#cheap rent to own house in angeles city

[realtyhubph-blog]

578 SQM Commercial Angeles near Holy Angel

Own a piece of prime Angeles City. This spacious 580sqm property is within walking distance to Holy Angel University, malls, schools & more. Perfect for development or investment! Inquire now!

LOCATION 📍 Brgy San Jose, Angeles City Pampanga Philippines FEATURES TYPE: Lot with Old Improvement📐 Lot: 578 sq.m Floor: 175 sq.m✅ Old House with small commercial space in front✅ Title Status: On-hand, has pending extrajudicial settlement POINTS OF INTEREST Holy Angel University • Tollhouse Main • Holy Rosary Parish • SM Telabastagan • NEPO Mall Complex • Rockwell NEPO • Veloce Tower Mall…

[wri0thesley]

loving you keeps me alive - reader x ghost!dainsleif, 4.4k

your little house in monstadt is cheap, and though there are rumours about why . . . you ignore them, much as you ignore the whispers that something is not quite right. instead, you think about the night-time; and the handsome blond man who comes to you in dreams.

cw: not sfw, minors dni. dubious consent. yandere behaviour, somnophilia, stalking, self-hate (dainsleif towards himself), haunting, non-consensual touching. cunnilingus, piv sex. manipulation, deaths mentioned in passing. jealousy. reader is afab, but no pronouns or gendered terms are used.

[a/n: my kinktober masterlist can be found here. dain my soggy soggy beloved]

Dainsleif doesn’t think he really remembered what living felt like, until you moved in. 

Not that you can call this strange in-between existence ‘living’ - his time as a true mortal has long since passed. But as Celestia has cursed him to not move on . . . he has spent his years and centuries since then haunting these same four walls, unable to pass the doorway without finding himself bent over in pain. He has grown to know every plank of wood that makes up the little home in Monstadt - every creaking floorboard, the step on the stairs the landlord has replaced no less than three times because tenants kept simply putting their foot through.

Oh, others have tried to make this their home.

But Dainsleif values his privacy, and uses what little power he still has left to ensure that they do not stay for long.

The rumours of mysterious circumstances are not entirely baseless. Dainsleif spends his evenings whispering things into sleeping ears; pouring poison, until the former occupant of the home grows too tormented to do anything but investigate what Dainsleif is whispering about.

And so, the rumours have spiralled - the disappearances, the stained floors in ritual circles, the notes mentioning abyssal ruins and the Khaenri’an letters daubed onto the walls in blood--

Consequently, when you had come to view the property, the landlord had been terribly keen on pushing that the rent was - especially for this part of Monstadt - an absolute steal. Dainsleif had, at first, resigned himself to spending yet more of his evenings terrorising and convincing you to leave (why does nobody understand that this house ought to be left alone? Why does nobody understand that this is Dainsleif’s eternal punishment, and it is far better for everyone if he is allowed to wallow in it, entirely solitarily?) . . . when you had stuck your head into the bedroom, the room that Dainsleif spends most of his time in, and he had found himself utterly lost for words. 

Your pretty face scrunches; a shiver grips you, making your shoulders draw in sweetly. 

“It’s so cold,” you say, to the landlord - who forces a smile for you, and says;

“Well, it has been a few months since anybody has been in it other than to air it out . . . but a few rugs laid down and I’m sure it will be as warm and cosy as any home in Teyvat!”

You had not looked entirely convinced by his words, but you had let your gaze take in everything once again - and Dainsleif swears that your eyes lingered, just for a moment, on him. 

“I’m afraid you might not find anything else in your budget this central to the city,” the landlord had said, and you had pursed your lips and thought about it - and, for the first time, Dainsleif had found himself hoping that you would indeed decide to make his home your own too. 

You are not foolish. 

You tell the landlord you will come back to him with your decision tomorrow, and return back to the home of the friend you are staying with - a fellow co-worker, at one of the little taverns in Monstadt that certainly does not pay as well as it should. You have heard tell that the owner of the Angel’s Share pays lodgings for his staff himself; lets them stay in the cottages bordering his own property if they wish (and lets them ride into the city proper), or simply rents apartments for them and takes care of most of the bills himself. 

Not all tavern workers can be as lucky as the staff of that establishment. 

Your co-worker is horrified when she hears that you have gone to visit that house; big eyes and scandalised tone as she whispers that everyone knows anyone who dares live there is fated to become obsessed with things far beyond their understanding and meet a grisly end. 

But your family live too far out to travel into Monstadt every day, and you are a grown-up now, who wishes to pave their own way in the world - your job is a stepping stone, and you are unwilling to burden your co-worker any further, or continue to go into the tavern with a sore back from sleeping on her floorboards. 

“You simply can’t!” Your co-worker says, begging - hands clinging to yours. “You aren’t from the city proper, you don’t know what has happened to anyone who has even tried to live there!”

“It was perfectly fine,” you insist in return, smiling. “A little cold, perhaps! But it will pass! There was no evil presence, no sudden need to discover what happened to Khaenri’ah--”

You pause. You do not know much about Khaenri’ah. But there is, suddenly, an inextricable desire to go to the library and discover more about it, just to see what it is that so entranced all of those other former residents. You push it down; there is no need to lend credence to what she is insisting. 

“Everything will work out,” you tell her. “There is no evil in that house. It’s just lonely, and I need a home!”

You are right, in a way.

Dainsleif is lonely. 

And - for once - he is more than happy to share his home with you. 

As it turns out, there are indeed, several problems with the new house. 

The first is the breeze; a cool draft of gentle wind that seems to follow you through the rooms and corridors, no matter where you go. It does not matter how firmly you shut the windows, or festoon them with velvety curtains of thick fabric you bought for a steal from the tailor because they were the end of the bolt remnants, the breeze is a constant. In Monstadt, you suppose that’s something almost to celebrate - proof the Anemo Archon is there, looking out for you - but you cannot help but be frustrated as the candle is blown out by nothing for the third time today and you drape yourself in your warmest shawls no matter the time of day. 

(The breezes are Dainsleif, who cannot help but shadow you about the house; cannot help but stare at the way the light hits the lovely angles of your face, cannot help but wish to be with you no matter where you are. A swirling cloak past a candle puts it out; curtains flutter as he sighs and stands behind you and simply looks at you - as he longs to touch and caress and speak to you). 

The second is, you’re sure, your mind playing tricks on you - thinking that the evil presence you so insisted did not exist is actually there. It’s a flash of blond hair in the mirror behind you; of one piercing blue eyes. It makes you start every time; hairbrush clattering to the ground, a perfume bottle being knocked off your dressing table in haste. Fear, when you catch it as you’re undressing for the evening and you let your garments fall to the ground and stand in just your underclothes. You should be comfortable showing your own skin in your own house, but . . . how hard it is, to ignore that constant feeling of being watched. 

(Dainsleif is always half-surprised and half-delighted when you give a hint you can see him - when you whirl around with your pretty eyes all wide with fear. Oh, there’s something so intimate about him being allowed to watch you in these vulnerable moments - to see all of that lovely skin, unmarked and untouched. To know that you are more sensitive to him than any occupants have ever been before! Dainsleif wonders if this is not living proof that you were made for him). 

The third is your absolute inability to bring anyone home.

You try, once - a handsome man spends his evening by the bar, chatting with you whenever he can, eager and smiling and sweet. He orders non-alcoholic specialties from the menu so that he does not lose his head; and when your shift is over, he flirts and asks if perhaps you and he could meet up together one day. You give him your address and invite him over for dinner the following night--

But the dinner is plagued by problems.

A lingering freezing cold draft down his back, tripping over nothing, his glass flying from his hand and shattering into pieces against the wall. As he leaves, desperately pulling his coat on, he tells you that he had always heard that this house was cursed, but this is living proof of it all.

(Dainsleif wishes he could comfort you, as he watches you fold in on yourself after the man has gone. He does not feel sorry for what he has done - your possible paramour has been scared away, and that is what is important - but he does feel an inkling of regret for causing you pain. Still. Perhaps now you will know that you need nobody else; Dainsleif and you, together in this little house, is family and love and enough). 

There is one thing, though, that is most assuredly not a problem. 

For, since you have moved into one of the most notorious houses in Monstadt, you have found that there has been a most fascinating change in the nature of your dreams. 

Dainsleif does not mean to do it; the first time, he intends only to sit by your side. He intends to only watch the gentle rise and fall of your chest, admire the loveliness of your face in repose; but you are so, so beautiful. In your slumber, you are so peaceful and so lovely - he cannot resist leaning in, to study your features more closely without you shivering and pulling your shawls closer around you. 

Your lips look so soft.

How long has it been since he felt the touch of another’s lips? In Khaenri’ah he was always too busy for such things; the life of the head of the Royal Guard was fraught with dangers, full of fears. He dare not get close to somebody lest they be dragged into those same things.

Here, there is nothing before him but eternity - so why should he not take a kiss from you, whilst you sleep?

He leans in. You breathe softly, lashes fluttering. Dainsleif presses his mouth to yours and revels in it. He steals the kiss from your beautiful mouth, lets himself get lost in the taste of your toothpaste that lingers on your lips. Lets his teeth graze against your bottom lip and tug upon it, for whilst you are sleeping, how can you argue?

Your eyes flicker open. They meet Dainsleif’s blue gaze - and, without a second thought, he presses a hand to your temple.

It is the hand that is ruined by abyssal rot; the one that serves a constant reminder of how he is something that does not deserve to exist. The rot has one, and only one, upside - it gives Dainsleif some little power of his own. 

The fear that has blown your pupils wide seems to subside a little. Your gaze goes half-lidded, as Dainsleif pulls back and wets his own lips to murmur quietly;

“You are dreaming.”

“Dreaming,” you murmur to him in response, and you give him a smile that - were his heart still beating - he is certain would have made it cease to do so. “You’re beautiful.”

He may have been, once - but hearing it from your mouth, as you look up at him . . . Dainsleif smiles down at you.

“Not half so as you,” he tells you, and you laugh sleepily. He leans back in. Adoringly runs a thumb over the apple of your cheek, as you rest against his palm through the gloves.

“You’re cold,” you accuse him - and then, your lashes lay against your cheeks again, and Dainsleif feels - for the first time in forever - that perhaps there is something inside of him that is still human. 

It is not enough.

A few nights later, he repeats the motions - only this time, he murmurs against your ear at the beginning that you are dreaming, and so when you awake to find the covers have been pulled down and those gloved fingers are slowly exploring your body, cupping your curves and delighting in the softness of your skin, you do not panic. 

Dainsleif says your name, and you sigh; arch your back into his touch. 

By degrees, he lets himself get carried away more and more - finds himself going further and further into the rot that has begun to infest his mind as well as his body.

Common decency tells him, as he slips your nightgown off a willing body, that he is disgusting.

As his gloved thumbs gently swipe over your nipples until they harden and you sigh out a noise that goes straight to between his thighs, he decides that it does not matter. He would be a monster a hundred times over for the sight of your face as he touches you; the vision of your eyes clouded by the whispers he has put there that you are only dreaming as you let yourself be taken and touched and adored by the man who visits you in your sleep.

“You’re lovely,” Dainsleif says, his voice dry, and you laugh a pretty sleep-laced laugh. 

Days later, his fingers slip between your legs for the first time and he finds you slick and wet and hot. He cannot stop the surprise that flashes over his face, but you simply smile lazily at him.

“Finally,” you say, all indolent and lazily pleased. “Touch me more, please.” 

(For you, all these occurrences are merely a dream; you wake up, the morning after, and you think of the beautiful blond man and how adoringly he touched you. You think of him when you get dressed, a faint smile on your face, and you do not notice the cool whisper of the wind or the eyes of a spirit lingering on you. The man in your dreams has come to be a friend more than anything else - and as the house will not allow you to bring home acquaintances without rattling and freezing, he is a most welcome one). 

“How can I resist when you ask so nicely?” Dainsleif asks, through a thick dryness in his throat - and you urge your thighs apart for him, even as you’re already slipping back into that strange in-between land of not-quite-awake and not-quite-asleep. 

Fingers gently swipe through the slick folds; gathering your wetness upon his fingertips, drinking hungrily in the way your hips twitch and your face moves and you let out soft sighs that make Dainsleif ache for the want of you. They brush over your clit and win a jerk that fascinates him; he repeats the motion, the thin leather of his gloves slipping and sliding on the wetness of your sex, and your pretty mouth purses into the shape of a budding flower. 

Two fingers slide inside of you slowly; scissoring softly, stretching you open. Dainsleif imagines that those fingers are, instead, his cock - imagines how the heat that he can feel soaking through the leather would feel if it were to be wrapped around him so tight and silky. 

This is what divinity feels like, he thinks; despite how he has been cursed to never achieve such celestial leanings himself, he can have a little taste of it simply by virtue of being able to touch you. 

A few nights later, he kisses up the curve of your calves.

He scrapes his teeth across the softness of your thighs and breathes in the scent of you, heady and thick and rich and wanting. He kisses your mound - and as he feels your fingers tangle in the golden locks of his hair, he once more cannot bring himself to care about what a monstrous thing he is doing.

For your taste on his tongue is syrup-sticky and honey-sweet, as he drags the organ over your folds and drinks you in like the finest of ambrosia. As your thighs twitch and squeeze around his head, so soft and so warm that Dainsleif wishes he could stay between them for an eternity. 

Dainsleif’s lips fasten about your clit; sucking, twirling with his tongue, urging you into more and more pleasure with the needy rhythm of his own mouth until he can feel how close you are in the way you tremble and the soft noises that are falling from your lips, begging whimpers that make him unknowingly grind the stiffness in his underwear against your sheets.

He pulls back before you can come - lifts his head, your hand still raking through his hair, and meets your needy blown-wide eyes.

“I love you,” he says to you, all ragged and desperate. It doesn’t matter to him that all he has for the proof of this are the nights he has spent touching you without you even knowing - all that matters is that you are there, you are his, you mean far more to him than any other mortal has ever done . . . you make him feel, if only for a few moments a night, as though he is something more than a ghost. “Tell me you love me too.”

You think you are dreaming. 

Your body is heated and needy, your every sense inflamed and desperate, slick beads of your own desire rolling down your thighs to stain and soak the bed beneath you - but it is just a wet dream, is it not? Just a fantasy fuelled by the loneliness of your life.

Just a dream.

In your dreams, it seems perfectly natural to smile at the blond man who keeps making his appearances within them; who keeps touching you with such reverence. You have been treated with such porcelain carefulness by him, as if anything bad happening to you would be a tragedy that he could not bear - and so, too, it seems perfectly natural to murmur;

“I love you,” - even if it is only because you are close, hovering on the precipice of your orgasm, and you so desperately want to come. 

And so, Dainsleif provides. 

He keeps his head on the pillow of your thighs well after you have fallen back fully into your real dreams, letting the taste of your most intimate parts linger on his lips, and wondering if this is enough. Could he satisfy himself with just touching, just kissing, just mouthing against you and bringing you pleasure after pleasure?

. . . He does not think he could.

He thinks ruefully of the abyssal rot that flows through his veins like sickly ichor; of how once he was noble and brave and righteous, dedicated to defending those who he had sworn to protect. The Twilight Sword was a virtuous protector of Khaenri’ah.

How far he has fallen. 

The Twilight Sword of centuries ago would take him out into the city square and have him strung up for his crimes. The residents he drove mad before you made his home your own, the advantage he is more than aware he is taking, the misuse of what little powers he has.

And yet, you are worth it. Yet he longs for you even more.

Fear grips him sometimes, when he watches you leave for work, that you may not return. What would he do if you left the house and never came back for your things; if you decided that enough was enough, and left behind cold draughts and smashed crystal glass and seething jealousy and the blond man who visits you in your dreams? He needs to leave a lasting mark on you.

He needs to ensure that you know that you are his.

He needs to claim you fully and utterly and completely.

So a few nights later, he finds himself bared. He finds his cock pressing against your entrance; as slick and warm and welcoming as it has always been, as you continue to look up at him with nothing but affection.

