to do was wait.
“Y'know, doll, this place ain’t been servin’ for a while.”
Looks like you didn’t have to wait long. You spun around at the voice, quickly drawing your gun and steadying it with both hands.
He tilted his hat with his prosthetic hand in acknowledgement. His eyes locked onto yours, before stalking forward towards you. You took a step backwards, your hip hitting a scratched up leather stool. He slowed when he was about two foot in front of you, leaning his forearms onto the bartop. The position made it so he had to jut his backside out. The outlaw pulled a cigarello from one of his many hidden pockets and bit the tip, lighting the end with a zippo before taking a puff.
He took no notice of the weapon in your hands still pointed at him.
He gestured to the outdated drink machines precariously perched on a table against the wall.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t drink the coffee. Always tasted like boiled dirt.”
You frowned at his casualness.
Why was he so calm? You’d heard rumours about what he had been through. About Deadlock. Blackwatch. Was he used to being in danger? What a shit feeling to get used to.
You sighed, essentially chucking your gun onto the counter and hoisting yourself up onto one of the seats. It had split open, part of the padding had fallen out and the tough leather was digging into your backside. You placed your hands in your lap and your back was slouched. You stared ahead at the ‘artwork’ on the walls, clearly showing a simpler time when everything hadn’t gone to pot.
“Given up already?”
He turned his torso so he could face you properly, now only leaning on one elbow. The other hand had taken ahold of the cigar, the metal fingers slightly glinting from the ashen embers.
“You’re obviously used to this.”
His brow raised.
“What? Bein’ on the run?”
You nodded. You pressed your lips together.
“You ain’t used to this though, are ya’?”
You shook your head. Why lie? Your right leg was jigging up and down in a repetitive motion. It was a bad habit. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him reach between his legs to clasp onto the edge of the stool, shimmying himself up onto the seat so he was at the same height as you.
“What’re you doin’ chasin’ after someone like me?”
You glanced over at him. Your eyes were drawn to his inquisitive chocolate ones.
He huffed out a chuckle.
“Strangest reason I heard so far.”
A cloud of smoke drifted across your vision.
“So what’s with your ‘curiosity’ then?”
A slight furrow of his brows and shift in his position made you explain more.
“I’m not curious as to what would happen to me if I didn’t come after you.”
He raised his head up slightly at your whisper, the grim realisation showing plainly on his face.
“Ya’ bein’ forced.”
“I had to try. Turns out I don’t have it in me to shoot someone.”
He broke contact when you said that. He puffed out another cloud of smoke, tapping the ash from the cigar onto the counter.
“So whatta ya’ g'na do?”
Creases framed his pools, a sign of spending too long in the sun and frowning too much. He was side-eyeing you.
“I don’t know.”
You faced forwards, bringing up your hand to wipe at your forehead again. You sighed, irritated at your gloves. You pulled them off and laid them on top of your hat.
“What d'ya want to do?”
A moment passed from your hesitation.
A deep chuckle from him reverberated around the empty diner. Your ears twitched at the sound. You hadn’t heard something like that in a long time. It was pleasant.
“Yeah, I could say the same. You’ve done well t'find me. Not many come this far and live.”
You pushed your hands in between your thighs, seeking a safe place in this unnatural situation. He took one last drag and stubbed out the end on the countertop, leaving a flurry of ash in its wake.
“Considerin’ you ain’t a bounty hunter-”
“No. I am.”
He physically faultered.
“But ya’ just said you weren’t.”
“I said I wasn’t used to it. Not the big guys, anyway. I know when I can win a fight, and I know when to back down. It was stupid of me to even try and track you down.”
A smirk flashed across his lips. It was gone in an instant.
“Like I said. Not many even pass the threshhold of this place.”
You sucked in a breath of the stagnant air.
“Why am I different? Why am I not lying in a pool of blood at the entrance?”
Your jaw tensed, a sudden burst of anger filling you with confidence.
“Calm down, pecan.”
McCree’s metal hand patted your thigh gently before coming to rest on top of it. The coolness was comforting.
“I knew ya’ wouldn’t kill me.”
“You saying I’m weak?”
“Absolutely not. Jus’ sayin’ you brought that to try an’ take me down. I’m a bit offended, if I’m honest, doll. It’ll take a lot more for me to come willingly.”
He was referring to your six shooter lying pathetically on the bartop. Your face had heatened; whether it was from the pet name and physical contact, or anger that he had just insulted your trusty weapon, you don’t know.
“What would it take?”
He removed his hand from your thigh and raised his shoulders in a shrug.
“I’d rather die than become tied down again.”
“And seein’ as you clearly ain’t g'na be doin’ that today..”
You huffed. Another laugh escaped from him. Clearly your frustration was entertaining him. You pouted at him.
“Chin up. It ain’t all bad.”
“Mm. Coming from an outlaw.”
“What’s that s'posed t'mean?”
His eyes sparkled with amusement. A corner of your lips tugged up in a half smile.
“You can technically do what you want; you already have a price on your head. I don’t.”
“D'you have people after you?”
“If I don’t bring you in.”
“Well then. Looks like there’s another ‘outlaw’ joinin’ the party.”
“We’re both on the run now, (Y/N).”
You blinked forcefully, the smirk wiped off your face. The moment of banter was clearly over.
“How do you know my name?”
“Kept tabs on ya’. Figured it was only a matter o’ time before you turned up on my doorstep. Surprised y'ain’t questionin’ that I’ve made you jobless now.”
You straightened your back, a temporary relief from being hunched over.
“So you knew who I was all this time?”
“Mmhm. We’re similar. People know the name, the face. Once they see us for real it’s usually the last thing they see.”
Your teeth nipped at your bottom lip. It was true.
“How can I trust that you won’t just shoot me the moment I turn my back?”
“I may be on th'other side o’ the law, but I’m still a gentleman.”
You pursed your lips.
“You didn’t aswer my question.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I wanna be the next Bonnie and Clyde.”
He dramatically rolled his eyes at you.
“Partners in crime?”
“I’ll have t'teach ya’.”
“Will you now?”
“Mmhm. Nobody’s g'na mess with us, doll.”
The easy banter was back, and you felt your ears burn at the now obvious flirting. He grinned at you, knowing the exact effect he was having.
“C'mon, lemme show ya’ around.”