“Dream Man,” you tell him, and you laugh like the tinkling of a bell. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dainsleif says, and he finds the courage within him to lean down and kiss you once more, until thoughts disappear from your head in favour of kissing him back. He ruts his cock through your folds; saturates it in a mixture of your own slick and his own silvery precome until it slips and slides, sensitive head brushing over your silky soft thighs. “All that matters is you.”

“You’ll make my head swell,” you murmur to him, but your arms come sleepily up to wrap about his neck. Your skin is heated against you, your skin so warm and so soft and so alive it makes Dainsleif ache down to his core. “Mm. Are you going to fuck me finally, Dream Man?”

Against his will, his cheeks heat; a flush creeps into them. In his day, such vulgar language would never have come from such a lovely mouth - nobody would dare be so open and forward with a man whose name they did not even know. It has been centuries, and you are certainly a more forward breed of person . . . but at his heart, Dainsleif was once a warrior of nobility, and he finds himself just a little scandalised.

“Is that what you want?” He asks, voice all throaty. You pout adorably at him - in your sleep, you are so much more open. In your dreams you are truly the purest, most free version of yourself. Dainsleif adores it just as much as he adores every other facet of you.

“Please,” you breathe - and Dainsleif lets the head of his cock catch on your entrance. His teeth grit as he splits you open - as he lets that same head slip inside of you, tight and hot and wet about him. He pauses, suddenly, and you whine--

But Dainsleif’s mouth opens, and despite how every molecule of him begs him to simply fuck you, he manages to shape words.

“Tell me you’ll never leave,” Dainsleif says, blue eyes - one shadowed and masked, one free and open - meeting yours. “Promise me.”

You are just dreaming - there will be no consequences, you think. What is a little white lie - even one that is a profession of love - for the sake of pleasure, when it is merely a dream? You sigh and smile and cant your hips up towards the handsome blond man who has haunted your dreams for months and you whisper;

“I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dainsleif pushes himself inside of you; bottoms out in one gorgeous, deep thrust, until he fits perfectly inside of you and the two of you are joined completely. Dainsleif feels your heart beating fast against his chest as he drags you hungrily into a kiss. 

As he begins to fuck you, slowly and deeply and earnestly, he lets himself imagine the tight confines of you moulding themselves to his shape until only he fits inside of you so perfectly and snugly. He thinks of how utterly he is claiming you; looks down at you in utter adoration, kisses you so deeply that it robs you of your breath. 

You whimper and sigh and moan, thighs locking about his hips. Dainsleif does not remember the last time he felt so close to anyone. 

You make him feel alive again.

“I love you,” he breaks the kiss to groan against your cheeks, your neck, the hollow of your throat just above your heart. “Never go. Never.”

You can think only of how good the stretch of his cock feels inside of you; how right. How handsome he looks in the moonglow.

Before this, you had never found yourself having any recurring dreams but nightmares. If you had beautiful dreams at night, they were always the outliers; one single dream to reflect and reminisce upon and wish you may one day be able to return to - but which you never did. 

This man, though - all blonde and handsome, regal of bearing cloaked in black and navy with so much pain in his beautiful eyes that it makes you ache - has been a constant starlit companion for what feels like months.

“I won’t,” you promise again. “I won’t, I won’t, I’m yours forever--”

And as Dainsleif lets himself spill inside of you as your own body trembles and shakes in the throes of your matching orgasm, he thinks how true your words sound as he claims you for himself.

(He wipes between your thighs carefully, when you have fallen asleep, so you do not awaken to find you leaking his come. But that is only for the wasteful trickle that has escaped; the rest, he thinks with a warm glow, have settled inextricably inside of you as true proof that you are his). 

 The day after your dreams reach that nadir of affection, you leave the house to go to your job, and find yourself accosted by the co-worker that originally offered you a floor to sleep on, when you needed it most.

“I need to move out,” she says, with no other preamble. “The rent in my place is going up, and I’ve found the most darling little two-bed house just outside the Monstadt gates - if we split the rent, you’ll be paying even less than you are right now and you can finally get out of that draughty old haunted house!”

You think of all of the problems with the house. You think of the breeze and the unhappiness it seems to have when anyone else crosses the threshold--

And then, you think of the blond man in your dreams.

His fingers brushing your thighs, his tongue between your folds, cool breath fanning across your skin as he stares at you with abject adoration written clearly in his eyes. You think of the whispers that he loves you - and you think, too, of the promises you have made him.

That you’re his. That you will never leave. That you, too, love him. 

They are just things you have said in your dreams; they would hardly stand up in any Fontaine court of justice. But you cannot shake the feeling that they mean more than that. You cannot shake the feeling that going against them would be a betrayal.

“No thank you,” you say, a smile on your own face, “ . . . it really does feel like home.”

[deepdisireslonging]

Choices Chapter 2: Like a Shot

Ricky takes Esther back to her apartment. On their way out, they are attacked by a rival gang.

Warnings/Promises: gang-typical violence, food mention, fluffy-flirty Ricky

Word Count: 4800

Chapter 1: Valentine's Day

Friday, February 15, 1929

Bridgeport Township

When Esther came down the stairs the next morning, Starks was waiting for her with a cup of coffee and a map.

“Is it… spiked or-” Esther nodded at the cup.

With a smile, he handed it over. “Just plain coffee. I promise. Milk and sugar are in the kitchen, along with breakfast.” He popped open the breezeway so they could cross to the other side of the house.

When they reached the kitchen, Esther recognized the small space from her brief entrance the day before. In the hustle and bustle of moving her in, she’d missed its quaint details. Mrs. Anne sat at the small table against the door-side wall, darning some socks while Mr. Jim peeled potatoes. She pointed out the sugar on the far counter, and Starks grabbed the milk bottle from the ice box next to the back door. The stove in the corner easily radiated heat through the room. It was very welcome with how damp and drizzly it was outside. And, from the kitchen’s position behind Wardlow’s office, the oven probably seeped warmth into the wall right behind his desk. The large table island in the middle of the room was prepped with platters of toast, eggs, bacon (which Esther politely avoided), and a small plate with a pat of butter.

It was then, with the soft scrape of Mr. Jim’s knife, and the clink of plates and utensils, that Esther noticed how quiet the rest of the house was. “Most of the guys headed out early to prepare for the Bull Session,” Starks noted. “Any other morning, it would still be this quiet for anybody recovering from a late night. Or a busted head.”

Mrs. Anne tsked, flicking her eyes from Starks to Esther to point out the woman’s alarm.

“Ah. A busted head is just a hangover.” He laughed nervously, dipping his head in apology to the housekeeper. “Nothing too violent.”

“Oh,” Esther breathed in a sigh of relief. But she also observed how Ricky’s eye had not improved. It was still swollen and red around the lid and underneath. The purple bits from last night had settled deep into his skin. It looked painful. Her staring was interrupted by his placing the map on the counter.

A pigeon’s-eye view of Chicago’s city plan was outlined into regions. Names were labeled within each square. Some areas were clear of writing. Esther assumed they were neutral territories. Especially considering one of them contained the police station. Perhaps. Or maybe they were areas of flux as the crews acquired and lost ground. Stars on the map marked ‘businesses.’

Starks pointed at the square encompassing the townhouse just south of the city’s center. And then to Howls former locations. “We’re obviously here. But, as you can see, we have neighbors with conflicting interests. On the lakeside: Kenny Omega and The Father’s House. Everybody calls it Feathers. It’s a church front with a casino in the basement fellowship hall. He’s our biggest customer for hooch to keep his patrons spending.”

“Why feathers?”

“Some kind of angel pun, I think. That’s from before I joined the racket up here. Up here by the tracks on our northside is Chris Jericho and Jazzies. He’s got guys in the police force, so his casino is almost never raided. And definitely never shut down. We hire musicians from Jericho’s music shop front. Not often. But it keeps him happy.” He let the information settle. “Now, to keep you happy. Where am I taking you today?”

Esther looked over the map before pointing. “Here.”

His eyebrows arched. “You live in Jade territory?”

“I didn’t care who owned the block. Most people don’t. All that matters is that the rent is cheap, and it’s mostly quiet.” She frowned. “I thought Jade worked for Taz?”

“Yeah, but she came in with some land she won for herself as a display of her skills.” He shrugged. “We should probably go, but I can’t leave this around. How quick can you memorize it? Don’t worry about the exact dimensions and street names; the borders change too often. And you’ll get the gist of territories as you’re present for business meetings.”

With one last long look, feeling the Torrios’s interest on her back, Esther soaked up the information on the map. There were a few overlapping areas she wanted to ask about. But she knew Starks or Wardlow could fill her in later. Her apartment building looked so far away on the map. But it had only taken minutes to drive yesterday. She looked over the streets closely to make up for the blur of turns that she’d missed during her escape and then during the move. “Alright, I think I’ve got it.”

The oven door creaked as Starks opened it, washing the room in a swell of heat from the rabid flames inside. With the rush of air, he had to force the map into the opening so it would catch. One corner ignited. Then the miniature flame ate its way to the other side. He kept watch until the page was ashes before closing the door.

“Now we just have to borrow one of the cars and get moving.” He shared a nod with Mrs. Anne, who retrieved their coats from the hooks in the hall.

“One of the cars? It’s not that far of a walk. We could-“

He chuckled. “It’s cold out, Doll. Why shuffle through the snow and rain when you could travel in style?” He was amused by her agreeing smile. “Welcome to the Wardlow way of business.”

The car in question was sleek in design. But complicated to start. One of Ford’s Model A’s, as Starks identified, it still started with a crankshaft in the front grill. Starks insisted Esther sit in the front passenger seat during the process. After many a grunt, and a few curses under breath, the motor purred to life and off they went.

To cover up for his earlier struggle, he had no shortage of questions. Esther shared how her family had always lived on the outskirts of the city, out in River Forest. Her father’s bakery out there did well. But his back was broken in a driving accident; he had been crossing the street when a speeding car came careening around a corner. He couldn’t knead the tougher doughs, but her mother and brothers helped out. She was the first to move into the city center when seeking her fortune. And Starks shared how he was the first from his family to leave the state of Louisiana. But he deflected around the reasons for his move. Something about a job. Esther didn’t press.

The conversation eventually came to a lull. Starks hummed, then began to guide the car to the curb.

“Is everything alright?” Esther had been watching him adjust levers and press the different pedals, but it was a lot different from the old van she had sometimes driven for the corner grocer. This would be nothing like those deliveries.

“Wanna take the wheel for a bit?”

“Oh, no. I’ll have a lesson about-” she waved her hand over the dash, “all of this when the roads aren’t so slick.” She breathed a sigh of relief when he guided the car back into the minimal traffic. Because of the weather, there weren’t as many booths out by the street. Mostly ones selling something hot to eat or drink while the rest of the businesses kept their wares inside. Passerbys huddled against the cold and moved quickly as they dared over the icy sidewalks and slippery streets. Esther was glad for the car. “I have to admit, I kinda like being driven around. Thanks for bein’ my chauffeur.”

Starks tipped his hat, making her laugh. “My pleasure, miss.”

As they crossed the invisible threshold into Jade territory, Starks slowed their carefree clip down to a casual cruise. The speed blended in with the calm bustle of pushcarts and older cars. Also, his conversation was loose, distracted, while he kept a watchful eye on their surroundings. The buildings, slowly dipping from brick-built to brick-faced, and barely managed to decrepit, crawled by Esther’s window. When Cargill took over, she had initiated several projects to strengthen the community, usually meaning a bustle of builders. To Esther, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. If anything, it was quiet. Probably too cold out for the work teams. Mentioning this made Ricky’s grip on the steering wheel tighter.

Esther’s friend was just walking up to the front door of the building when Starks brought the car to a stop. The mere sight of the blonde, who embodied the flapper trends when she could, made her heart leap. She didn’t wait for him to open her door. She was out like a shot with a squeal mirrored by her friend, Mary.

“I saw all those men yesterday but didn’t see you. Heard about the raid, and then the shooting at Bill’s and thought the worst. But here you are!”

“Oh, there was a lot of… Yes. Everything worked out. I’m alright. And! I got a new position that came with a new place. But in all the rush, I forgot a few things. You don’t still happen to have my mother’s scarf, do you? I couldn’t find it last night and I-”

Mary beamed and laced her arm with Esther’s. “Yes, I do. It was perfect for my date last week.” They shared a giggle. “Didn’t work out more than for a free meal, but come on up while I find it and tell me about your new job.” She eyed the man at Esther’s side. “Is this your new boss? Are you a boxer, Mister-?”

“Starks.” He took her outstretched hand and lightly kissed her knuckles. “Ricky Starks. And no, to both questions. We have the same boss, and I’m… clumsy.” He lightly touched his eye. When she laced her other arm in his, he gladly let her take the lead.

“I’ve got a cousin that lives up in New York,” Mary said, leading them up the stairs. “When her mother was doing poorly, she came home for a while and taught us girls some exercise from London, and how to punch like she learned in the Bronx.” She shadowboxed outside her door. “Maybe Esther can show you a few pointers. I taught her everything my cousin showed me.”

They shared a laugh. Mary’s room was across the landing from Esther’s. It made for easy check-ins, mutual sewing assistance, shared meals, and the best moments of developing city sisters.

“Would either of you like some tea?” Mary swept from one side of her living space to the other in her quick way. “I’m going to make me a cup.”

Esther almost shed a tear with the realization of how much she would miss her friend’s daily hustle. “I’m alright, dear. Though Mr. Starks might need some. It wasn’t as warm in the car as he thought it would be.” To emphasize her point, he held up his hands and dramatically tried to unbend his half-frozen fingers. It made the women laugh; Mary uproariously, in her way. “In that case, we should hurry. You haven’t moved your sugar, have you?”

Their easy dance in the small corner kitchen, no more than a stove with a pair of burners on the top and a small counter, caught Starks in wonder. Mary rushed between the stove top and the cabinet of cups over the sink to one side while Esther handed her things. He likened it to watching fireflies in Louisiana; lightning up in as many corners of a grove as possible. Esther moved like… the only thing he could think of was the way sugar poured smoothly into a cup of something warm. Such a cup was placed in his hands while he did his best to keep up with Mary’s ceaseless conversation.

“So, where’s this new secretary- stenographer job?”

Esther sat by Starks on the low couch while Mary took the chair. “It’s downtown a bit. Comes with an apartment and everything! Maybe you could visit- oh. Maybe not. The boss is… a little shy.”

Starks caught her disappointment. He flashed a smile. “We have parties sometimes. And we never turn a pretty face away from the door.”

While her friend flushed, Esther breathed with wondering what sorts of parties could be held at the townhome. If they could actually be held at all, or if Starks was just being kind. She used the breath to blow steam off her tea. “I hope this one lasts for a while. It’ll be nice to have something steady. How’s my spot at the corner grocer’s?”

“He’s so sweet.” Mary swirled the spoon in her tea. “His younger son is even nicer, though not around often. He took over the deliveries since Joshua left for school. Delivers on foot, and in the Harrigan’s car. Did you know the van finally gave up the ghost? And you remember the Harrigans, right? Got that little tot who’s got great aim for kicking people in the shins. That’s them. And Mr. Brazer, that’s my boss, Mr. Starks, he’s so easy-going. Won’t let me lift more than a bag of apples if he can help it, the dear. I’ve already started to memorize the common customers. Which one’s like what kinds of lettuce, if we ever get any. Which ones keep asking for oranges. And which ones I have ta’ keep an eye on their kids. One lady- did you ever meet Mrs. Folle? Has a little girl who knocks over my carrots, I swear, every time they come in. Little carrot-top’s got a thing for watching them go everywhere, I guess. So, what all will you be secretary-ing?”

Starks passed a hand over his eyes. How did Esther ever keep up with this girl?

“I have to admit, I’m a little fuzzy on the details. But as far as I can tell, I’m going to be taking notes during meetings. That way the boss or any of his associates can read over them and keep updated. I’m assuming anyways; I haven’t actually started yet.” When she glanced at Ricky for help, he stammered out some half-baked story about how Wardlow was blessed with a strong income, and Esther’s work would help him dish the charity back into the city.

“That won’t be so bad. And you’ll be out of the cold. I get frozen every time someone opens the front door. You’ll be working days instead of nights like you used to, I’m sure. I’m so happy for you!” She reached over and lightly swatted Esther’s knee. “It’s exciting. A fresh start. And hopefully quieter than your last two places. Wolves… or Howls; whatever it was called.”

As Mary continued to chat, Esther and Starks shared a look. Nothing about this job was quiet, and they both knew it.

“Let me get that scarf, before I forget.” Mary finished her tea with a flourish. Spinning out of her seat, she hurried from her boudoir to her closet, to the box of hats and things under her bed. It ended up being in the first drawer of the boudoir, passed over in her haste. Esther began cleaning up the cups and saucers. When everything was put away, her friend was suddenly soft-spoken.

Mary handed over the scarf, letting her hand linger over Esther’s. “Hey, don’t forget me while you’re living in the heart of downtown and surrounded by all that elegance. Okay?”

“I could never. When my days off roll around, I’ll write. Who else could I get into mischief with?”

Ricky slid his hand into the crook of Esther’s arm. “Maybe we can all go out dancing. Dance the night away and not come back till dawn!” He winked at Mary. “I’m sure I can find another coworker who can lead you in a quick Charleston if you’d like.”

“Whew, any time!”

They shared a giggle and a hug before Esther and Starks went back to the car.

Outside, Ricky nodded. “Nice girl. Friendly.” He caught Esther’s eye. “But she’s a wild two-step, that one. I’m glad you’re more of a small, sweet cup of coffee.”

With a confused smile, Esther wrapped her mother’s scarf around her neck. “Odd compliment, but I’ll take it.”

He was just taking her hand to give it a squeeze when Esther was distracted by movement over his shoulder. The street was oddly empty. Except for a car accelerating towards the building. Ricky spun to face it as the motor’s roar reached him.

“Get inside.” He shoved her towards the steps. “Does it lock?”

Esther pulled on the handle. “It already is.”

Starks grit his teeth with a grunt. “Get into the alley. Hide behind anything sturdy that you can find and keep your head down. Don’t come out again until it’s quiet.” He watched as she ran and hid, then rushed to the back of the car. The button inside the trunk popped open the hidden shelf, revealing a machine gun. With only moments until the car would be in range to fire at him, he ducked behind the sidewalk-side tire.

Bullets riddled the street-side of the car. Glass broke into the seats, and more broke in the building’s first floor. Starks aimed over the hood, making the attacking bullets pause. But his gun jammed. With a curse, he dropped down to his knees. The bullets continued to fly as the car’s tires squealed and he dug around in his pockets. By the time he found his revolver, two men had jumped out. One kicked the gun out of Stark’s hand. A short fight broke out.

Despite it technically not being quiet yet, Esther risked a peek. One of the men was tall as a giant, broad shouldered, and with well-combed blond hair. He grabbed Ricky by the scruff of his neck to pull him to his feet, then pinned his arms behind him. The second, shorter and younger with dark hair, blew on his knuckles. With a grin, he landed a solid punch to Stark’s stomach. Esther almost cried out to see him double over, again and again, as the assault continued. A third man, with a lion’s mane of long blond hair, gave a whistle from his position in the car. He waved his hat before putting it back on his head. The long feather stuck into the band caught on the door.

To Esther’s horror, the two assailants dragged Ricky to their vehicle. It was still sputtering and chugging, ready to go whenever the feather-hat leader knew they were good. Stark’s limbs made one last effort to prevent the inevitable. The young man shoved them in one by one and shouted something. They sped off, creating a tidal wave in the muddy slush on the road.

Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

Nobody had screamed when the first-floor windows broke. But she knew the neighborhood would be buzzing soon enough.

Rushing to the sidewalk, Esther gave one hard look at the car. It was in rough shape. Not like she could operate it anyway. She took a second to orient herself. Then broke off into a sprint. She kept that morning’s map in her mind. Which blocks to turn at. Which ones to avoid, just in case.

The cold didn’t matter. Her running created a heat that kept her going. When she finally arrived at the townhome, she was sweating.

Wardlow had just arrived back with some of the men. “Esther! What’s wrong?” He caught her as her lungs gave out. “Catch your breath. There you go. What’s happened? Where’s Ricky?”

“Taken.” She swallowed a mouthful of air. “Three guys. Young guy. Tall and blond. And their leader with long blond hair.” She motioned a line beside her head. “Long feather in his hat.”

At Wardlow’s side, Spears and Joe hissed. Spears punctuated it with an extra growl. “Jericho. Bastard probably wanted to know what Starks overheard.”

Joe kneeled next to Esther. “The young guy. Dark hair?” When she nodded, he winced. “Whose side is Guevarra on? Just last month he had switched back to Friedman’s crew.”

“We can’t riddle that out right now.” Wardlow passed her shivering body to Joe. “Spears, behind the wheel. Sorry, boys, the day’s not done yet. Martin, check the hatches. Are we loaded? Good. I’m joining you on the hunt.” He turned back to the pair, brushing a sweaty lock off Esther’s forehead. “Honey, you’re gonna be alright. And so is Starks. You did good. Joe, get her inside to Anne before she catches cold. And watch the house for further backlash. This shouldn’t take long.”

The car was already speeding off before Wardlow’s door shut. The rushed growl of it raised Esther.

“The car! It’s back at the apartment. ‘Couldn’t drive it so I ran and…”

Joe hushed her, carrying her into the house. “It’s alright. We’ll send somebody for it.”

“It’s all shot up-“

“We’ll handle that too. Mrs. Anne, some hot water and some assistance, please.”

While the housekeeper and Joe hurried around to dote on Esther, she fought to remember every detail of the kidnapping. It somehow felt worse than if they’d just shot him in front of her. And now Wardlow was out there. Everyone was in danger.

“Hand that to me, dear. That’s it.” Mrs. Anne gently untangled the scarf from around Esther’s neck. “I’ll put it in your room.”

She could have tossed it into the fire for all Esther cared. In her mind, this was all her fault.

Joe watched the guilt rise on her face. “Listen to me. Nothing of this is because of you. It’s the game. It’s a rough game, and not every side plays fair. We’ll get ‘em. One way or another.” He patted her shoulder. When she mentioned the building windows he tutted. “Cargill will cover them. We’ll send someone around to check. If she doesn’t handle it, we’ll replace them. Don’t worry yourself anymore and get some rest.”

But she couldn’t. She refused to leave the front parlor, even when Joe tried to get her away from the windows. “They won’t come here,” she breathed. “They got what they wanted.”

It was the longest two hours of her life. Ares never left her side. He rested his snout over her shoes, only moving when Mrs. Anne covered her up with a blanket. Then he placed his head in her lap, calmly watching her while she petted his fur. In that time, her heart rate slowed down to a hesitant patter. Outside, it began to snow.

Mrs. Anne was just bringing another cup of tea when Joe burst into the room. “They brought him to the back door. He’s alive-”

She was off like a shot. When she arrived at the kitchen, Starks was lying across the center table. The sight stopped Esther in her tracks. His eyes weren’t open. His breathing was ragged. And, where his shirt had been cut open to survey the damage, his ribs were already spotting with deep purple and black bruises. His face didn’t appear to have any more damage to it besides a busted lip. Mr. Jim was holding up his left arm, observing a cut along his forearm.

“They threw him in the rubbish outside?” When he received confirmation, he nodded. “Nothing malicious as the rest of him. Just a cut from a bottle. Pass me the bandages.”

Spears noticed Esther first, and more from Joe’s entrance than her sudden appearance. He leaned down to Stark’s ear. “Look alive. Miss Garnier’s here.”

With a stunted groan, Starks opened his eyes. “Hey, mon cher. I’m glad you’re alright.”

She took half steps towards the table. “And I’m glad you’re mostly in one piece.”

Mr. Jim prodded at some of Stark’s ribs, making him shout. “Have to check to see if they’re broken. Hang tight.”

Esther offered her hand for him to do just that. He did his best not to break her fingers.

Finally, Mr. Jim nodded. “You’re one lucky sonava- ‘scuse me, Miss Garnier. He’s always been the luckiest man I’ve ever met. And tonight’s no different. Now where’s the rest of those bandages?”

The expression on Esther’s face didn’t agree with Mr. Jim’s observations. To her, Starks looked half-dead. To his detriment, that’s how he felt, but he slapped on a smile for her sake.

“Been in tougher scrapes than this, Doll.” He grinned, then winced as a bandage was wrapped around his forearm. “Might take me a minute to think of one, but I’ll get there.” When Esther managed to smile back, he gave her hand two weak but reassuring squeezes. They held the moment in silence as the kitchen bustled around them.

Wardlow eventually stepped close. Gently, he broke their hands apart. “We should really get you to a bed. Everyone ready to move?”

Starks was asleep before they were halfway up the stairs.

\\*//

Esther sat up with him most of the night. She saw to his bandages and kept a cool compress on his forehead to prevent fever. At first, Mrs. Anne had protested. In her opinion, someone needed to be sitting up with her too. But Esther persisted.

All night, she thought about the steps and the choices that had brought her here. She was out of the cold, making more money than she could have ever imagined, yes. But she had cowered from bullets twice now. Saw two people she cared about become victims of this way of life, losing one of them. She wouldn’t lose this one. Not tonight. The realization that she cared about Ricky, in this new budding way, rattled her lungs. And what of Wardlow? He had come back more haggard than Esther could imagine anyone looking. Did he consider this business worth it?

About midnight, a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Miss Garnier?” Wardlow poked in his head. His boyish grin made her return a smile. After quietly entering the room, he pulled up a chair. “Mrs. Anne will have my head if I let you sit up all night.”

“I won’t be able to forgive myself if I don’t.”

“Yes, you can. And you should.” Wardlow eased out a sigh. “You saved his life, you know?”

“After putting it in danger in the first place.”

He frowned. “You did no such thing. This… disagreement is older than your tenure here. If they hadn’t nabbed him while he was with you, they would have come to the house for him. Or would have done it downtown.” He leaned closer to her. “You got to us in the nick of time. You knew exactly which details to give us so we knew who had him. Jericho was waiting for us when we arrived at Jazzies. If you had tried to operate the car, or had hesitated in any way, it would have been a corpse they tossed out to us. But it wasn’t. He’s alive. And I know, when he wakes up, Ricky will thank you for it.”

She wasn’t sure when it started, but Esther reached up to wipe away her tears. “It’s not my fault.”

“No. Not in the slightest.” He offered her his handkerchief. “You’ve had a rough start in this life. Rougher than most. But you don’t have to stay in it.” The soft, almost brokenness of his voice startled her. “If you want out, I can see to it. I can move you anywhere you like. New York, Atlanta. Hell, I’ll set you up in London if you’d like.” He tried to flash her smile, but it was too heavy with unwillingness to stick. “Just say the word.”

Again, Esther took stock. Her nerves were shot. More danger for her and the crew was on the horizon. And more than anything she wanted to forget the whole thing. But then she looked at Ricky. She remembered how he had left his family for this life. His haggard breathing made her want to see him healed up. She looked at Wardlow. How much his eyes begged her to stay, despite what he’d said. And how kind he was trying to be for her.

“I can’t leave,” she finally said. “How can I? You boys need all the help you can get. Besides, I haven’t even had my first day on the job. Can’t quit what I haven’t started.”

Wardlow’s face lit up. “I’m- that is good to hear.” He took her hand, giving it two reassuring squeezes. “Now, you really must go to bed. Can you trust me to look after him till at least morning? You’ll be able to watch over him better if you’ve rested.”

The invalid in question seconded that idea with a loud snore.

Esther laughed into her hand to muffle it. “Alright. I trust you.” She squeezed his hand back as she stood. “I’ll see you in the morning, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She was asleep seconds after her head hit the pillow. And she didn’t wake up until Mrs. Anne brought her a breakfast tray the next morning.

\\***//

Chapter 3: Learning and Healing

[loftway]

Overcoming Credit Challenges: Strategies for Buying Cheap Apartments with Less-Than-Perfect Credit

Finding inexpensive accommodation in a busy city like Los Angeles can be difficult, especially if you have less-than-perfect credit. However, owning a home or securing a rental is not unattainable. With careful planning, resourcefulness, and a willingness to investigate other choices, you may overcome credit issues and locate cheap lofts for rent and cheap condos for sale in Los Angeles. This guide will provide strategies to help you navigate the process and achieve your housing goals despite credit difficulties. For more information visit us : https://loftwayseo.blogspot.com/2024/07/overcoming-credit-challenges-strategies.html

[affordablelamovers]

Plan A Smooth Long Distance Move with These Tips

“To know about long distance relocations, kindly read this article. You will get some helpful tips”.

Long-distance moves are difficult when compared to other kinds of moves. Apart from the anticipation of moving into a new city or state, you would also feel overwhelmed as you would be leaving your home.

So the first thing that you should do is hiring long distance movers Oxnard so that you could have your own sweet little time as you let the feelings sink in. It is not just the packing! The movers will help you deal with the assembling, disassembling, loading and unloading, settling down, and more. This makes things a lot easier. As you Google about the new neighborhood and its nearby entertainment centers, and hospitals, they would come and do all the hard work. But before they come, make sure you get rid of all the clutter you have. Why pay a huge sum for items that you haven’t used in the past year? It is not worth it. If you have rent a place in the new city, do you at all know the measurements? Does the study actually have room for the giant table? Also, what about your huge couch? These are some things that should concern you.

When you are moving to a place far away from your house, try to join groups and make sure you search if there are a few friends living there already through social media. As I said, you will only get time for this if you hire affordable movers Los Angeles. You will have peace of mind too.

Also, when you are moving to a new city, make sure you insure the precious items, such as the piano, Jacuzzi, pool table, etc. You must get your expensive furniture and lights insured too as accidents don’t come with a warning. Ask your insurance company to educate you about the options you have in hand.

Amidst all the ruckus, do not forget to make some amazing memories. Meet your friends and neighbors, throw a party, and have a gala time before it is time to go. Long-distance moves should be enjoyed too because a new place means a new perspective. If it is a new job, think about how it will change your life. If you are going for a degree, then also you will learn, grow and even have fun! It is always important to look at the positive side of the coin.

You should notify important parties about the address change. Cancel services and transfer utilities. These are some of the very important tasks to accomplish.

You should plan your drive and flight in advance so that there are no bumps at the last minute. If you have pets, you should plan their move too. Do all of these while your chosen long distance movers Bakersfield take care of the move.

It is very important that you move the important items like documents and heirlooms by yourself! It is not okay to ask the movers to move your important papers.

You should also schedule a deep cleaning service for your new house so that you can step into a squeaky clean one. It will help you give a fresh start. Sanitization is also important during these times.

Hope these tips will help you with your long-distance relocation. Read my next article to know more about affordable long distance movers Los Angeles.

Author Bio: Mia, a blogger on cheap long distance movers in LA, writes on long distance moves. To choose the best yet affordable long distance moving company Los Angeles, you must go through her articles.

[arjublog]

Finding Cheap Apartments in Los Angeles: Your Ultimate Guide

I. Los Angeles Rental Market

Los Angeles is famous for the wide array of rental options it provides; however, finding affordable apartments may prove more of a challenge than anticipated. Los Angeles rents one-bedroom apartments at $2200 monthly while surrounding neighborhoods typically offer rates near $1500; In recent years, apartment rent in Los Angeles has been on the rise, making it more difficult to locate cheap apartments. We will discuss various strategies in this article that may help find cheap studio and one-bedroom apartments more easily. cheap apartments in Los Angeles

Source: phys.org

II. Determine your Budget and Needs

Initial steps toward renting should include defining both your budget and needs. Are you seeking to save money through long-term rentals, or are you simply in search of the cheapest option possible for convenience? An average long-term lease lasts one year; as it extends, costs become increasingly affordable; long-term commitments might not suit everyone so short-term solutions should be explored first if uncertain of long-term goals; consider size/location issues when creating your budget that includes both rent expenses as well as any living costs that might occur simultaneously.