He slid off of his seat and held out a hand in your direction. You stared down at the dark skin, calloused from probably years of hardened training. It was your choice. You took his offer and there was no turning back. You met his gaze.
He seemed eager. Eager to teach you. Eager to have company. Eager to not be alone.
You were too.
Looking back, placing your hand in his was the best decision you ever made.
Shivering against the hood of the car, Regina stares blankly ahead. Her hands tremble in her lap and her teeth bite into her bottom lip so hard she’s sure it’ll draw blood.
It’s a still night. The moon is waning and the sky is dark. The only light available comes from the headlights of her BMW as they glare through the forest trees. It’s silent. She hasn’t heard the call of a bird or the hum of a cricket since they’d pulled up but that might just be nerves. It’s hard to focus on anything besides Robin and the sound of his shovel crunching into the hard dirt.
She gulps as she watches him plow into the ground, tossing pile after pile of dirt over his shoulder. It’s been almost an hour and he’s barely made it two feet deep. Not nearly far enough. She wishes he could go faster. That they could do what they came to do and just be done with it. But they can’t leave yet. Two feet isn’t deep enough. And they can’t afford to skimp. Not with this.
His shovel crunches into the dirt again and she trembles. Every time it cuts the ground, she remembers the knife that dug into her husband’s flesh. How it’d sunk into his skin. How the blood had seeped, warm and red through his shirt and onto hers. She can still hear his screams with pile of dirt Robin moves.
Crunch, slice. Crunch, slice.
She’d done it over and over. Once she’d started it was like she hadn’t been able to stop. She’d wanted him to die. She’d wanted to be the one to do it. She’d wanted him scared, like he’d made her scared for so many years. She’d wanted him to scream, to beg her to stop just like she’d beg him… over and over.
It plays in her head over and over, like a loop. Her screams and his screams. The pounding of his fist against the door, the crunch of his foot against her ribs. The way Robin had cried out for her. And of course, the grotesque sound of the knife slicing through his flesh over and over.
It would never leave her head.
Finally she sees. She returns to the present and finds herself staring into the ocean blue eyes. The ones that made her heart beat, the ones she’d risked everything for. She stares into them and she breaks.
Whimpering, “He wasn’t supposed to come home…”
“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” she cries, tears running down her face.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to come home. She wasn’t supposed to do this. To be this.
His hand reaches out to caress her cheek. She stares into his blue and sees that he’s scared. It’s her fault. She’d dragged him into this. She should’ve known better. This was no one’s fault but her own.
“What am I going to do?” she whispers.
“I’m a… murderer.”
She speaks the words so softly, yet they seem to echo through the woods. “I’m a murderer Robin,” she cries. “I murdered my husband.”
“No,” he whispers, firm and harsh. “You are not a murderer.”
Tears fall from her chin as she softly shakes her head. “Leopold…”
“Is gone,” he says, firmly nodding his head. “He’s gone and he’s never going to hurt you again.”
“I killed him!” she hisses.
Robin clenches his jaw as he rubs his thumb against her cheek. Shaking his head he whispers, “No you didn’t… I did.”
She lets out a shuddering breath. “No..”
“I did it,” he insists. “I killed him.”
She shakes her head at him. He can’t. He can’t do this for her. He’s done enough. He’s risked enough. “Robin… you can’t. Your son…”
“Will have his mother, his uncles and you,” he fiercely whispers. “But your son… what will he have if you’re gone?”
She bites her lip so hard she nearly draws blood. She remembers her little boy, so young, so innocent. The only person she cares about more than the man in front of her. If she goes he’ll be left with nothing… and she knows it.
“I killed him.” His voice cuts through the air, hard and unwavering. His hands fall to either side of her face, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Say it with me. I came in…”
Her lips tremble as forces herself to repeat “You came in…”
“… I grabbed the knife…”
“… grabbed the knife…”
He swallows before finishing, “And I killed him.”
She scrunches her eyes closed, and feels another tear run down her cheek. She can’t do this.
“Say it,” he orders. “Say it right now, Regina.”
Sucking in a cold breath, she opens her eyes and forces herself to do as he says. “You came in, grabbed the knife… and you killed him.”
He lets out a short puff of air before nodding his head and demanding, “Again. Say it again. Say… Robin killed my husband.”
She cries, shaking her head. It’s too hard. She can’t do it. He presses his forehead against hers. “You have to do it, love. You have to do it for Henry.”
She sobs. Her shoulders shake and her hands tremble but she chokes out, “Robin…killed… my husband.”
He forces her to say it over and over. Through the next four feet, during the long drive home. To save her life and her son he makes her repeat it all through the night until she can almost believe it.
Robin killed her husband.
And that’s something that no one will ever need to know.
For OQ Prompt Party Day 4: #85: Regina tells Robin that she’s infertile. Vegas verse.
They’ve been kissing for… well, for a good long while. She’s not sure how long – a good half hour upstairs before they were interrupted, and they’ve been down here for… long enough that she’s started to thoroughly enjoy the way his hands move over her body. Up and down her spine, gripping occasionally at her hips (usually when he moans quietly), threading through her hair. He’s not the only one touching – she’s made a thoroughly mussed mess of his hair, and his shirt is rumpled from the insistent press and clutch of her hands.
Somehow she’s ended up in his lap entirely, her knees pressed into the cushions on either side of his hips as they kiss, and kiss. They’re not as close as they could be; if she opened her thighs just a little wider, they could get closer, that obvious bulge she’d seen in his pants earlier could be wedged in tight against where she’s slick and slippery and warm.
She hadn’t expected that when she’d suggested this. She’d thought she’d just kiss him until he felt… familiar. Until his touch didn’t make her jump or fidget.
But it turns out he’s very good at this, at making out like a couple of horny teenagers (something she’d probably have been able to anticipate if she could remember their night together in any great detail), and so here they are. Him with a hard-on, and her worrying she’s going to end up with a noticeable damp spot on her jeans if he keeps thumbing the side of her breast the way he is.
It’s chaste enough, no pressure, nowhere near a nipple. Just the occasional teasing brush of his thumb against the outer curve of her breast when their limbs happen to pass in just the right way – but her breasts are sensitive, so sensitive. Her nipples are achingly hard, and when his thumb grazes her again, all she can think of is how amazing it would feel if she just let him slide that thumb in a little further, let it rub over the hard peaks, let him give them gentle squeezes, or, God, suck on them just a little…
The thought alone is enough to draw a moan up out of her, and Regina yanks their lips apart before she does something crazy like actually let him do all the sinful things she wants.