III. Search Strategy

There are various methods available for discovering affordable Los Angeles apartment rentals. Utilizing rental websites will allow you to search listings to identify potentially suitable apartments; while this could save money on agent's fees, it also takes considerable effort and time sifting through them in order to locate suitable options. Tripalink makes finding an affordable apartment much simpler!

Search listings using social media such as Facebook groups. Los Angeles social rental groups such as cheap rental groups on Facebook can provide invaluable information.

IV. Area Analysis

Los Angeles encompasses an enormous area. Rents vary significantly across its many neighborhoods and each offers its own distinct culture and environment, so when searching for an apartment, all aspects of life should be considered when searching. Rents on the east side tend to be lower due to relatively poor public transportation access while west-side apartments tend to provide easy transportation access; Los Angeles's southside provides some of the city's premier locations while the northside provides more moderate options.

Take a tour through some iconic Los Angeles neighborhoods.

Downtown Los Angeles, home of the Arts District and Chinatown, features apartments for rent at various price points ranging from studio units starting around $2,000 annually up to more expensive luxury options which might reach $8,000.

USC provides affordable housing with easy living arrangements close to campus.

Koreatown is Los Angeles's premiere nightlife district and known for its Korean-inspired cuisine. There is an assortment of affordable rentals here with monthly rent ranging anywhere between $1800-$2,500 per month.

Hollywood offers film companies, celebrities, and a vibrant cultural environment; however, its rents can be expensive: one-bedroom flat rents typically range from $2,500 to $3,000 monthly - although you may find more affordable studio apartments for less than this price range.

V. Search Tips 

You can find cheap apartments by using several methods. Splitting the cost of rent and other living expenses with others can make an apartment cheaper. Search for flexible apartment leases to have more options. Smartly managing utility costs and home maintenance can help you reduce your total living expenses. For cheap Los Angeles apartments, you can take advantage of the rental discount policies and assistance programs.

Use student discounts and housing subsidies for low-income households to find more affordable housing solutions.

Be alert for promotions: Different locations and times may offer promotional events and discounts that could help you secure better prices.

Actively negotiate with the landlord or agent.

Being patient and collected during your apartment search process will allow for smoother negotiations and reduce the chances of making quick, hasty decisions.

Source: hotels.com

VI. Conclusion 

Finding cheap apartments may be challenging, but you can do it with proper research, an accurate budget, and timely and accurate information. By taking these steps and using various search tools you will soon have found the perfect home for you.

[jennyhumortgagebroker]

Portland OR Metro Real Estate Introduction Sep 2022

Compared to some west coast big cities, Portland is a little bit smaller but it has its own charm – green, laidback, and fun. You can easily access some amazing scenes within one hour drive – mountains, rivers and beach scene. You can do so many outdoor activities here.

<Authorized by sungchoi photography>

Portland’s name was shamed during Covid for its downtown protests. But it’s still a great town for many reasons. Here are some reasons you should consider investing in Portland’s real estate now!!!

Reason #1: Relatively Cheap Compared to Other West Coast Cities.

Tech company jobs，mild climate, cultural diversity, etc. West coast is always the top option for many investors or immigrants for many reasons. Between Seattle, The Bay area and Los Angeles, Portland is affordable and cost-effective.  If you compare the income to house price, it’s affordable here.  And rents return more profit with less risk compared to the other major West Coast large cities.

2022 Q2 Median Price in Major West Coast Cities: (single family house)

Reason #2: Acceptable Rental Cash Flow + Strong Appreciation

West coast houses are known for strong appreciation but bad cash flow when it’s a rental. In Bellevue or San Jose, a 1.5M house can only rent for $4000-5000. But being a landlord in Portland area could still expect some positive cash flow. For example, a 450k rental, with 330K loan, if interest rate is 6%, monthly payment is about $1979 + $450 tax, insurance. Monthly rent is about $2300-2500. It’s solid cash flow with the appreciation component.

Reason #3: Asian Community is Growing

Portland metro Asian population is about 8.65% (Chinese 1.7%, Korean 0.4%). In Seattle Asian population is about 16.3%  (Chinese 7.3%, Korean about 1.1%）These numbers are growing each year. A lot of Asian chain businesses have opened here recently including grocery stores (H-mart, Ranch 99), bakeries (Tous Le Jours, Paris Baugette, 85 degree), Restaurants (Din Tai Fung), Bubble tea shops (Sharetea, Tiger Sugar, Yomie Rice Yogart.) These chain franchises have done their own research and believe they can thrive with the increasing Asian population.

4 Popular Counties –

Washington, Multnomah, Clackamas, Clark

Washington County

This is my favorite. West of Portland downtown. There are many good high paying jobs here with Nike, Intel, Columbia Sportswear and other tech firms. Practical local governments, diverse & educated population, good schools and healthy commercial opportunities.

Popular cities here: Beaverton, Tigard, NW Portland (97229), Sherwood, Hillsboro. You can choose quiet residential neighborhoods to raise kids or some convenient locations with walking distance restaurants & shopping. If you purchase a rental property here, usually you will run into better quality renters.

Big employers here:

Intel has several campuses in Hillsboro (22,000 employees.) Intel offers a lot of high paying engineer jobs + mid-level technician jobs. There are also many smaller sized employers here as Intel suppliers. Intel’s future is pretty secure since Congress passed “Chip Act” in 2022 to sponsor domestic semiconductors manufactures. In many ways it’s a safe bet to invest in this area.

Nike Headquarter in Beaverton (8000 employees)

Nike are still building several high-rise office buildings, including a brand new Serena Williams Building opened in April 2022.

Other good employers in Washington County: Lam Research, ASML (600), Microsoft (200), Apple has a small Lab too.

Multnomah County

Multnomah county’s core is Downtown Portland and extends to the East side. It’s where Portland started. A lot of historical buildings and interesting stories here. You will find the most creative food culture and art scenes. Multnomah county is also known for its progressive political views shared by most residents. There are many great neighborhoods with high Walkscore. Biking is very popular in this area too.

Some criticisms though are 1. Too Political 2. Higher tax 3. Homeless issue 4. Increasing crime rate. In general, this is an area most investors will avoid at this time. But it’s still a big draw for young people. If you are someone drawn to interesting city life, bar/restaurant experience, and more social life, this area is perfect for you.

Good communities: Inner SE Portland, NE Portland, Pearl District, Sellwood.

Clackamas County

Another great area with slightly conservative atmosphere.

Lake Oswego is very popular and is where you will probably see the most local “Old money”. If Washington county generates “Tech money,” Old money comes from inheritance, finance and legal industry, and all kinds of self-employed businesses. Great schools and cute businesses everywhere. Houses are a little bit older here and pretty expensive.

West Linn located next to Lake Oswego and is somewhat similar. But it is quieter and even more residential.  

If you go further East to Happy Valley and Clackamas, or south to Wilsonville, these cities are also good neighborhoods with cheaper and newer houses.

Clark County (Vancouver WA)

Portland lies just south of Vancouver Washington. The 2 cities are divided by Columbia River. Vancouver WA is another popular place for investors for the following reasons:

Vancouver is slightly cheaper but also still part of Portland Metro.

Cheaper property tax, NO State income TAX ,(Compared to Oregon average 9% income tax) Since work from home became a new norm, it has drawn a lot of high paying WFH folks to move here.

Slightly more friendly to landlords compared to Portland.

Cleaner and less homeless issues

Camas and Ridgefield are considered 2 cities with best schools. Union High in Vancouver is good too. Other than school districts and hospitals, some famous employers are: Fisher Investment (1700 employees), Wafer Tech (A TSMC company,500-1000 employees), HP (700 employees)

Concerns:

Lacking of a giant cornerstone employer like Intel that can drive and maintain economic growth.

Only relying on highway I-5 and 205 to commute to Oregon side. Traffic is horrible during rush hours. Downtown Portland still has more to offer.

[webuyhouseslosangelesca]

New housing in Los Angeles leans heavily on ADUs

Clayton Przekop has been living in his garage for the past six months while his home is being rebuilt. It's a great garage - it has everything he needs. The ADU, or additional dwelling unit studio apartment, was rebuilt from an older standalone garage. The process of permitting and construction spanned two years and cost $150,000 altogether. New garages are residential living spaces instead of storage because many homeowners had been struggling to find housing. In 2017, California made it easier for people to turn their garage into a mini apartment or build small structures in the backyard. Many cities have followed and even started promoting ADUs as a way to help close the chronic housing shortage gap. This includes Los Angeles; which projects a need for almost 500,000 new units in the next few years. We Buy Houses Los Angeles CA “It’s a good way to help solve the housing crisis, increase housing stock and increase the value of the property,” Przekop said, adding that he hopes eventually to rent out the garage to other Angelenos and make some money. By the end of 2021, 3,371 ADU permits had been granted. 5,188 permits were granted by the end of that year. This number will be reached this year; 4999 permits were given out in just the first eight months of 2022. Since 2017, approximately 25,000 ADUs have been authorized in Los Angeles. Approximately 50% of the completed ADUs are now liveable out of the 25,000+ that have already been authorized since 2017.

Housing units in Los Angeles has increased

The number of housing units in Los Angeles has increased significantly because of the ADU policy. Last year, ADUs made up for 22%new planned housing developments. The rise in popularity of these types of dwellings reflects just serious as Los Angeles's overall housing crisis has become. According to the city's own goals, it should be building 57,000 new units each year for the next eight years in order to meet its objectives. However, according to the Los Angeles Department of City Planning, over the previous several years only 16,700 new units have been approved per year. ADUs have become a much more significant aspect of the city's housing policy than previously anticipated. “There’s no doubt that ADUs have been a major bright spot in the city’s housing policy of late, producing a consistently high volume of new units each year,” said Christopher Hawthorne, the chief design officer for the city. “But they are not a silver bullet by any means.” Presently, 49 percent of households in the city cannot afford to pay their rent or mortgage, and over one-third of renters spend half their income on housing costs. If new construction doesn't double in the coming years, Los Angeles' homeless problem—estimated at around 42,000 individuals this year—will get worse. The impacts of this could be broad and felt by many. Lower-income neighborhoods will see a more rapid gentrification process which has the potential to push out long-term residents. Those who can't afford city living may have to commute from further away (making LA's other issues of traffic and air pollution worse) or completely leave the city. Hawthorne believes that, in some respects, ADUs are like Trojan horses-- giving rise to neighborhoods where it would be difficult to construct housing. However, because they provide a way to sneak new units into areas where there wouldn't normally be any development potential, they could potentially boost the density level of living areas by utilizing the nearly 70% of residential land city-zoned for independent homes. The City also emphasizes how one ADU may fulfill different demands at various times, particularly for multigenerational families. For example, an ADU might initially function as a rental property before becoming a cheap place for a youngster who graduated from college. Later it could become a “granny flat” for an elderly family member.

[realtyhubph-blog]

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[watusichris]

Poets of the Fess Hotel

Today, through a chain of associations called up by a book about alcoholic writers, and then by a volume of John Berryman’s best known work, I found myself ratcheted back to the year 1971, when I briefly entertained the delusion that I could write poetry. I was actively encouraged in this futile pursuit by a friend named John Tuschen, who cited Berryman as his favorite poet.

In ’71 I was living in Madison, Wisconsin, and had recently dropped out of the university there, after experiencing a drug-induced breakdown in late 1970 that led to several weeks in a psychiatric ward at the campus hospital.

After a brief period spent licking my wounds at my mother’s apartment outside Chicago, I returned to “Madtown,” where I immediately returned, unburdened by school work, to doing what I had been doing: drinking and using drugs, enthusiastically. The psychiatric care recommended by the hospital did not seem like a particularly useful option, and potentially an endless one, so I dropped my shrink after three sessions.

My style of therapy took place in the warm confines of the 602 Club, the campus-adjacent bar on University Avenue that I had begun to frequent before my lockdown adventure. This saloon had become a main hangout for the local bohemians in training. I’d started going there when I was working in the acting company of Broom Street Theater, the local experimental stage. In the theater’s early days, John Tuschen had started up “The Camel, The Lion, and The Child,” its in-house literary magazine. We had gotten to be friends, and we both like to drink, so I’d roll down to the bar after a day’s work as a stock boy in the small corner market one block up the street. (My apartment, which I briefly continued to share with two college friends, was also nearby; we served as custodians in the building, and the rent was cheap.)

Tuschen looked like your average hippie, with a skinny frame and long, straight, lank hair. He looked at the world sharply through a pair of rheumy, often red eyes. He had the vestiges of a childhood speech impediment, and the slight hitch of a stutter gave his poetry readings a unique rhythm. We’d sit together in the 602 night after night, kibitzing, arguing, and people-watching in the narrow, overheated room over the joint’s trademark drinks, big cold glass schooners of beer, which washed down cheap bottom-shelf shots. Alcohol was our bond.

Invariably Tuschen would pull some new thing he’d written out of his pocket. He was a poet in the big Ginsberg style, and in the days we were closest he was hammering away at a long “Howl”-like jeremiad about America called “Your Muther’s Eye.” We would often be joined by another aspiring poet who called himself Hannibal Plath, a sweet, angelic-looking guy who broke the heart of just about every woman who crossed his path, and sometimes by my new flame Connie, a statuesque redhead from St. Petersburg, Florida, who had me utterly in her thrall.

These were heady times, and you wound up getting swept away by them. I went back to working sporadically at Broom Street, which was charitably housed in St. Francis House, the youth Episcopal center a few blocks up the street from the 602. The theater began to mount irregular “Bacchanals” — free-form evenings of theatrical vignettes, poetry readings, music, and what-have-you. (Into the latter category fell a premiere slideshow screening of Michael Lesy’s remarkable photo-essay “Wisconsin Death Trip,” later a famous book drawn from newspaper clippings and hellish photos shot in the late 19th century in upstate Black River Falls, which unspooled at the theater over a long, dark John Fahey guitar piece.) Tuschen and some of the other Mad City poets were invariable fixtures of the events. My theater mentor, director Joel Gersmann, also read; he had written his own volume of what he called “junk poetry,” titled “Deep Shit.”



It was an anything-goes time, and, inspired by the company I was keeping, I started writing some poetry of my own. My stuff was never burdened by the larger demands of the form — it was free verse, unambitious self-expression, post-adolescent soul searching and bouquet-tossing love songs for my muse Connie (who was essentially my principal audience, if truth be told). My sense of rhythm was fair enough to keep the work aloft. Though it was little better than doggerel, Tuschen agreed to throw down the few bucks it cost to type up, lay out, and photocopy a couple hundred copies of a small book of my work, which I titled “Red Boots” (after my girlfriend’s favorite footwear) under his Quest Publishing rubric.

By mid-1971, I was chafing at my then-current living situation in a hippie pad off campus, where I witnessed the dramatic meltdown of one of my three roommates, a young, drug-crazed heiress we called “Spacey Gracie,” whose family had the police swoop in and drag her off to a private loony bin. Tuschen proposed that I move into an open room down the hall from his at the Fess Hotel.



Located at 123 E. Doty St., a block and a half away from the state capitol that served as the city’s hub, the Fess was something of a local landmark. A residential hotel that had opened in 1854, it had been operated by the Fess family for four generations; 69-year-old Alice Fess, the wife of the current owner, was the building’s truculent manager.



The place was then on the downward slope of its existence; at that point downtown Madison had gotten a little seedy, and it was surrounded by a number of bars and strip joints that catered to the state office workers and political lobbyists. Ironically, considering the amount of drinking that went on around and in the hotel in those days, one of the most famous Fess patrons in earlier times was the axe-wielding temperance crusader Carrie Nation. (Abraham Lincoln was said to have stayed there, but no one was ever able to confirm that for sure.) The place had a lobby where most hours you could find one of the older tenants dozing in a soiled chair or zoned out in front of an ancient TV set. Both the day desk clerk and the night clerk were walleyed, so communicating with the staff, who always seemed to be staring at something to your left, was a disconcerting experience.

I don’t think I paid more than $150 a month for a second-floor single at the Fess. Accommodations were unspectacular: The room contained an uncomfortable bed, a stained sink, a small closet, and a tiny, scarred desk in front of a window that looked out onto the grey street, where I tapped out my work on a turquoise Olivetti portable. I used the communal bathroom just outside my door, which was occupied competitively by the other tenants. Tuschen had a suite down the hall — he was the Fess pathfinder, after all — and Hannibal also had a room on my floor. For obvious reasons, Tuschen’s spacious room became the focal point for a considerable amount of drinking among the three resident versifiers, all of us living out our Beat Generation fantasies.

A couple of times, the university’s visiting professor of creative writing entered into this fantastical den, and he made his presence forcefully known. His name was George Barker. Though he is little known or remembered in America today, Barker was one of England’s great poetry prodigies of the 1930s. He was T.S. Eliot’s protégé, and William Butler Yeats was an admirer.

At 58, he was gaunt and lined; he was suitably dressed in tweeds, and displayed the waspish, razor-tongued manner of the old-school British intelligentsia. He was accompanied by a smart, auburn-haired, very beautiful young woman he introduced as his wife. But we did not know that Elspeth Langlands was not yet George Barker’s wife — his spouse Jessica, a Roman Catholic, refused to grant him a divorce. Elspeth had been introduced to Barker, who was 27 years her senior, when she was 22 by Barker’s longtime mistress Elizabeth Smart, who had tired of the poet’s violent, alcohol-fueled behavior (which she, an alcoholic and drug addict herself, had chronicled in a 1945 novel in verse, “By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept”) and happily handed him off to a new partner.

Barker would huddle with Elspeth on the floor of Tuschen’s flat with a gallon glass jug of Annie Green Springs, the sickeningly sweet, cheap party wine, at his side. He would get hammered on the foul stuff, which was manufactured purely for effect, all night long, as he diced up the manuscripts that Tuschen and Hannibal would read aloud for him. The work of these young writers could not have been further from the well-manicured “New Apocalyptic” writing that had won him kudos three decades ago, and he had little patience with it.



I never had the temerity, or the courage, to try out my jejune material on him, but one evening I made the mistake of reading Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Lady Died,” the New York poet’s shocked, moving reaction to Billie Holiday’s tragic demise.



After I finished, he paused for a beat and said, “Dear boy, that’s pure shit.”

That cold dismissal of a writer I love essentially ended my poetic aspirations for good.

“Red Boots” was published in early 1972, and sold tepidly at the Madison Book Co-op, the hip book outlet that became Bukowski’s local sponsor. While I was already re-enrolled at the University of Wisconsin, I managed to get a chance to live out a couple of my poetry fantasies before I hung up my spurs for good. The school actually hired me to give a reading on campus; I was paired with Bob Watt, the snaggle-toothed, lecherous pest exterminator/folk artist/“art” photographer who was a local legend in Milwaukee. Incredibly, Tuschen also convinced the university library to purchase copies of the entire Quest catalog, and so today “Red Boots” resides in the UW’s rare books collection. (I do not anticipate any scholarly interest — it’s truly dreadful.) After my father died in 2002, I learned with amazement that he kept a copy of the book — which contained a poem about our strained relationship — in his office desk.

Mrs. Fess learned from her clerks that Connie had been stretching herself across my narrow hotel bed, so I was politely asked to vacate the premises of her none too clean but nonetheless respectable establishment, and I moved into my girl’s pad on Fraternity Row. The Fess, which became a popular downtown restaurant for 20 years after the family sold it in 1975, is still operating today as a gastropub. The building was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1978.

We all went our separate ways. John Tuschen, who had titled one of his book “The Percodan Papers” after a favorite intoxicant, quit drugs and alcohol and became a drug rehabilitation counselor. In 1977, he was named the first poet laureate of Madison. He died in 2005; his longtime companion Suni asked me if she could reprint an honest but unflattering poem about him for a memorial volume, and of course I said yes, despite my misgivings about its quality. Hannibal left town, became a minister, and wrote a couple of spiritually themed self-help books. George Barker died at 78 in 1991, two years after he finally married Elspeth following the death of his wife. Elspeth Barker died at 81 in April of this year. A respected journalist, essayist, and novelist, she bore four of Barker’s 15 children.

Connie and I split up, then regrouped in Chicago, where we took root in a new bar on Lincoln Avenue. I began a protracted sidelong course to becoming a working journalist. I would learn that it was easier for me to write about what was in front of my eyes and ears than it was to chart the course of my heart. That great gift belongs to others.

[kazoo5480]

Almost finished! 30 chapters down, a few more to go. Thanks to those of you who wrote awesome notes, and who provide inspiration to us newbies every day with your lovely tales!

Chapter 1 Arrivals

Prologue – September 1943, New York City

25-year-old Killian Jones steps down the ramp off the Algernon straight from Belfast. He has $40 to his name, the clothes on his back. Having lost his brother in an accident, his mother to illness, and abandonment of his father when he was 7, Killian made a choice to leave his homeland and make his way to America. America was currently engaged in World War II, with no family left, he decides that a fresh start in a new land and a new line of work away from the IRA is just what he needs after the arrests and massacres taking place back in Ireland.

Gun running and violence is not a life he wants any longer, nor is a life in prison, or death. He is hopeful that despite his heritage, he will be able to settle into a new life, away from the massacre left behind on the emerald isle. Finding honest work is harder than he expected, even in a city this large.

Waiting in those long lines with all those other expats, hoping to find honest work and nothing. He goes every day for two weeks but quickly realizes that no one wants to hire an Irishman or give him a fair shake. But he believes you make your own destiny and believes in hard work and determination.

He hears the other men talking, that security and lounges, the US Army, and driving taxis are just about the only people hiring anyone right now if you aren’t American.

Killian has no interest in joining Americas crusade, so he finds a gig working the doors and security a little dingy nightclub at first, but slowly descends into the more glamorous nightclubs and lounges.

Word spreads quickly to his newest employer, Louis Lepke, who owns the Riobamba- one of Manhattan’s most posh nightclubs that Killian was once part of the IRA and has a hell of a left hook. Lepke, one of the most dangerous mob bosses in New York at that time sees potential in Killian, thinks that his past IRA ties could be beneficial to their enterprise, and he offers him a better paying job running pickups and drop offs of packages that Killian doesn’t open and doesn’t want to open.

While the money is nothing to turn your nose up at, Killian continues this path, socking away the cash and crafting an entirely new persona for himself while making his own contingency plans to disappear for a quieter life someplace near the sea, perhaps finding peace and burying his demons for good at last.

Killian will never forget the day he was able to move out of the vermin infested room he had been renting in a boarding house on the lower east side, and into a three-room apartment of his own for $80 a month near Washington Square Park. Not cheap by any means, but it’s a second-floor walkup, with a fireplace, and wide windows that overlook the street.

Lepke pays him three hundred a month right now, but he always earns tips from both ends of pickup and delivery, and that extra cash is always appreciated.

He will never forget the first suit he purchases, or his first pair of new shoes in god knows how many years. He knows with his new employment, he needs to look the part, so he only is careful in his wardrobe choices, dark colors that won’t show dirt easily, well-tailored shirts, wingtips in black and white, and two hats that he sees the other men wearing.

He manages to pry a floorboard in the back of his new closet loose, securing the hole with a thin layer of wood, ensuring nothing would fall through or be lost to the ageing building, and he uses this as home for his cash and very little valuables. He has no furniture to speak of, except a mattress on the floor with linens, but he knows soon enough he will have money to furnish his new home.

For now, he is only willing to spend money on rent, and groceries, he saves every dollar that he earns after his necessities are purchased.

What he does not expect is meeting Emma Swan, an enchanting blonde lounge singer at the Riobamba. Frank Sinatra even plays there on occasion, so the joint was always packed. But amongst all those entertainers, is Emma. With the voice of an angel, the body of a bloody goddess, and a fire in her green eyes.

He knows that from the moment he saw her dancing and singing across that smoke filled room, that he was going to have her no matter the cost. Tonight, her golden curls pinned back on one side with a glittering clip, wrapped in a floor length sequin dress cut scandalously low in the front, even for the nightclub scene at that point in time.

She is easily the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he wonders if she works for Lepke as well, a personal relationship perhaps, and the thought of any man touching her at all has him see red when those thoughts flit through his mind. He always hopes divine intervention is on his side to catch a glimpse of her during her sets, whether picking up or dropping off to his boss.

Occasionally he just sits in the back nursing a rum while he watches her, gliding around the small stage, dressed like sex personified, singing in that angelic voice of hers, enchanting the entire room.

She sings songs of love and happiness, sometimes she covers popular music of other entertainers, but he sees the sadness and demons lingering behind those emerald eyes, the glittering dresses and gorgeous gold curls. He wants to know more, scale those walls he can spot a mile high surrounding her.

On more than one occasion he is thankful for the low lighting of the club and his dark suits to hide the evidence of his rock-hard arousal that she stirs up every damn time he lays eyes on her. Green eyes that sparkle in the low lighting, locking on his blue. She sees him and he sees her, never exchanging words, just eye locks and then he is off.

In a rare occasion that Killian indulges the other members of his crew in playing craps, he casually asks about Emma to one of the kinder men, Bill Starkey, a slightly older married man, who handles the books for the clubs that Lepke owns.

“What of that lounge singer Starkey, she is a sight for sore eyes if I may say so myself”, Killian mentions with a smile. The older man looks him over for a second, and replies “She is a quite a dame, isn’t she? Voice of a siren an everything, but she is not to be trifled with - She keeps to herself, is a bloody fantastic piece of entertainment, draws the crowds in, but she does not mess with our crew. Many of ours have learned that the hard way he says with a laugh, Tough as brass that one is, so don’t bother with her”, and the man went back to the game.

When Starkey bids goodnight, leaving the younger men to their games, another crew member that Killian has somewhat befriended named Victor Whale leans over, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “If its Emma you’ve set your sightings on, you are not as slick as you think ya git, my girl Ruby mentioned that she caught you watching her shows on occasion, but Emma doesn’t date anyone around here, if she does date, it isn’t anyone related to our line of work”.

Bidding goodnight to Killian and the few stragglers still playing, he stands and Killian notices Ruby Lucas in her coat waiting by the door with a smile on her face. Whale takes her hand and pulls them out the door. Killian feels a pang of jealousy at their obvious companionship but pushes the thought away.

Ruby Lucas, the costume coordinator for the club, is a gorgeous specimen of her own right with long chocolate locks, hazel eyes, and legs for days. She has worked in the club a long time, and if anyone knows Emma, its Ruby. Killian decides that perhaps he shall inquire to Ms. Lucas about Swan but tucks the thought away for another time.

He has gained enough information about her for one night, he will have to just be patient. If Ruby has noticed him watching Emma, he would bet the few dollars left in his lightened pocket tonight that she has told Swan about him, and that is something he is not quite sure he knows how to feel about.

He wonders what Ruby would tell Emma, since she was obviously very much with Whale, she must know more about their conducted business, but appears to know when to keep her mouth shut. Maybe, the tides will be in his favor since he tends to keep a low profile in his job. The bosses like him because he is discreet and is known not to be messed with.

Emma sees him alright, black suits, navy wool suits, tuxedoes at parties, custom made shirts, and she would bet her last dollar that those cufflinks he always wears are actual sterling silver.

He has slicked back inky hair, tousled in just the right places, a permanent five o’ clock shadow, and forget me not blue eyes that haunt her for days every single time she catches a glimpse of him staring right back at her. 

She notices the way he carries himself, so confident, dangerous, and definitely a hustler. He must be connected somehow, and Emma does not want that complication in her simple life.

He looks at her sometimes like he would devour her like a man on death row, and she being his last meal. She cannot get mixed up with someone like him, she has survived this long without someone, and the last time she allowed someone into her heart it nearly broke her in two.

Her friend Ruby has casually mentioned him, his name is Killian Jones, he works with her boyfriend Victor, but she does not know exactly what his role is. Ruby giggles as she talks about how handsome Killian is, and notes that he always throws her a generous tip, never ogling her or being disrespectful like some of the other crew who think that any woman in the club is dumb enough to roll in the sack with them.

Ruby has been with her boyfriend for a few years from what she mentions, having been together since before Victor’s job with Lepke’s crew, whatever that may be. Ruby is also one of the few people that makes Emma smile genuinely and lifts her spirits. Emma considers the brunette one of her very few real friends.

One night after her set is done, Emma enters her dressing room, and slips out of her dress, carefully hanging it inside the garment bag, and lights a cigarette, swallowing a sip of her Manhattan. Her roommate Mary Margaret is getting better and better with her sewing skills, her emerald green gown tonight is delicate, covered in sequins and green feathers float around the hem of her dress, she admires the gown once more before zipping the bag.

Standing in her silk stockings and garters, she begins removing her jewelry and realizes suddenly that she is not alone. Sitting in a low chair in the back corner of the dressing room is Killian fucking Jones. She grabs for her silk robe, tying it quickly- trying to regain some of her modesty. Watching her with those blue eyes, fingers crossed under his chin while he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"Don't stop on my account love, I simply wanted to introduce myself, and I thank the bloody gods that I was granted enough luck to watch your private show just now. He smirked at her, running is tongue over his bottom lip, and she wanted to punch that smirk off his smug face, even if her heart beat faster in her chest and not from anxiety.

“Emma breathe,” she internally chastises herself. Her brain reconnects, she stamps out her cigarette, and she manages to spit out “listen pal, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I am not that type of woman. Go buy one down the street if you need to get your rocks off but get the hell out.”

He stood up, adjusting his trousers by the belt, which she noticed were fitting awfully tight, the evidence of his arousal clear but now covered as he buttoned his coat up.

He spoke, his voice a lilting Irish accent, “I apologize lass, I simply wanted to introduce myself and give you these in person,” he held out a large bouquet of creamy white roses tipped in pale pink, tied with a black silk ribbon. 

“You are a vision, both on and off the stage Swan, and I simply was hoping to make your acquaintance as we seem to catch each other’s eye from time to time. I thought perhaps my interest was reciprocated, but clearly it is not, and I shan't bother you again”.

Emma did not know what to say, still shocked, her red painted mouth in a grim line. She caught his cologne as he made his exit, carefully avoiding touching her in any way. He smelled of wood and spice, and definitely rum.

Right as he was crossing the threshold to exit, Emma made a rash decision, and grabbed his hand, locked eyes with him and said, “Don't ever do that again, thank you for the flowers, but I am not interested.” 

“They're nothing compared to you Emma, but I do apologize again”, and with that parting line Killian quietly exited, making sure to close the door fully behind him.

Emma locked the handle, ensuring no one else would interrupt her. She cleaned most of her face off and pulled on her burgundy wool dress and matching coat, gathered her things, and her flowers hailing a cab home.

Tagging a few who might be interested! @wefoundloveunderthelight @itsfabianadocarmo @purplehawkcaptain @the-lady-of-misthaven @the-captains-ayebrows @thesschesthair @myfearless-love @kmomof4 @jonesfandomfanatic @hookedpirate @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @letmedieahooker @captainswanouat @captainswoon @cathloves @laschatzi @timeless-love-story @asluve @ao3feed-cs @ahookerandproud @ineffablecolors @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @kymbersmith-90 @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @tnlph @the-captains-ayebrows @captainswoon @captainswanouat @captain-swan-coffee​ @jrob64​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @captainirishstubble @onceuponadaily​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​ @greenlef777 Let me know if you want to be added or removed! 

[jessethorn]

Some Los Angeles Tips

People are always asking me what they should do when they visit LA. I am by no means the greatest LA expert on earth, but I’ve lived here more than a decade now, and I have some ideas for you. Note that I live in the far Northeast corner of LA, and really rarely travel to the western half of town. So if you are looking for advice on Beverly Hills stuff or Malibu stuff or whatever, I am not that helpful. Also this is very subjective and really non-comprehensive in general. Just some stuff I like!