Things they are not doing, things she made him promise they wouldn’t do for the next year.
She scoots back a little for good measure, letting her ass settle comfortably on his knees while she catches her breath and tries to rein in her hormones.
Robin just relaxes into the cushions and smiles at her. He’s a little flushed (she is, too, she can feel the heat in her cheeks), and his hair is sticking up at odd angles, his eyes dark and wanting. But he doesn’t try anything, only lets his hands coast down her sides, over her hips, to settle on her thighs. He rubs them down, and up – safely on the outside, the top, nowhere that could be misconstrued as demanding.
And then he tells her, “You are so beautiful,” and her heart does things.
Silly things – fluttery-hummingbird-wings-in-her-chest type things that she blames on all the kissing. At least she knows she won’t have to worry about whether she’ll have to pretend to enjoy the occasional public-friendly PDA.
He’s a very good kisser. Clearly well-practiced, unless he’s just a natural talent.
It’s a thought that makes her frown slightly and ask, “How many women have you been with?”
Robin’s brows lift, his hands pausing mid-rub. “That’s an abrupt shift in topic.”
“I’d want to know, if this were real,” she tells him with a little shrug, and his hands begin to move again.
His answer is a cagey, “A fair few. How many men?”
Regina smirks, and echoes “A fair few.” Turnabout is fair play, after all. Nerves kick up and skitter in her belly as she asks a question she would absolutely demand the answer to, if this weren’t just a farce: “Are you clean?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation; it doesn’t do much to settle the nerves, though. Not when he predictably follows it up with, “You?”
Regina licks her lips and tells him, “Presently,” and then waits for the potential judgement.
Robin only tilts his head curiously. He’d gotten the unspoken message loud and clear, but he’s not pressing the issue, and it’s that modicum of respect for her privacy (and the fact that he didn’t immediately recoil) that has her feeling safe enough to confess, “Leo cheated.”
Robin’s jaw clenches slightly at that, and he mutters a bitter, “Bastard.”
“Yeah,” Regina scoffs, tucking her hair behind her ear and glancing down to avoid Robin’s gaze as she sighs a resentful, “Great parting gift.”
Looking down was maybe not the best idea; she’s now stuck staring straight at his still-very-prominent erection. She shouldn’t find it comforting that the revelation of her former STD hadn’t had him losing his boner immediately, but she does. She’s told herself again and again not to be ashamed of it, that it wasn’t in any way her fault, but the stigma is still there. You never know what kind of a slut you’re going to be called when you tell a guy you had chlamydia, even if you got it from your cheating bastard of a husband.
But Robin is just… Robin about it. Accepting, like he was of everything else. He settles his hands on her hips and just says, “I thought you said there wasn’t a lot of sex toward the end.”
“There wasn’t.” Her shoulder shifts, not really a shrug, just… a need to move, to… do something. She’s uncomfortable talking about this, she doesn’t ever talk about this. But if they were married, she would, and they are married, so she does. She swallows her discomfort, and explains, “But chlamydia tends to be asymptomatic. He didn’t know he had it, and I didn’t know I had it. I changed insurance during the divorce, got a new doctor and she did a full work-up. STD panel included.”
And the rest, as they say…
“I bet that was a bit of a shock,” Robin murmurs sympathetically, and oh, he doesn’t know the half of it.
“Yes,” she says, and then, “I’d had it for a while. I…”
Just say it, say it. She’s chosen to trust him with a year of her life, she trusted him with what happened to Daniel and everything that came after. She can trust him with this.
Regina draws a careful breath, stares hard around his bellybutton, and tells him quietly, “I can’t have children.”
Robin’s hands fist at her belt loops, and she glances up to find his jaw clenching again, his eyes angry in a way that makes the hairs stand up on her arms. She knows what angry looks like on a man, and she’s all warning bells and coiling muscles, until he mutters darkly, “If I ever meet your ex-husband, I’m going to punch him right in the face.”
Oh. Right. He’s angry at Leo (the logical culprit, but some reactions are hard to unlearn).
Regina smiles, and relaxes. “Good. But it’s…it’s okay.” It is, it’s fine. It’s alright. “I probably shouldn’t be passing along my mother’s genetic material anyway – too much crazy. And there are plenty of kids who need homes.”
His gaze turns warm and understanding, his hands unclenching and smoothing over her hips again.
“That’s why you want to adopt.”
Regina nods, admitting, “I don’t really have much in the way of other options. And I like the thought of helping someone – a child – who needs something as simple as a home. Love. I can do that, I can give that.”
“I’ve no doubt,” he murmurs fondly, his fingers spreading and splaying to reach her spine. It makes her shiver – which makes him grin, and then he’s sliding a hand up to cup behind her neck and draw her in for another quick kiss.
It’s nice, the easy affection. Regina could get used to this – shouldn’t, and she won’t let it go past this, but a few pecks here and there, his fingers scratching gently over her scalp… A year of that isn’t sounding so bad right about now.
This might actually be okay, this year of marriage. This year of them. This could work.
She doesn’t realize she’s been staring until he drags his fingers through the hair at her nape and asks, “What’s on your mind, darling?”
Shit. Well. She’s certainly not telling him the truth about that.
She lies instead, or rather sidesteps and says, “I don’t know why I told you all of that. I don’t tell anyone that.”
“Because if this were true, I’d know?” he suggests, and yes, that was why, but…
“The only people who know are Leo, my parents, our doctors and our divorce lawyers. I have a gag order,” she explains. Because God forbid the public get wind that Leo Blanchard fucked around on the wife he abused, got her sick and left her barren. “I’m not allowed to share that information outside of a marriage. Which, as you know, I haven’t been in for a very long time, and never intended to be again.”
Robin’s expression shifts slightly at that, his lips drawing into a little pout, his gaze far too sympathetic for her liking. Go too far past sympathy and you get pity, and she doesn’t want that.
So when he asks, “You’ve not told anyone since?” she keeps her tone light and dismissive.
He makes this little grimace that grates at her pride a little, but his tone is more quiet understanding when he says, “That sounds… very lonely. Having to keep a secret like that, for the rest of your life.”
“Technically, I think it’s only for the rest of his life,” she teases, and then she shrugs a little, and sobers, and tries to reassure that, “It’s alright. I’ve made peace with it.”
Robin nods, but he’s still looking at her, his mouth is still pinched, tucking back words he’s not brave enough to say, no doubt. What he does say is, “I’m sorry he did that to you,” and Regina decides she’s done talking about this. Probably shouldn’t have brought it up, but it’s just the kind of thing Mother would try to trip him up with if she had any suspicions that things here weren’t as Regina claimed. So. Now it’s out there.
Now it’s out there, but that doesn’t mean they need to dwell on it, so she sighs, “Me too,” and adds a stern, “But I don’t want your pity.”
“You don’t have it,” he assures, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Just my sympathetic rage.”
It makes her laugh softly, has her nodding, and telling him, “That I’ll take. And um…” She bites her lip, gives him a look. “A few more of those kisses along my neck? If I haven’t completely spoiled the mood, that is.”
“You haven’t,” he assures, his own smile blooming as he draws her in close again. He starts at the join of her neck and shoulder, planting a slow line of damp kisses up, up, up, to make her gasp quietly.
She shouldn’t indulge this too much longer, they’ve obviously gotten the job done and cleared the hurdle of casual physical contact. But she doesn’t want to end the night thinking of Leo, of the cost of her poor decisions all those years ago, and the thing Robin just did with his tongue against the edge of her jaw does make her mind go pleasantly blank.
So maybe she’ll be silly and selfish just a little while longer.
She’s there every Friday night, perched on the same bleacher in the same aisle, wrapped up in her blue and white blanket even though it’s rather warm for an October evening. He noticed her the first game of the season–how could he not?, what with that dark hair that just teases her shoulders, a strand of which she continually tucks behind one ear, and full lips that are always tinted either a warm burgundy or a deep red. She’s stunning, there’s no question, and he’d hardly be a man, much less a single man if he didn’t notice her.
But she’s a loner in a sea of faces, just like he is. And that’s what draws him to her most.
He really ought to say hello tonight. It wouldn’t take much effort on his part, a mere sliding down and over a few rows, a polite query as to if she’d like a cup of coffee or maybe a hot chocolate. But he holds back, cursing himself for his cowardice as she pulls the blanket even tighter around her petite frame. She’s cold. Perhaps his moving next to her would offer an extra modicum of body heat that would help her warm up.
Just do it, you dolt.
He inhales sharply and decides to make his move, laughing at himself as his knee protests a bit too loudly for his liking, feeling more like his teenage son with his first crush than a fifty-one year old widower who hasn’t been on a date in longer than he can remember. There are similarities, he supposes, and he promises not to laugh at Roland’s unrequited crush on that junior cheerleader again as his own face heats up and his palms begin to sweat.
Here goes nothing.
“May I join you?”
She looks up at him, her eyes such a rich shade of brown they arrest him on the spot.
“No one’s stopping you,” she returns, scooting over a fraction, allowing the leftover warmth of her own body heat clinging stubbornly to the bench to tease him through his jeans. He’s careful not to sit too close, yet close enough to get a whiff of her perfume, something rich and spicy he suspects hints at her personality.
The first time I met Chibs was while he was picking up Abel at the kindergarten.
I had my little brother Daniel in one hand and a pile of books in the other yet
I tried my best to get his attention as I passed next to him, I thanked my
brother on the inside for screaming at Abel goodbye. Gaining the Scottish man’s
attention for a few seconds and getting a small smile.
Encounters like that started being the usual since Daniel and Abel were
really good friends, and a couple times was Chibs the one picking up Abel from
our home instead of Gemma or Tara, the latest invited us to Abel’s fifth
birthday party and I couldn’t be more enthusiastic about spending time next to
the famous outlaw. The party came and I don’t know who was more excited Daniel
for being able to spend time running around with his friends or me, we arrived
a bit earlier and I helped Tara finish organizing all the things in the backyard,
Gemma was carrying Thomas around and Daniel and Abel were playing around the
backyard with a soccer ball, while we were finishing up all the last touches
the guest started arriving but still no sight of the Scottish man or even one
of the Samcro men.
“YN” screamed little Daniel and I looked at him immediately “Abel said I can go ride with him and his dad and uncles.
SO COOL” he screamed and ran back to his friend.
“Like hell he’ll be riding on the back of
a motorcycle, my mom would kill me” I said and Tara laughed while nodding. Not long after that I heard the
familiar sound of the motorcycles arriving and with that the loud yell of Abel
wanting to see his dad and Tara running after him while he took off to the
I heard the men talk to the boy and slowly approach the garden while I
picked up my thoughts and try to keep myself together. I was 22 and still
acting like a teenager with a crush but I couldn’t help myself, I saw a few
moms laugh nervously when the man approached but I keep serving some drinks for
a few kids lining up.
“Hey lass” said a thick voice behind me that made me almost drop the bottle in my
hands. “Sorry I scared ya” he said
and I just laughed nervously.
“Oh no, I’m just clumsy” I said fixing a lose strand of hair behind my ear. After the awkward
how are you’s we had a pretty good conversation going on. I looked at the way
certain mom’s looked at the Samcro boys and I felt really bad about I, they
knew to whose party they were coming after all and people who acted all uptight
but were assholes annoyed me.
“Don’t worry about them, it doesn’t affect
us. We are used to it and all we want is to spend time with the little man” he said and I looked at him, drifting my eyes from the judgmental mom’s.
“It’s just that….they do the same to us.
To me and Daniel”
“Aye, but you are cool momma. Don’t worry” he said and I laughed while he looked at me clueless.
“He’s my baby brother” I said before sipping on my drink
“My mom is a single mom and she’s always working that’s why I take care of him
most of the time, it’s easier for me since I only go to class a couple times a
week. People don’t understand that my mom is only trying to give us a good life
and she wants me to finish my education before anything else”
“Lass, your momma is doing an amazing job.
Don’t worry about what those ugly women have to say.” I looked at him and smiled, and nodded slowly.We continued talking about different topics and he even offered me
a ride on his motorcycle one day, not long after that Jax called all the guys
outside. “I gotta go, but let me know
when your momma is free so I can take you on that ride alright?” he said
with a wink and I just felt my legs like jelly.
“I’ll let you know” I said with a small smile creeping and he just waved me goodbye.