In General

Rent a car if you drive, but don't be afraid to take the bus or subway. There are some very long distances to traverse, and not everything is convenient to transit, but the transit is reasonably comfortable and efficient for a lot of purposes (going downtown, for example), particularly when combined with some judicious ride-sharing. There's plenty of parking everywhere, despite what Angelenos would have you think. Don't try to do too many things in one day, or cross town on the 10, 101 or 405 at anything even resembling rush hour (ie between like seven and ten thirty or three and seven on weekdays). Stick to one area for the day, maybe two.

The Museum of Jurassic Technology This is the best thing in Los Angeles and one of the best things in the world. It is part museum, part art project. To explain it much further might ruin the experience of visiting it, but please take my word that it is one of the most amazing places in the world.

The Watts Towers As the name suggests, they're in Watts, a bit out of the way for some trips, but absolutely without a doubt worth the travel. They're an incredible artwork/building built in a backyard out of rebar, concrete, glass and tile by an illiterate Italian immigrant in the mid-20th century. Worth signing up for a tour, they are cheap (it's a city park) and not all that long. There's also a little gallery on the site. One of the great works of American outsider art and a deeply beloved city treasure.

Other, More Regular Museums LACMA is a world-class art museum. The collection is a bit scattered (and as of this writing a wing is closed for renovation and replacement), but it's really good. It's in Mid-City on the Miracle Mile, and surrounded by other museums. The Petersen Automotive Museum is pretty cool if you're into cars. La Brea Tar Pits are more park than museum, but the museum is fun in a kitschy way, if you're into prehistoric creatures. It's also a nice place to eat lunch. In Exposition Park are a few major museums - the Natural History Museum is pretty good, though not better than others in other major cities (the Field Museum or whatever). The science museum is OK but significantly outclassed by the competition (it's no Exploratorium), though it does have a real space shuttle, which is pretty sweet. The Annenberg Space for Photography does what it says on the label. A good mid-size museum of photographs, check what show is up. The Broad is a nice contemporary art museum in a beautiful building that's right near Walt Disney Concert Hall, also an incredible building. They have a second campus in Little Tokyo that's very nice but smaller.

Architectural Stuff The LA Conservancy runs affordable walking tours that take you into some of the most fascinating built environments in LA. The subject matter ranges from Art Deco in downtown to the modern skyscrapers of the 50s through 90s. They're mostly Saturdays, but a few also run on weekdays. Can't recommend them enough if you're up for a couple hours of walking. You can go inside the Bradbury Building and up into the upper floors! It's cool. (The Conservancy also runs screenings in the big movie palaces downtown, which are mostly otherwise closed to the public. Definitely recommend those.) A couple of other architectural highlights: the Hollyhock House is in Barnsdall Park in Los Feliz. It's a restored Frank Lloyd Wright estate willed to the city many years ago that as of relatively recently runs regular tours. Also in the park is the city art museum of LA, which sometimes has some cool shows. Cal Poly Pomona students run tours on Saturdays of the Neutra VDL studio and residences in Silver Lake, which can be combined with a nice walk around the lake and some middle-aged-hipster watching. The Gamble House in Pasadena is an absolutely breathtaking craftsman mansion with a lot of

Griffith Park Griffith Park is one of the largest urban parks in the United States. It has all kinds of stuff within it - the LA Zoo, the Griffith Observatory, some great hiking. It's a great place to spend some time. If you have little kids, they will love Travel Town, a train graveyard/museum that's inside the park (and free!). The zoo is good if you like zoos, though not incredibly great or anything. The Autry Museum of the American West is worth a visit if you're into that kind of thing.

The Grove I know that we talk about The Grove a lot on Jordan, Jesse, Go. Please do not waste your vacation time at the Grove. It's a mall. It's fine. This also applies to the Americana at Brand, which we sometimes talk about because we have talked about the Grove too much. Also a mall. A little nicer than some? I went there when I needed a new power cable for my Surface.

Dodger Stadium Look, I am a Giants fan and hate the Dodgers, but if you are a baseball fan, Dodger Stadium is a great place to watch a baseball game. Even I can admit that. Angel Stadium is about as generic as it gets, but if you go on a weekday you can take a train from Union Station in LA.

The Getty Center The Getty Center is a beautiful building on a breathtaking piece of real estate. It's pretty cool to visit, but be aware that most of the art is pretty early, so if you don't like busts or paintings of feasts and stuff from the bible, then it might not be your jam art-wise. And getting up there is a whole thing. That said: it really is a beautiful building and an incredible view, so you probably won't feel like it's a waste. And if you like busts, then get your ass over there.

Downtown Stuff I will again recommend the LA Conservancy's walking tours to get a flavor of downtown LA, which is very walkable and full of incredible stuff. The main library is a beautiful edifice, the history of which is detailed in Susan Orlean's The Library Book. Worth wandering around in. Grand Central Market is a great place to get a bite, though pretty bougie at this point. Right next to Grand Central Market is Angel's Flight, a block-long funicular that is a lot of fun and costs next to nothing. Besides this, there are still functional specialized commercial districts in downtown LA. The flower district is particularly fun - the big flower market opens early for wholesale sales but is open to the public and there are tons of stores selling silk and artificial flowers which are very fun to wander through. There are also areas with stores specializing in selling imported toys, store fixtures (a favorite of mine), jewelry and fabric. Most of the fabric is kinda garbage honestly but there is a good tailor supply store called B. Black and Sons and a great hat making store (worth visiting even if you don't make hats) called California Millinery Supply. FIDM also has a thrift store with cheap fabric leftover from LA-based factories.

Movies The Arclight is a fancy movie chain, and the Hollywood location (near Amoeba Records) is also the home of the Cinerama Dome, which is pretty fun. The Vista is a great single-screen theater on the east side. There are some great rep houses on the west side - check your local listings.

Comedy Stuff The UCB has a few great shows every night at both locations. It's hard to go wrong, though you should be aware you will be seeing things that are a little rougher than whatever makes it to your town as a road show. The signature improv show is Asssscat, which is absolutely as good as it gets. Dynasty Typewriter (right by our office) has a lot of great shows these days. A great standup show is Hot Tub at the Virgil. The big comedy clubs have pretty comedy-club-y comedy in them, not necessarily what I'd recommend, though you will certainly see a lot of relatively big names doing sets. The Improv Lab sometimes has MaxFun-adjacent headliners who've put together their own lineups, as does Flappers in Burbank. Largo has bigger-name shows of this variety as well, and if you go see a show there headlined by a Sarah Silverman or Patton Oswalt, the lineup will likely be packed with their pals, even if they aren't advertised.

Some Places To Eat This is NOT a comprehensive list. First: Jonathan Gold died a few years ago, but he is still the king of LA food. Anything he recommended in the Weekly or Times is still the gold standard (no pun intended). He was also a wonderful writer and a champion of foodways that are unfamiliar to many in LA, much less outside LA. If you are a food nerd, KCRW's Good Food is a superb local food show (and podcast) produced by Nick Liao, who used to work at MaxFun.

Philipe's The French Dip A restaurant that's been around for literally a century, with sawdust on the floor, big jars of pickled eggs, ladies in hairnets and really tasty French Dips. They have competing claims to having invented them but the other competitor turned into one of those goofy sleeve-garter-barman subway tile exposed lightbulb places about ten years ago. Philipe's is totally for real and great.

Pie N Burger This is just a burger place in Pasadena that sells classic SoCal-style burgers and is really great. Cash only, though.

Langer's The only one of the Jewish delis in LA that's really worth a special trip. The #19 (pastrami, cole slaw and swiss on rye) is truly one of the world's greatest foods. Pastrami here is better than anywhere else I've ever eaten, including those famous delis in New York.

Park's BBQ 

One of many great Korean BBQ restaurants in LA, but the only one recommended to me personally by Jonathan Gold. (I also like Soot Bull Jeep, which barbeques over charcoal and will leave you smelling like smoke, and Hae Jang Chong for all-you-can-eat.) (There are LOTS of different kinds of Korean food, but I am not an expert on the soups and blood sausages and bibimbaps and etc., but if you're adventurous, you could eat a different Korean food at a different spot every month in LA and make out well.)

Guelagetza Oaxacan food is one of the best kinds of food in the world, and Guelagetza is an LA institution that serves good-quality Oaxacan food. Moles, tlayudas, queso fundido. If you've never eaten any of this stuff, a couple of chicken moles are a great place to start (as is Guelagetza).

Dim Sum You can drive all the way to the San Gabriel Valley and eat at one of the many wonderful dim sum places there. That's where the best stuff is. If it's not worth a special trip to you, I like a place called Lunasia in Pasadena, and they also serve dim sum for dinner. Not a HUGE menu but good food.

Mozza This pizzeria, now a sort of group of restaurants, is an unimpeachably excellent Fancy Meal in LA. So (per my producer Kevin) are the other restaurants run by the same chef, Nancy Silverton.

The Dal Rae This is an old-timey fancy restaurant in Pico Rivera, a semi-industrial part of LA. It's just a great place to wear a suit to and eat Clams Casino. Famous for their table-made Caesar salad (legit great) and pepper steak (too peppery for me). Generally the food is excellent in a 1955 sort of way.

Bludsoe's Best Texas-style barbeque I've had outside of Texas. Used to be a window down by the airport, now a fancier place on La Brea, but I'm told the food is just as good at the fancy place.

Pupusas I love to eat pupusas. Maybe my favorite food. I really like to eat pupusas at Los Molcajetes on Hoover in Westlake (near Koreatown). Note they are weirdly big here (a regional variation of some kind) and they only take cash. (Note also this is one of 10,000 restaurants in LA named Los Molcajetes.)  I also sometimes eat at a nice sit-down Salvadoran place called Las Cazuelas on Figueroa in Highland Park.

In N Out In N Out is good! It will not change your life! But it is very tasty, especially for a $4 food! Some people complain about the fries, which are fresh-cut and fried only once and thus are less crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside than some others! I think they are fine! Try In N Out, why not! But maybe don't make a whole special trip to do so!

Tacos and Other SoCal Mexican Food Stuff Everyone has their own favorite taco places, and none of my favorites are so special they should be destinations. They are mostly my favorites because they are close to my home and work. But I can tell you that I like to get sit-down Mexican-American food at La Abeja on Figueroa in LA, where I eat a lot of carne adovada and enchiladas and sometimes albondigas or breakfast. I also really like to eat carne en su jugo at Carnes Asadas Pancho Lopez on Pasadena in Lincoln Heights. I eat tacos from Tacos La Estrella on York in Highland Park or the truck (with no name) across from the Mexican consulate on Park View at sixth in Westlake. At night I sometimes get cheap tacos (I like buche) from the place that opens up on Pasadena at Avenue 37. I like the shrimp and fish tacos at Via-Mar on Figueroa. I like Huaraches from Huaraches Azteca on York. The burritos at Yuca’s in Los Feliz (or Pasadena) are great, though they are totally different from the SF-style burritos that I grew up eating. I sometimes get nachos at Carnitas Michoacan on Broadway in Lincoln Heights, which feature meat and cheese sauce and are gross but also really, really good.  I have also eaten at the very fancy Mexican restaurant Border Grill and to be honest it is really good even though the interior feels a little like a cross between a fancy restaurant in 1989 and a Chili's.

El Coyote This is a famous Mexican-American restaurant from the early part of the 20th century, but you shouldn't go there because the food sucks.

Stores I Like This is going to be REAL subjective, but a few stores I like which sell the kinda stuff you'd expect me to want. &etc - A great (small) antique store at 1913 Fremont in Pasadena. The Last Bookstore - A downtown bookstore that is the closest thing to a "destination" book store in LA. Good selection and reasonable prices on used books, and a nice art book room. (Records as well, but they're not very good.) Gimme Gimme Records - I like this record store in Highland Park. You'll pay retail here, but reasonable retail, and the selection (while not immense) is really excellent. Good stuff in all genres.

Secret Headquarters - One time at this small comics store in Silver Lake the lady at the counter asked if I was Jesse from Jordan Jesse Go and they won my business forever in that moment. Don Ville - My friend Raul makes and sells shoes (and repairs them!) in the northern part of Koreatown. If you have the dough, get him to make you some shoes! The Bloke - A really great little menswear store in Pasadena. Sells cool (expensive) trad-ish brands like Drake's and Hilditch & Key and Alden. The Good Liver - A beautiful shop in Little Tokyo specializing in perfect home goods. The perfect scissors, the perfect dish towel and so forth. Some things are expensive, some aren't. H Lorenzo Archive - The "outlet" shop of a designer clothing store on the west side. Discounts aren't huge, but the selection is really interesting, and they have a good collection of one of my favorite brands, Kapital. Sid Mashburn - Excellent classic clothing shop on the west side. Suit Supply & Uniqlo - if you haven't got these where you live, they're the places I usually send people for reasonably-priced tailored clothes (Suit Supply) and cheap basics (Uniqlo). Olvera Street - This is an old-timey tourist attraction, a street of folks selling Mexican handcrafts (and their Chinese-made analogs). Right near Union Station and Philipe's, and a great place to buy factory-made huaraches (the shoes, not the food). They even have sizes big enough for me, which is pretty much impossible to find in Mexico or most Mexican-American shoe stores. Thrift Stores - I go to a lot of thrift stores but if I told you which ones you might buy something I would have bought so I'm not going to tell you which thrift stores.

Flea Markets You may know I am at the flea market every weekend. The good fleas are on Sundays, and there's one every week. First Sunday of the month is Pasadena City College, a big (and free) market with pretty reasonable pricing. PCC has a pretty big record section in addition to the regular flea market stuff. Second weekend is the famous Rose Bowl flea, which is HUGE and has a big new goods section (blech) and vintage clothing area (good!). Third weekend is Long Beach Airport, which is a great overall show. Fourth is Santa Monica airport, which is smaller and a little fancier but very nice. The Valley flea is also fourth Sundays, at Pierce College, and that's not huge but sometimes surprises me. With all of these, the earlier you can arrive, the better you'll do (not least for weather reasons). I usually try to get there around 7:30 or 8:00. The Rose Bowl in particularl is a 4-6 hour operation if you do most of it. There are also a lot of swap meets - I don't know enought to recommend any in particular, but these are much more about tube socks and batteries and bootleg movies than antiques and collectibles. Still can be fun, though, and are certainly a proud SoCal tradition. (The Silverlake Flea and the Melrose Trading Post are garbage, don't go there.)

Going to the Beach I'm not a huge beach goer, but by all means go to the beach if that's your thing. The Annenberg Community Beach House in Santa Monica is a great place to base your operation, though you have to arrive in the morning on busy days to get a parking spot.

Kid Stuff I mentioned Travel Town, that's pretty great. Kidspace in Pasadena is a very good children's museum. The Bob Baker Marionette Theater is a great place to see a marionette show straight out of 1966. There's a good aquarium in Long Beach though it's a bit nutty there on weekends, and the zoo in Griffith Park is a good zoo. I really like Descanso Gardens, a big botanical garden northeast of LA. Huntington Gardens is also very nice, though it's much more expensive and hotter.

Geography Los Angeles is BIG. I'd say try to spend each of your days within about a sixth of it, geographically. It's entirely possible to do west side and east side stuff on the same trip, but don't try to do them on the same day. Look at a map and look at driving times when you're planning. Neighborhoods in LA are BIG, geographically speaking, don't assume two things in the same neighborhood are an easy walk. There aren't a ton of urban neighborhoods suitable for wandering in the way there are in some places. A few manageable general areas for stuff you might like: Silverlake/Los Feliz/Echo Park, Koreatown, Highland Park, downtown, Little Tokyo and the Arts District. (I live in the northeast part of town, and don't spend much time on the west side, which is one reason why this list focuses more on east side stuff. Some folks like West Hollywood and Venice on the west side. Long Beach and Pasadena are both neat towns with their own thing going on that might be worth a visit, too.)