Oh what an adventure was about to start.
Hello, I know they’re kind of short but I just wanted you to see my
writing style, I have lots of ideas and I’m up to writing anything you request.
My name is Cat <3
Outlaw Queen - Marian never comes back and nothing happened with zelena - what happens post s3?
combining this three-sentence prompt with @oqpromptparty #127: Regina asking Robin to move in with her.
She barely gets past the stumbling block of “Would you–?” before Robin says yes, and
the wry observation that he doesn’t even know what the question holds is
brushed aside with a kiss, and the vow that his answer would ever be the same
for anything she asked of him.
He moves in on a Tuesday, Roland and the trappings of a
rootless life in hand, and there’s a sweet return to shyness between them as
they find places, together, to safekeep the clothes, the quiver, the assortment of
pinecones and other rustic trinkets Roland has curated over the years.
They take up so little space, these two (perhaps
one-and-a-half, Regina amends fondly) men, and yet there’s a fullness in the
house – to make no mention of her bed, now shared, nor her heart – that she
hasn’t felt so strongly since Henry was young: free-given laughter and
late-rising Saturday mornings, and lightness where once she had feared the slow
eclipse of shadows over everything she loved.
How now to be afraid of such things when he delivers the sun itself to her every morning, his own magic, warm to the very bones?
Rather ridiculous to not consider the objective, material conditions of the RSFSR as determinant when said action was taken. More importantly, in times of crisis - especially when it comes to the defence of the interests of a workers’ state or people’s democracy - state power has the necessity of electing personnel that it knows are more closely aligned to the interests/objectives of the communist party. Those who consider this a “controversial statement” usually have a very idealised view of how the world reacts to socialism in power and assume a decentralised system of governance is somehow able to make a stand (history says the opposite).
Soviets (local government) that opposed Soviet power, such as Mensheviks or SR majorities, were stopped because they were counter-revolutionaries/anti-communists. Such was the case during the Civil War where counter-revolutionaries tended to threaten workers and especially peasants with reprisals if they did not support anti-Bolshevik forces.
There were, however, issues with Soviets located in Central Asia Soviet Republics, especially on the question of religion and it’s true that Russian Bolsheviks, on that matter, often forced themselves to assume some level of hegemony but that was in part corrected during the 30’s
There is no justification for factionalism, i.e. putting of one’s own faction above the interests of the party. Democratic centralism is based on free debate on what should be done, followed by an unified effort once a decision has been achieved. Said decision can then be discussed on following meetings to be either upheld, changed, or abandoned, but so long it is in place it must be executed.
To defend factionalism is going back to the 1920’s when Trotskyists would oppose the party’s majority, concede defeat, and then espouse clandestine terrorist work against the party majority, then have their activity exposed, apologise for it and ‘recant’, only to continue doing so with more effort. In 1927 they [Trotskyists] had an underground printing press, carried out only what the faction leader dictated - instead of the party - and organised demonstrations on the tenth anniversary of the GOSR calling for the end of the line of the Central Committee of the CPSU (B).
“Banned all other revolutionary parties and groups” is a not a very good assessment since there was no a single page of Soviet legislation or law that outlawed other parties. The Bolsheviks themselves coalitioned with the Left SRs after the revolution, until that party rebelled over Brest-Litovsk. What happened is simple: those parties that opposed soviet power discredited themselves through collaboration with the counter-revolution. Many of their members left to join the Bolsheviks. Thus the Mensheviks for example simply faded away around 1923.
But like we state before, there were issues in Central Asia Soviet Republics where, for instance, Muslim workers attempted to organise their own communist organisation they were faced with direct opposition from Russian Bolsheviks.
“Instituted one man management of factories and militarisation of the workforce” is partially true, but what exactly is wrong with one man management given the conditions that it was based on?
One-man management ensured maximum accountability and discipline at enterprises. The manager was to be appointed by state institutions and to fulfil state directives, while the workers were to check on their performance and see whether or not they were complying with state tasks. Without one-man management both accountability and discipline would have suffered as workers would feud over responsibilities for failures, etc.
This happened against the background of needing to industrialise as fast as possible. And material evidence had already shown that one-man management during the Civil War had been more effective at meeting the targets set by the state, opposed to “self-management”. As Maoists we understand the historic necessity of one man management as a temporary setback based on the material conditions of the state, we obviously do not advocate such as a proper economic model for a socialist country.
It was Trotsky who suggested that the workforce should be militarised but Lenin himself opposed such.
All states have secret political polices, why shouldn’t a workers’ state have one? Cheka was born of the Civil War, in great part due to the White Terror. Before the Cheka was in place workers reacted to the assassination of revolutionary figures by seizing people on the streets and killing them. Cheka was the means to organising such actions to more specifically defend against counter revolution.
“Violently suppressed working class strikes and leftist anti-bolshevik protests”, once again objective/material conditions. Workers struck during the NEP with no restriction, considering they were striking against NEPmen. Strikes during the Civil War, when Mensheviks and other parties attempted to use them as a means to overthrow the Soviet government and preyed on the discontentment of material scarcity created by the imperialist blockade and counter-revolutionary were obviously opposed.Strikes during the Stalin Era rarely happened because enterprise managers knew their head was on the line if they failed to meet the demands of workers.There were strikes in the post-Stalin era as well, especially from workers who opposed revisionism.
For the OQ Prompt Party, Day 3. #151 Regina owns a bar and Robin is a regular who has a secret crush on her.
Roni knows what all her regulars drink. She prides herself on it – after all, it’s good business, and she may have fucked up plenty of other things in her life, but she’s a good businesswoman. At least she has that left.
So she knows that Sophie always orders an amaretto sour, no less than two, no more than four – unless that absolute loser Jaxon has gone and gotten his dick wet somewhere else again. Then she might hit five, even six or seven, and Roni discreetly calls her a cab.
Jasper always orders a gin fizz, because he thinks it’s retro and he’s a terrible hipster in entirely the wrong bar. Maria bolsters her courage with Long Island Iced Teas, and then finds a friend to take home for the night. Aaron drinks Patrón Cafe all night long, as he sits at the corner table and scribbles stories on napkins (he says it helps him stay awake, Roni very much doubts that). Henry always orders hard cider, and she feels a ridiculous urge to cut him off after three.
Finn drinks whiskey. Neat – with a glass of ice on the side, and a water back. Except on Tuesdays, because Tuesdays are dollar wing nights – and Finn never misses out on dollar wings. On Tuesdays, Finn arrives promptly at seven, orders a dozen flaming buffalo wings, and washes them down with two Sierra Nevadas. And then he orders whiskey, neat, with a glass of ice on the side and a water back.
And tonight is a Tuesday, so she’s watching the door, keeping an eye out for those deep dimples and cobalt blues.
Finn is nice to look at. Easy on the eyes, and a great tipper, and that accent of his… well, it does things to a lady, that’s all she’s going to say about that.
And she likes his taste in liquor.
She also likes his predictability, his timeliness. She could set her watch to Finn Archer on a Tuesday night. Or she could most Tuesdays, anyway, but it seems tonight is not one of those nights.
It’s 7:17 on a Tuesday night and the third stool from the left is empty.
She tells herself not to be disappointed. Tells herself not to be worried. He’s probably just gotten himself a life (good for him), or a date (fuck her, whoever she is), or he’s stuck working late at the shelter.
And she wouldn’t care normally (she wouldn’t, really, she wouldn’t), but that bitch Victoria had come by again this afternoon, with her pencil skirts and her too-skinny heels, and her offer of a whole lot of money to buy out everything Roni has worked so fucking hard for. That whole lot of money, and just a little bit of not-so-veiled threats of what could happen to said business if she doesn’t just agree already and let this silly tug-of-war go.
(Victoria drinks Chablis. Victoria is a cunt.)
The whole thing left a sour taste in her mouth, and she could really use a joke, and a dimpled smile, and a bit of overzealous yelling at one of the soccer matches she’s started to play on the TV with the best sightlines to the third stool from the left.
So he’s late, and it’s annoying, and she cares, a little.
She has her back to the bar at 7:23, when she hears his voice rasping familiar over the Stones on the sound system (she can’t get no satisfaction either, Mick). He says her name, “Roni,” and she smirks, and pushes the register closed.
“You’re late, Phineas,” she clips as she turns, and then all the blood in her body runs straight down to her shoes.
His lip is split, and his nose is bleeding, and there’s a rough red spot below his eye that’s already starting to swell.
“Oh my god, honey, what the hell happened to you?” she asks, and if she could hear the tenderness in her voice, she’d feel like an idiot, but she’s too busy crossing the space between them and pouring ice into a glass as he presses a shitty bar napkin to his lip to stanch the bleeding.
“What does it look like?” he mutters, wincing slightly as she presses the cool glass of ice gingerly to that rough redness around his eye. “Got jumped two blocks over on my way to get my bloody Tuesday night wings.”
She thinks of Victoria, of We’re trying to improve the area, Roni, to keep it safe for customers of fine establishments like this one, and grits her teeth. If this is at all her fault… (Guilt worms deep into her gut, churning and hot, and she doesn’t like the sight of blood on him, doesn’t like it, hates it, it makes her sweat, makes the edges of her vision pulse blue for reasons she can’t quite fathom.)
“Did you get a good look at the guy?” she asks.
“Guys,” he grunts, pressing another napkin to the thin stream of blood trickling from his nostril to the quickly saturating square held against his lip, and this is just ridiculous. Napkins aren’t going to do the trick. “And no, not really. I mostly got a good look at their fists.”
“You need to vary your routine,” she mutters – first rule of safety, never walk the same paths every night, take a different route, a different time. Whatever. Things men never have to learn, until they get pummeled on dollar wing night.
Finn scoffs a little, clearly not amused with her, and gripes, “Right, I’m sure it was my routine they were after and not my wallet.”
She rolls her eyes, and gives a holler to her waitress to keep an eye on the bar, then walks Finn around to the other side and leads him back to her office.
“Sit,” she orders, pointing him toward her desk chair. That anxious guilt eases just a little when she catches the way he smirks (and then winces) at the order.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he murmurs, sinking into the chair as she fishes out her first aid kit and plunks it onto the desk, flipping it open and pulling out an ice pack. She gives it a good crack, then hands it over, and roots around in the damn thing for some gauze and alcohol wipes.
“You wanna call the cops?” she asks, turning back to him as she rips open a wipe. She mutters, “This is gonna sting,” and then she dabs the blood away from his nose, swipes down over the stubble on his upper lip, then folds it and wipes it gently over the split.
Finn hisses sharply (and his nose oozes a bit more, so she tips his chin up, back), and says, “I’m not sure there’s much of a point. They’re long gone now.”
“Maybe,” she admits. “Doesn’t mean you can’t file a report. And everyone around here has security cameras.”
His brows lift and fall, half-hidden on one side by that ice pack he’s dutifully holding to his face. She dabs at his lip gingerly with a clean square of gauze – it’s still bleeding, but she doesn’t think it needs stitches, so she presses the gauze firmly in place and watches the way the smile lines around his eyes deepen as he winces.
Those eyes really are so blue…
She’s never seen them quite this close; she and Finn have never been quite this close. Close enough for her to smell him, a mix of sweat and something woodsy. Close enough to see the silver streaks infiltrating his temples, his beard.
Close enough to become suddenly very aware of the warmth of his hand cupping her thigh, just above the back of her knee.
They realize it at the same time, they must, because those too-blue eyes widen ever so slightly just as she stiffens and blinks.
Well, this is… new. She should back off, should step away, should probably give him a hard sock in the shoulder for putting his hands on her uninvited. But he’s already injured, and truth be told, she doesn’t exactly… mind the warm weight of his hand where it is. It’s very low, not anywhere really… out of bounds. Except that all of her is out of bounds, because he’s a patron and she’s not a hooker.
She should really make him move.
Any time now.
His thumb moves, strokes ever so slightly up and then down, and she forces herself into action, clears her throat and mutters a warning, “Phineas.”
“I’m beginning to regret ever telling you my full name,” he tells her, hand falling away before he gives her a proper, “And…Sorry. Instinct.”
One dark brow rises up, up. “It’s your instinct to caress my thigh?” she questions doubtfully, and the uninjured side of his mouth curves up.
“Alright, ‘wildest dream’ might be a more appropriate term,” he teases, his voice lower than it’s ever been before (they’ve never been this close, close enough for soft utterances and for his thumb to still be pressed against the outside of her knee, even with his hand back in neutral territory on his own leg).