Books & Media The Great Los Angeles Book is probably City of Quartz, a socialist-leaning history of LA. I really loved Susan Orlean's The Library Book, which is about the library as an institution, but also specifically the LA central library and the mysterious fire that nearly destroyed it. And a wild guy named Charles Lummis who was one of the founding fathers of LA culture and was really something else. (You can visit his house - it's right off the 110 near Highland Park.) An LA movie I love is The Long Goodbye, which is sort of a predecessor/inspiration for The Big Lebowski. A shaggy mystery directed by Altman where Elliott Gould just sort of wanders around LA. Another really cool one is Los Angeles Plays Itself, a long (long!) film essay about the ways the real Los Angeles has been used to create fictional worlds in film over the decades.

TV Tapings I'm not an expert in TV tapings. I can say that I've been to a few Conan tapings, and while it takes a LOOOOONG time to get in there, the show is fun to watch live. This is generally true of talk shows and most game shows, which tape more or less as-live. Sitcoms take WAY longer than you were expecting them to. Make sure to try to book tickets early if you have something you want to see. No matter what it's a most-of-the-day thing.

Nightlife Is a word that describes evening activities - especially dance clubs. I am old and don't know about these things.

The Magic Castle I can't get you in, please don't ask me to. I went a couple times. It's fine. If you're not into magic you're not missing too much. If you are, then obviously, it's a priority.

The Walk of Fame and Hollywood Not recommended, not worth it, don't bother.

Disneyland Why would you want my opinion about Disneyland? It's Disneyland. You're in or you're out.

San Diego If you happen to plan a side trip to San Diego, you can take the Amtrak there, and it is a breathtakingly beautiful and exceedingly pleasant trip. I have no San Diego expertise to impart beyond that, however.

[aaimagine]

Can I request Naruhoudo's crush using the Susato Drop on him and he's all flustered about it but also his pride hurts a little now?

Hi thank you for this ask, I owe you my life. I'm sorry I went ham on this request in the most intense way possible.

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE FIRST GAME's first three cases.

Naruhodou's mind had been entirely focused on his career as a lawyer since the remaining days on the S.S. Alcair after that... incident. Never in his life did he feel that he took up something more serious than now, as he carried on this will thrusted upon him. Along with the ups and downs that came with being forced into this lifestyle so suddenly, insecurities about how he really feels standing as an attorney have been keeping his mind occupied these cold London nights. Even on his off days, he had been spent an equal amount socializing and studying, though much to Susato's happiness.

Which is why he is so confused. Confused as to why his mind was able to let in yet another thing to plague his thoughts. Not that you were a plague..! No! Nothing close of the sort. In fact, you had been nothing short of a blessing gracing his ever tremulous days in London. It wasn't you that was working him up so much, rather it was the feelings that you had wrought onto his heart.

Though, Naruhodou was getting ahead of himself. He had been here for a few months, but when he met you it had been on one of his early days of arrival. You had been an early face that welcomed him on his journey to this foreign land, and one that would prove to him that London, perhaps, had a few friendly inhabitants. You were a simple flower peddler. That day, the coldness had no mercy for anybody, and even the snot running from people's noses could not escape the near-immediate chill of the air. Many Londoners simply walked past you, having used to seeing independent sellers like you on every corner. Normally you would have piqued the interest of the ever awestruck Susato for London's charms, however there were more imperative circumstances that she was facing: lodgings.

Their earnings were depleting, fast, and they were not having luck on finding a cheap place to stay. London truly hasn't been the kindest to them or their wallets. Naruhodou remembers the situation well. He felt useless as the older person, not being able to provide for his young assistant in their dire need. Even though you, yourself were having no such luck in earning your living that day, you readily made yourself available and willing to help these two strangers find cheap lodgings. As you guided them to the inn in question, he remembers thinking of the many streets and potential buyers you were sacrificing in order to ensure that they had an affordable place to stay that freezing evening.

You were truly an angel sent from above. That was perhaps the moment he fell for you and your kindness. As you left, you gifted both of them with flowers as a welcoming gift to the city. Even he himself felt his tears threaten as Susato bid you farewell.

But, again, that was just a fleeting memory. A small, insignificant fixture that would make no impact on his life. London was huge, and you were just one of the countless faces he would happen upon in this new land... Or so he thought.

You, as the neighboring modest flower shop owner to 221 Baker's street and older sibling figure to Iris meant that you were, in fact, a significant fixture in his new life. When you weren't working or tending your indoor garden (made possible with Holmes' invention no doubt) you were helping Iris with her multitude of hobbies. Your perceptive mind and knowledge of many individuals and differing faces of London due to your job came in handy during his investigations with the group as well.

With all the excitement and sense of duty that he faced the first few months of arrival, there was no need for him to address the fuzzy feelings you gave him every time you smiled in his direction, nor the heat to his face whenever you graced him with your kindness.

But when the caseless months became a fact of life for his offices, he supposed he grew soft. He was always too embarrassed to visit your shop without purpose, so he gladly took advantage of the lack of action in his career to come down on days you worked in house to purchase a little something from you, "To liven up the office". His visits not only had him leaving with an abundance of flowers, but knowledge of a multitude of plants, and even skills to take care of them. His favorite times were the ones where he got to watch you tend to your flowers in the tiny sun room, as the rays of light captured your face.

This however was almost daily as you only street peddled twice a week. Even as his office became an impromptu forest, much to Susato's slight horror, your daily visits also became another highlight of his days. You having dinner at Holmes and Watson's flat seemed to have been a routine occurrence for years.

Once it hit him that the two things he looked forward to the moment he woke up had to do with you, he did not know what to say.  He was more taken by you than he thought. Being the avoidant young man he was, he never did anything about his feelings. There was no reason to. He only hoped that his little crush wasn't obvious to his colleagues with his tell-all eyes. And, it's not like he was not content with where your relationship was with each other currently, no! He would be lying if he said he wasn't curious about how you felt about him, though.

---

Managing your own small scale shop was something that was not difficult for you. You woke up early, tended to your plants, dried the unusable flowers that expired, and set up shop. However, today was one of those rare days that things were not going all that well. As your shop was extremely small along with your indoor garden taking up a majority of the space in the small rented building (if it could be called that), it meant your living quarters were even smaller. That also meant that your when a smell omitted from one room, it effected all of them.

And today, was in fact that day. You awoke to a spoiled smell coming from below. Your eyes shot open and anxiety shot through your veins. As you stood up too abruptly and swung your feet to the floor bed, you physically recoiled. It was as if your floor had become ice itself. You were able to ignore that feeling quickly and heading to your indoor garden. Opening the protective screen into the sectioned on area, you were hit by a wave of warmth…Warmth compared to the frigid outer room, that is. In fact, there wasn't even an unusual smell coming from the area that was currently average temperature. You let go of a breath you did not realize you were holding knowing your plants were fine.

Your mind quickly deduced where the smell came from not a second later. Running downstairs, you were sadly correct. Your heating must have stopped working downstairs somehow, as your home is as cold as if you were sleeping directly under the foggy London moon. All the cut flowers you had on display since yesterday had expired due to the drastic change of temperature shocking your poor foliage. You felt miserable. It looked like you were not going to be enjoying a peaceful day today-- or opening up shop for that matter.

Waking up from his peaceful sleep, Naruhodou had walked up to the window in his office as he stretched his body from sleep's grasp. He was surprised to see you out and about so early in the morning, hauling flowers out on your cart. He opened the latch on his window and invited the cold air as he pushed it open.

"(Y/N)!! Good Morning!!" He earnestly called out. He could not help himself to greet you, as you were there in front of him even if you hadn't noticed. It seemed he was going to have a good day today.

Jumping slightly, you looked around before realizing the call came from above. You yelled a morning's greeting back, as Susato joined Naruhodou at the window and shared greetings as well.

"What are you doing out so early? You aren't scheduled for going out to town today, are you?" He yelled as quietly as possible to you, finding it a bit awkward to try to hold a conversation like this, especially so early in the morning.

"I've happened to run into some sort of trouble this morning it seems. I don't think I will be open today at all," You sadly informed them.

"Oh, that is a shame!"

Susato then turned to Naruhodou and glared. Naruhodou couldn't help but wonder why he always seemed to upset girls without even saying anything.

"Naruhodou-sama! I cannot believe you would ask (Y/N)-sama of their problems without even offering your help to them! How do you consider yourself a gentleman?!" Susato could even scold him on an empty stomach before breakfast time, he supposed. It seemed breakfast was out of the question, because Susato had already begun whisking him past the main room with a quick greeting to Iris before going out the front door.

As they both entered into your shop, the odor greeted them before you could. Surprised to see them, you reluctantly but gratefully accepted their offer to help you clean out your shop.

You thought the poor girl was going to cry at the sight of all these flowers getting hauled out with the intention of being incinerated, but it had to be done. Naruhodou had earnestly tried to help you both, but with the gung-ho attitude of Susato combined with your diligence it seemed he was not much of help as he would have liked to have been. He even felt a little jealous. He had planned on seeing you after breakfast if he had realized there was an issue afoot.

As you were making sure everything was here and accounted for before you walked off to the disposal area, you made eye contact with Naruhodou. You began to feel a little guilty as it was obvious how he was feeling with one look. The feeling deepened when you think about how they dropped their initial plans at the start of their day, all for a friend in need. Though not without reason, you did end up ignoring your friend, which was a shame considering you have begun to cherish his visits dearly.

You approached him. "Hello, Mister Naruhodou. How about after me and Susato get the last of the plant taken care of, I treat you both to a late breakfast. And to make it up to you since I won't be working today, we can take a walk to some places in London you haven't been to, if you'd like. I know a lot of beautiful hidden sights!"

He hadn't noticed that he was being so obvious. Did all responsible people like Susato have the ability to read minds?

"TH-THAT… would be wonderful, thank you so much!" Even so, he felt his face let out a smile at your kindness. You were always thinking of others.

"I do have a favor to ask of you though," you sheepishly stated.

"Anything for you!" Good grief, he had not meant to be that enthusiastic. You laughed a bit at his eagerness.

"Could you stay here and keep an eye on my shop? I wish to leave the doors open a bit longer to air out the place, but I'm afraid of someone coming inside."

"That would be fine! Don't worry!"

Oh, it had been fine, of course. However, you really trusted him that much? He was by no means cocky, but the implication you found him dependable stroked his ego, just a bit.

---

As he stood at the front, a bit too proudly, he patiently awaited both of your returns. Bakers Street was quiet, as it's mornings typically went, but he was aware people would be filing in slowly for the other shops littering the path.

He had expected people, though. Beings that walked on two legs. Not small, four legged creatures. Especially not four legged creatures that were bounding towards him at immense speeds. Before he could move to shut the door to your small shop, it was too late. But instead of bounding for the shop as he assumed the dog had bounded for Naruhodou's own head.

He let out a cry, much to his embarrassment, and fought desperately to keep his balance. The dog was clinging onto his face with desperation. It was difficult to see or hear his surroundings. He half wished that his weak disposition would kick in and he would just faint and get to forget this nightmare.

Distracted by these racing thoughts and sensory deprivation, there was no way for him to realize Susato and you approaching, nor your cry of his name. Personally, you began to panic. You did not exactly fancy dogs that looked near-ready to maul harmless people, no matter how easy the target looked. Before your own fear had a chance to kick in, your instincts had and you dropped your cart to help your friend.

The closer you got, the cloudier your rational thought had begun to come. The combination of panic and fear had won in your mind, and it was too late. Instead of grabbing the dog, out of fear you had grabbed Naruhodou and tossed him over.

Hey, you and Iris had been learning a lot from your foreign friend. But even you did not think that her lessons would be on the surface of your mind as you panicked.

Naruhodou once again found himself in a situation where his mind could not make any sense of it. Once he made contact with the floor, the dog had scampered off into the street, seemingly satisfied with the destruction it had caused.

"Naruhodou!! Are you alright?!"

He made a groaning noise, but could Susato really ask him that right now? Wasn't it obvious?

"Naruhodou-sama, what happened?"

Wait, had that been Susato's voice? Then who was just speaking to him?

"Ah…." The realization hit him slowly. He had not expected, in a million years, that you would have been the one to toss him over.

Tears glistened in your eyes as you grabbed his hands. "Naruhodou, please, can you hear me? Oh no…"

He had found himself for a loss of words. Not because of the dog, nor because of being tossed over. It wasn't even because of the haziness of his mind. No, it was because he had his pride attacked by none other than you.

How could, even you, see him as someone who is so easily toss-able?

[yesloverboy]

Baby You’re a Haunted House (Iwan Rheon!Mick Mars x Reader)

Requested: Anon

“Hi! Could you do a Mick Mars one shot where Mick and the reader are really close friends and they’re watching a scary movie at his house and she’s scared so he lets her stay over. And she has trouble sleeping so she sneaks into his room and they both awkwardly admit they like each other?”

note: finally, after an arduous hiatus brought upon by school, I have a new little request to add to the library. I’m a little rusty so I hope it’s up to par. I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m glad y’all have stuck around. :’) (also if anyone wants to change their taglist preferences, lmk)

word count: 3,219

[no warnings! just two idiots in love!]

tags: @lauravic, @lululovesgwtw, @kingbouji3, @oldschoolimagineblog, @thecrue, @colsonbakersnoseringmain

 To say you had a stressful week would be an understatement. Despite your best efforts to hold it together, things just seemed to go completely wrong of their own accord. You burnt your toast at breakfast, found an angry pink parking ticket on your windshield, and spent the entirety of your day working your fingers to the bone. It could have been your sour mood, or the melodramatic attitude you had developed since waking up that morning– but the day seemed completely and utterly cursed. 

 Even as you leave your shift, you can’t help but stare bitterly at the sun as it dips lazily into the horizon, wondering what exactly you did to make everything feel so shitty. It’s a Friday for Christ’s sake and it seems as though you hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to look forward to the weekend, let alone make plans. 

 Speaking of Fridays, you think, eyes flitting down to the watch dangling loosely from your wrist. The hands point toward 6:45, making it known that you are running incredibly and unbelievably late. Flustered, you sprint to your car, keys jingling noisily between your fingers. You should have left at least half an hour ago, but there had been so much going on at work that you lost track of time.

 “Shit!” you exclaim, jamming your key into the ignition and speeding recklessly out of the parking lot. Tires screech against the asphalt as a cloud of dust erupts from behind you, settling only when you skid out onto the open road. The sky quickly shifts from honey orange to dusky purple as you retreat from the glittering lights of the city, instantly becoming more relaxed at the sight of sparse houses and distant mountains. 

 You and your best friend, Mick, have a Friday night tradition of staying in and watching movies while the rest of his friends– and bandmates –go out to wreak havoc on the remaining population of Los Angeles. Mick is similar to you in a lot of ways; you’re both the strong and silent type, usually only speaking when spoken and always responding with a biting comment. The two of you met in a record store off Sunset Boulevard, quickly bonding over your love for the emerging metal scene and your hatred for cheap glam rock. Nothing was ever smoke and mirrors with Mick– no, he was raw and honest. Something you admire far more than you’re willing to admit. 

 Fingers tightening around the steering wheel, you suppress the feeling of your heart twitching excitedly against your ribs. You aren’t sure what’s been up with you lately, but every time you’ve seen Mick these past few weeks your heart has begun to skip along to an unknown rhythm. This new sensation makes you grit your teeth in frustration. Mick is your best friend, you have no reason to feel anxious around him. Right? 

 Typically, when something abnormal is going on in your life, your first instinct is to tell Mick, but you already know this isn’t the kind of conversation you’re prepared to have with him. These days, it feels as though Mick is the only person you can really be yourself around and you can’t imagine jeopardizing your friendship for the sake of talking about your feelings, of all things. 

 With a heavy sigh, you pull into the sloping curve of Mick’s driveway, hoping the walk to his doorstep will be just enough time to get your head back on your shoulders. You rap on his door with a heavy hand, listening to the sound of crickets thrumming softly in the distance. It’s times like this where you find yourself thankful that Mick decided to move outside of the Los Angeles city limits. Sure, the drive is long and the daytime traffic could be excruciating, but there’s at least some semblance of stillness in the air. 