She realizes she’s practically standing between his legs – is literally standing between his legs, and her skin flushes hot, her heart knocks twice.
She scoffs, “Right,” and shifts to take a step back, but she’s still holding that gauze to his lip, so she’s… sort of stuck here.
He looks at her then, really looks at her. Eyes she could drown in, pulling her down deep, and there’s something he wants to say. She can see it in his eyes, in the way they flit over her face, the way his mouth twitches slightly under the gauze pad she’s holding.
And then he swallows and grimaces, tilts his head forward and says, “I’m swallowing blood; you’re not supposed to put your head back with a bloody nose.”
Right. She should have known that. She does know that. How she gets so rattled by a pair of blue eyes, she’ll never know.
Her “Oh,” sounds incredibly lame, but he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, too busy holding out that ice pack to her and asking if she can take it for him for a bit. She nods, and they swap, and now she has two hands busy trying to ease his pain, as he uses one of his newly freed hands to gently pinch his nose shut.
It looks like it hurts; he should probably ice that, too.
“It shouldn’t take too long,” she assures him. “You’re not gushing.”
Finn lets out a little grunt of acknowledgement, and then he’s glancing at her again. No, looking at her again. Staring.
After a minute, he asks her a very stuffy, “You really dob’t tink you’re anyone’s wildest dreabs?”
Roni snorts – she tries not to, really she does, but, “Okay, please don’t try to flirt with me right now; you sound ridiculous.”
“Not flirting. Honest questiob.”
It is, she thinks. His sincerity has her focusing suddenly on his lip, easing the gauze away to check if it’s still oozing.
“I think…” she murmurs, because he’s going to wait for an answer. She knows him well enough to know that. She wants to tell him that she thinks wildest dreams are useless, and that the last time she was somebody’s, he ended up dead and they don’t want that, now do they? But that’s… personal. Too personal for a guy who comes in three nights a week to drink her whiskey and watch soccer and eat wings.
So she doesn’t say any of that, she just says, “….that we could butterfly this and you’ll be alright.”
Finn rolls his eyes as she tosses the bloody gauze to an empty patch of desk and nicks a steri-strip from the first aid kit. She needs two hands to trim and apply it properly, so she drops the ice pack on the desk for a second, too, and tilts his chin up just a little for better light.
She’s squinting at the little gash as he lets go of his nose (thank God) and says, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Roni freezes. Blinks. Watches crimson leak slowly from his lip as he moves it again to add, “Stunning, in every way.”
She swallows heavily, and he continues, says, “And you’re funny. Smart. And you don’t take anyone’s shit, which I like.” That thumb brushes her knee again, up, down. “And you’ve a very kind touch, as it turns out.”
Roni licks her lips and stares even harder at his, finally placing the steri-strip over the cut, holding it together as best she can.
When she finishes, she reaches for the used gauze, the steri-strip wrapper, avoiding his gaze as she tidies up. She’s not sure why, she just… didn’t expect this. From him. Tonight. Or ever.
He’s a nice guy, a good tipper, who drinks good whiskey and makes her laugh, but she never realized that he looked at her and felt all of that. And it’s not a bad thing, she just… she’s just surprised, that’s all. Caught off-guard.
His head dips down, tilting into her peripheral vision as he says, “I’m sorry if that was too forward. And maybe I should have saved it for when we weren’t alone in your office for the first time, and me all beat to shit. You don’t have to… say anything. I just thought you should know you’re brilliant, and I don’t come here just for the wings. Although they’re brilliant, too.”
She cracks a smile at that, risking a glance back in his direction to find him looking apprehensive and hopeful, and God, so fucking handsome. He really is, isn’t he?
Roni takes a deep breath and reaches for the ice pack again, lifting it gingerly to the nose that’s still bleeding just a little.
Then she meets those blue eyes, takes a leap and tells him, “I like you, too. Phineas.”
He grins, as best he can, anyway, and when that warm hand finds its way to that same spot just above the back of her knee, well, this time Roni doesn’t do a thing about it.
1349: Six thousand Jews are killed in Mainz after being blamed for the bubonic plague.
1802: Haitian revolutionary Toussaint Louverture is jailed at Fort de Joux in France where he will spend rest of his life.
1827: The first labour newspaper in the United States, The Mechanics Gazette, is published in Philadelphia.
1879: Marxist John Maclean born in Glasgow. He was a schoolteacher and revolutionary socialist. He was imprisoned for organising against WW1.
1885: Anarcho-syndicalst Marius Monfray begins publishing anarchist works.
1898: Militant anarchist Francisco Quintal born in Funchal, Portugal. Helped found the anarchist group Novos Horizontes (New Horizons) and O Anarquista (The Anarchist), the newspaper of the União Anarquista Portuguesa -the Portuguese Anarchist Union (UAP).
1904: Ida Cook born in Sunderland, UK. She was an author who used her income from romance novels to rescue Jews from Nazi Germany.
1905: The National Flint Glass Workers numbering 1500 agree to affiliate with the IWW.
1907: The International Anarchist Congress of Amsterdam begins, gathering delegates from 14 countries for eight days.
1911: Trotskyist Michel Pablo, aka Michalis N. Raptis , born in Alexandria, Egypt.
1916: Anarchist poet and composer Léo Ferré born in Monaco.
1922: Howard Zinn born in Brooklyn. He was author of the acclaimed People’s History of the US.
1931: The UK Labour Cabinet splits and Ramsey McDonald breaks from Labour forming a National Government, forever remembered in infamy.
1941: Hitler cancels the T4 programme, the systematic killing of the disabled and mentally ill, following church and public protests.
1943: French philosopher, mystic, and political activist Simone Weil dies in Ashford, Kent, England. Part of the Durruti Column in the Spanish Civil War.
1954: The Communist Control Act goes into effect, outlawing the American Communist Party.
1967: Abbie Hoffman and Yippes disrupt trading at NYSE throwing dollars from gallery, ceasing trading as brokers scramble for them.
1970: The Sterling Hall Bombing at the University of Wisconsin in Madison by anti-war activists kills physics researcher Robert Fassnacht. Four others are severely injured, and millions of dollars in damages occur.
1984: During British Miners’ Strike, a second dock strike called following the unloading of coal at Hunterstone.
1991: Ukraine declares independence from the USSR.