 Mick pulls open the door, greeting you with a soft smile and bright eyes. Rather than wondering what took you so long, he gives your disheveled appearance a once over and simply asks, “Long day?”

 You nod, the fatigued slump in your shoulders only getting heavier as Mick motions for you to step inside. Abandoning your jacket and keys by the door, you flop onto Mick’s plush sofa with a content groan. 

 “Sorry I’m late,” you mumble, voice partially muffled by the pillow pressed firmly against your cheek. At this point, you had been over to Mick’s place so many times that it was slowly starting to feel like your own. You roll on your side, arms cradling the side of your head as you gaze upward with glassy eyes. 

 Mick just chuckles and lifts your legs so that he can sit underneath them, allowing your calves to rest comfortably in his lap. His fingers ghost the exposed skin of your ankle, making your breath hitch uncomfortably in your throat. The gesture is so familiar and yet, you can’t help but feel as though it were the first time. To your relief, Mick doesn’t seem to take note of your sudden uneasiness, and instead picks up a video tape from the glass coffee table in front of you. 

 “I rented A Nightmare on Elm Street,” Mick grins, “you seen it yet?”

 You sit up, eyebrows knitted in concentration as you study the tape, unsurprised to see that it’s a horror movie. The cover art depicts a young girl staring entranced at a set of knife-like fingers as they hover menacingly above her head. The guys in Mick’s band often joked about him being some kind of ghoul or vampire, and his love for the spooky and supernatural really didn’t help his case. 

 “Another slasher, Mickey?” you tease, shoving at his shoulders playfully. Just last week the two of you spent the night watching My Bloody Valentine, all the while jeering and laughing at every ridiculous mistake that the characters made. At this point, it may as well be a Friday night tradition. 

 Mick rolls his eyes, “Come on, Y/N. It’s not just a regular, old slasher. This guy is supposed to come after you to haunt your dreams and shit.” 

 “What? You sick of me haunting yours?”

 “Never,” Mick scoffs, flinging your legs to the side so he can get up and feed the tape into the VHS player. “Not if it’s you.”

 For the umpteenth time that evening, your heart leaps. 

...

 As it turns out, Mick was right, it wasn’t just a silly slasher movie– it was a fucking terrifying slasher movie. By the time that the television screen faded to black and the credits began to roll, you hardly noticed the way your body had wrapped around itself in terror. Gripping the blanket across your lap, you jump as the dark living room becomes illuminated in pale, yellow light. You peer behind a wall of couch cushions to see Mick lurking by the lightswitch with a smirk dancing on his lips. 

 “Jesus, Y/N, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scared,” Mick grins, his expression infuriatingly smug.

 You feel your face grow hot as your heart hammers noisily in your chest, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration bubbling from within.

 “I wasn’t scared,” you insist, “I was just–just, uh, startled is all. Long day, remember?” Gesturing to your blanket enshrouded form, you hope that the dark circles under your eyes are enough to persuade Mick to say he’s ready for bed and leave you be.

 “Speaking of long days, it’s getting pretty late. Why don’t you just crash here for the night?” Mick points to the digital clock on his mantle, the bright red numbers flashing 1:32. 

 You nibble on your lip wordlessly, trying your best to ignore the feeling of butterfly wings tickling your stomach and climbing into your throat. Mick has a point, it is getting late. However, in all your time as friends, Mick had never once invited you to stay over. Would this change things? Could it change things? 

 “Um, Earth to Y/N?” Mick steps over to your place on the couch a waves an impatient hand in front of your face, making you jolt upright. “What’s the matter? Freddy got your tongue?”

 “You little shit, I swear to God I am not scared–!” your tangent is interrupted as a clap of thunder rumbles from somewhere outside the window, the panes rattling and shaking in protest. 

 A dramatic yelp escapes your lips before you have time to rationalize what’s happening, making Mick double over in laughter. With trembling hands, you pull the blanket up over your head in an attempt to shroud your humiliation from Mick’s taunting eyes. 

 “F-fine, you win!” you relent, voice muffled beneath the quilted fabric. 

 Mick pulls the blanket away from your face, his dark blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Guess we’re having a slumber party after all.”

 “If you wanted a sleepover, you could’ve just asked instead of scaring the fuck out of me. We could have braided each other’s hair by now,” you grumble bitterly. 

 “Better luck next time, I guess,” Mick flicks off the lightswitch with a devious grin, leaving you enveloped in darkness, “Sleep tight, and don’t let the interdimensional sleep demons bite…”

 “Oh fuck off,” you squeak, uneasiness creeping on you as Mick leaves you alone in the blackness of his living room. Living closer to the city’s epicentre, you can’t even remember a time it was this dark in your apartment, let alone right outside the window.  

 Bundling yourself into a tight cocoon, you try to let the rare patter of California raindrops soothe you into unconsciousness. Just as the fuzziness of sleep starts to curl around your weary mind, another clap of thunder rattles through the walls of Mick’s house, your eyes snapping open in fright. You attempt to regulate your frantic breaths, chanting sweet nothings of normalcy and security to no one in particular. But, no matter what you do, nothing seems to unprickle the hairs standing rigidly on the back of your neck. 

 Rolling over, you decide to face the room in the hopes that your tired eyes will eventually adjust to the darkness. The shadows seem to squirm and shift as your spine tingles with paranoia, making you curse yourself for ever agreeing to stay in the first place. You groan internally when you realize that, in the time you’ve spent anxious on the sofa, you probably could have made it home by now. 

 Goddammit, Mick. 

 Ignoring the oppressive movement of the shadows, your eyes wander toward the hallway. The position you have on the couch gives you a direct view of where the curve of the hall snakes into the door of Mick’s bedroom. More than anything, you wish he had stayed out in the living room with you rather than retreating to the confines of his bedroom. It would have been completely unfair to ask that of Mick considering it’s his house, but you can’t help it. You hadn’t been this afraid of the dark since you were a kid and, as far as you knew, Mick wasn’t scared of anything.

 The longer you lay scrunched up on the couch, the more tempted you are to just barge into Mick’s room and see whether or not he’s still awake. Minutes feel like hours as you debate the odds of Mick being mad–or worse, weirded out–at the sight of his best friend shaking him awake in the middle of the night. If Mick were having the same problem you probably wouldn’t be upset, right? Then again, there was a better chance of hell freezing over than Mick actually being afraid of the dark. 

 Deciding you can’t handle being alone a second longer, you swiftly untangle yourself from the comforting embrace of your blanket cocoon and place your bare feet on the cool, wooden floor. Shivering slightly, you hug your arms around your shoulders protectively and pad toward Mick’s bedroom, a nervous lump knotting in the back of your throat. 

 You approach the white door apprehensively, wondering for a brief moment if testing your friendship like this is even worth it. With a hefty sigh, you abandon all caution and pull the door open, a soft breeze rushing forward and tickling your face from the sudden movement. Heart thudding unceremoniously in your chest, you find yourself faced with the sight of your best friend sleeping soundly in a tangle of black velvet bedsheets. 

 Lying flat on his back with arms crossed securely over his chest, Mick slept like the dead, looking just as peaceful and twice as forbidden to disturb. A soft smile ghosts your lips at the sight of Mick looking so unwound and at rest. He was always a high-strung individual, that much is true, and watching him sleep so soundly made all your anxieties from earlier feel unbelievably not worth the effort. The realization that Mick’s face alone is enough to settle your nerves makes your heart hammer out a strangled pulse of adoration, twisting your stomach into a knot. 

 Inching away slowly, you decide that it’s probably for the best if you just saunter back to the couch and squash your feelings. Mick deserves a good night’s rest, not a lovesick best friend who is becoming blindsided by her feelings. Cursing your heart for being so fixated on the trivial human need for intimacy, you take a step back and immediately bump right into Mick’s dresser. 

 “Fuck,” you hiss as the dresser’s wooden frame trembles noisily against the floor.

 To your horror, the man in front of you begins to stir. Raising balled fists to his eyes, he wipes away the sleep and glances over to the source of the sound in a haze of weary confusion. Your heart plummets to the ground as his eyes find yours in the darkness.

 “...Y/N?” he mumbles, as he rises stiffly from his pile of blankets like a mummy from a sarcophagus. “Am I dreaming?”

 “I was just leaving,” you squeak, hoping beyond hope that Mick would be tired enough to think nothing of his best friend suddenly creeping into his room in the middle of the night. Turning on your heel, you attempt to reach for the door knob but are immediately halted by the sound of Mick’s voice. 

 “Wait–” Mick calls out, his voice faint, “stay.”

 You suck in a breath, grateful that the cover of night conceals the cherry red flush of your cheeks. Taking a tentative step forward, you find your fingertips gingerly clinging to the cool metal of the doorknob in worry. Swallowing the lump in your throat, it feels as though you might be the one dreaming. 

 “Mickey, look, I can explain, I, uh–I was just…” you stumble over the words of your confession, eyes now well-adjusted enough to see Mick’s expression go soft, almost as if he were concealing a smile. 

 Mick chuckles at your embarrassment, his gravelly voice making your heart flutter involuntarily. “You were scared, weren’t you?’

 “Yeah,” you sigh, not bothering to dig an even deeper hole, “I guess I was.” 

 Staring down at your bare feet, you allow a beat of silence to pass between the two of you. Mick says nothing, only stares, and for a moment you squirm at the thought that you may have overstayed your welcome. The thought alone is enough to make you cringe.

 Mick clears his throat, startling you out of your compulsive rumination. Peering up like a scolded child, you watch him scoot toward the far end of the mattress and straighten out his wrinkled duvet with a lazy hand. 

 “Well don’t just stand there,” he grins, “get in.”

 “Seriously?”

 Mick rolls his eyes and pats the empty space for emphasis, “Yes, seriously. Freddy can’t get ya so long as you’re with me– scout’s honor.”

 “As if you were a fucking boy scout,” you snort, unable to let your previous feelings of shame conceal the utter ridiculousness of the present situation. Here you are standing at the bedside of your best friend with a bleeding heart, and he’s already prepared to bandage you back up.

 “But it’s the thought that counts, right? Now hurry your ass up, I want to get back to sleep.”

 Your feet seem to propel you forward of their own accord and, before your neurotic brain can shift into overdrive, you’re already nestling into Mick’s bedsheets. You hum comfortably, the velvet still warm from where he had been sleeping. Every inch of the fabric smells of him, and it takes the last shred of your willpower to not just let your feelings leak straight out of your mouth and onto deaf ears.

 “That’s easy for you to say, Mickey,” you tease weakly, “you’ve never been scared of anything.”

 “I get scared sometimes,” Mick confesses, “I just wouldn’t want you to ever think differently of me because of it.”

 You don’t need to see Mick’s face to know that he’s frowning.

 Emboldened by his sudden admission of vulnerability, you turn on your side to face him. Mick’s eyes are fixed firmly on the ceiling, as if all the answers to life’s deepest, darkest questions could be etched somewhere in the popcorned pattern.

 “W-what do you mean?” you meant to sound confident, but your voice comes out as barely more than a whisper.

 To your disbelief, Mick turns over as well, his deep blue eyes shining through the shadowy bedroom like the frothy caps of a stormy sea. You can practically feel your heart reaching out to him, begging to pull you under and keep you there. 

 Mick’s hand finds yours somewhere beneath the velvet sheets and gives you a gentle squeeze, his warm palm enveloping your cold one in an instant. 

 “There’s something I want to say but I’m afraid…” he whispers, voice as delicate as spun sugar, “...I’m afraid I’ll lose you if I do, and I don’t wanna lose you.” 

 For a moment all you can do is blink, your mind reeling from the implications of what your best friend may or may not be admitting to you. You know that you need to say something quick, but your tongue turns to sand in your mouth. 

 Mick’s hand still entwined with yours, you take the opportunity to move in closer. Slowly you close the gap between the two of you, leaving nothing but the space reserved for the halo of mutual body heat forming around your place in the sheets. 

 “I think I know what you mean,” you bring Micks hand to your chest and let the frantic pulse of your heart do all the talking. 

 Without warning, Mick gives you a gentle kiss on the nose. The touch is so faint, you’re almost worried you may have imagined it.

 “Y/N?” 

 “Yeah, Mickey?”

 “I think I love you.”

 Your free hand rests gingerly on your best friend’s cheek, and for the first time that night you find yourself unafraid of what comes next. His face is red hot to the touch, and you wonder if anyone else knew Mick could be so warm. 

 “You sure you’d want to do a crazy thing like that?”

 Mick just chuckles and shakes his head, “Nothing feels crazy when I’m with you.”

 “Then I guess I’m just gonna have to love you, too.”

[beaboutitpress]

SONG: LOS ANGELES   BAND: X     PLACE: LONG BEACH YEAR: 1980 by Peggy Morrison

What’s a song that you listen to in order to remember something? That’s what we asked our writers for this edition of Be About It zine, and we are loving the responses we got. Check out this entry from Peggy Morrison!

SONG: LOS ANGELES   BAND: X     PLACE: LONG BEACH YEAR: 1980

I had heard this other kind of music that I was attracted to because it was full of rash, urgent energy I asked this bassist I knew, Steve, where was it? Where could I hear more of it? He told me it was punk and I could hear it every week on Rodney's show; I forget the name of the radio station.   I had an upstairs apartment on the West Side of Long Beach. I met Patti through her boyfriend, Alan. She had platinum hair in a short, asymmetical cut, a swashbuckling way of walking and bold red lips. She needed to get away from her alcoholic mother and I had a two-bedroom place. Patti's friends were a gaggle of buzz-cut teenagers in kilts and leather and safety pins   Punk clubs Long Beach, downtown LA, Hollywood, Redondo Beach I was in the mosh pit jumping in time with the noise; shot tons of pushed tri-x film, published the pictures in local rags and zines and gave them to the bands for the 45 and LP covers   Went to shows or made shows happen and partied after hours I was in the Strong Silent types. We practiced obsessively in a cheap rented rehearsal space. My role was to screech, howl and hum backup choruses to Crystal's deep-voice, epic lead singing, plus, I played the flute, X's album came out: The world's a mess; it's in my kiss   Everybody knew each other. Fast-moving. never planning where to end up or when to go home, It was non-stop. We had to go out almost every night just to be there when our friends played. We were a milling herd   She had to get out, get out get out, get out   I was taking classes at CSULB to get my teaching credential and become a "citizen" -- get my first legit job. I was in the placement office of the university looking at the job advertisements. I wanted to get out of the city and be a teacher in a small town in California. In the back of the big three ring binder there was an advertisement for a teaching job in a school in Guatemala. On a reckless whim, I mailed my resume. She had to leave LOS ANGELES   and when they called to offer me the job in Guatemala, I recklessly accepted. It seemed about as far as you could get from Long Beach, about 3000 miles They sent my plane ticket She found it hard to say goodbye to her own best friend It felt strange it felt strange. It felt sad In Guatemala City, en la zona 9, I would go out of the house at night and walk around in the silence, not knowing what to do with myself, missing the city, missing LA, with Exene and John's dissonant voices ringing in my head   She gets confused 'Cause the days change at night Change in an instant   She had to leave it felt strange it felt sad it felt sad

- Peggy Morrison

Name: Peggy Morrison

Location: Ohlone land, AKA Alameda, CA

Favorite sad song: Never Mind by Nancy Griffin  

Brief Bio:

Peggy Morrison is a California writer who lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area, enjoying its creative and fertile literary community.  Her poetry has been published in Cloud Woman Quarterly, riverbabble, Poecology, Let the World Wonder, Naked Bulb Anthology, Day Without Art,  DoorKnobs & BodyPaint. She was honored to be part of the United States delegation to the CubaPoesia International Poetry Festival in La Habana in 2017. Peggy is the author of one book of poetry: Mom Says (2020, https://www.amazon.com/dp/1657735192). Along with poetry Peggy is a mom who loves reading, teaching, gardening, music, and backpacking. And she is a bilingual teacher committed to working for social justice.

[realtyhubph-blog]

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