@EvillyQueenie - Link Art -
It’s Regina’s first bday after Henry is gone and she feels lonely. The doorbell rings and a little Roland is waiting there with a half eaten cupcake for her (ofc he says it wasn’t him, but the icing on his cheeks says it all).
For the @oqpromptparty Day 6 #144 Robin discovers bacon. (bonus points for sexy kitchen shenanigans). Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine
The first morning she cooks it for him, it’s the smell which entices him to drag himself away from the soft, comfy piece of paradise Regina calls a bed. They tumbled into it, satisfyingly exhausted, at some point during the night, and he sincerely thinks he could be convinced to stay there forever, if only Regina would come back.
Her absence finishes to persuade him that, as enjoyable as lying down in satiny sheets is, her scent all around him, he would rather have her in his arms. The unmistakable aroma of meat cooking is an unexpected but welcomed bonus. They have worked quite an appetite.
He finds his pants folded neatly on the back of a chair, and he has to smile at Regina’s tidiness. Making his way downstairs, his stomach growls loudly and he skips down the last couple of steps.
She is standing in front of the stove, tousled hair and barefoot, and it’s a vision he could get used to seeing day after day.
“I wondered where my shirt had gone off to,” he whispers in her ear, encircling her in his arms and pressing a kiss over a bare shoulder, using the gaping shirt to his advantage.
“Hmm, good morning,” she replies, leaning back against him. “I didn’t think you would mind, but I can give it back if you want,” her voice is delightfully raspy, and he holds her tighter as he thinks about her suggestion.
“You know that’s quite the dilemma, on the one hand this looks so much better on you, on the other,” he trails off, his hands making their way up her thighs, beneath the hem of the shirt to her hips. “I like you without any clothes on,” he concludes, his nose pressed in her hair, a hand cupping a breast, the other pressed against her stomach.
“Not that I don’t appreciate this,” she moans, “but if you keep going, breakfast is going to be on the charred side of crispy.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” He murmurs, feasting over her neck with lips, tongue and teeth. “What are you making?”
“Eggs and bacon, if there is something in this world you need to try, that is it,” she tells him, breaths quickening under his ministrations. She turns the stove off before she ruins breakfast, piling it in two plates.
“It looks delicious,” Robin says, “and I’m not talking just about the food,” he adds, making her shiver.
“Still, you should try it first, I wouldn’t want you to drop from exhaustion and malnourishment, I may need you later,” she teases him, and he mocks gape at her.
“So that’s how it’s going to be? You’re only using me as your sex slave? Hmm, I can live with that.”
“Good,” she smirks.
He grabs a piece of bacon, studying it, and then holding it in front of her mouth. “You should try it first.”
“Do you think it’s poisoned?” She asks playfully, before biting a piece of it with purpose, enjoying the way it crunches under her teeth, her eyes locked on Robin’s. She chews slowly, licking her lips when she is done.
Robin kisses her, his tongue peeking out to her lips, and then to explore the inside of her mouth.
“You’re right,” he pants as they separate. “This is one of the best things I have tasted in this land so far.”
Regina takes Robin and Roland to the beach for the first time
The sand is cooler now, night beginning to swallow the day as she makes her way over to where Robin is sitting on a log before the fire he’d made a few moments ago. She can hear the sound of the boys laughing, still playing behind her and it has her heart swelling. They get on so well, Roland and Henry. Far better than she could have ever hoped for.
Emma and Killian smile as they walk past her with fingers interlinked and a beachball tucked into the crook of the pirate’s arm, the blonde’s bump only just visible beneath the loose material of her simple white kaftan. No one but Robin and Regina know about the baby and Emma’s asked for it to remain that way for just a little longer, until they know for sure that everything is okay.
Snow is going to be overjoyed and it’s hard, keeping such a big thing from her former stepdaughter but it’s Emma’s secret to tell and so, Regina won’t.
“Hello, beautiful,” Robin greets the moment she’s close enough, lifting the edge of the blanket and encouraging her to cuddle into his side when she sits beside him. She smiles at the kiss he presses to the top of her head once she’s pressed in tight and lets loose a loving hum that she feels deep in her bones. It’s not particularly chilly but after a day spent beneath the sun’s rays, she finds herself shivering, glad when he wraps his arm and the blanket around her tighter. “Have you had a good day?”
“The best,” she replies easily for it’s the most fun she’s had in the longest of times. “What about you?” she asks then because it’s been a whole new experience for her thief and his boy having never been to a beach before, “Did it live up to your expectations?”
He chuckles softly and presses another kiss to her head before replying, “It’s been a perfect day.” And yes, she thinks as she allows her eyes to wander over their strange but wonderful little family, it has been just that.
OQ Prompt Party - Rec & Review Week (4th-10th Sept)
Because there was so much fic to keep up with, it was suggested that we have a Rec & Review week for all of the OQ Prompt Party entries!
Monday 4th September - favourite continuation of an existing verse Tuesday 5th September - favourite from a writer you had not read before Wednesday 6th September favourite/most creative prompt use Thursday 7th September - favourite artwork, video or gif Friday 8th September - favourite one-shot/standalone Saturday 9th September - favourite smut & favourite non-smut Sunday 10th September - favourite angst & favourite fluff
All you need to do is tweet or post your recommendations for each category on each of the dates and leave a review for each one!
If you could do at least a couple for each day/category, that would be fab! But do as little or as much as you feel like!
147. Robin and Regina watch Game of
Thrones together. Robin thinks Regina would have given Cersei a run for her
money. Also Regina’s dragon is cooler than Dany’s dragons.
for the wonderful @ninzied who submitted this prompt. oh, there are no spoilers ;) ff.net
become their guilty pleasure, and Regina is actually stunned the town has
maintained its peaceful state for so long that they’ve managed to reach season
seven. Game of Thrones has, in time,
transformed from a mere hobby to an addiction. She just adores the night they
spend curled up in bed together, with her laptop in the middle, after the kids
have gone to sleep.
were hard, at first. She still tenses during every scene where someone takes
advantage of a woman. He still looks away when he sees brutal violence, a cruel
reminder of his own youth. Scenes like that have the one looking out for the
other, pausing the episode, talking with soothing voices.
gotten better during the last seasons, and there are fewer triggers. Things
have suddenly become interesting and fast, a real power play with those plot
twists that often have them both slamming a hand on their mouth not to scream