#did she have a slight accent while she lived in San Francisco?

[permanently-stressed]

as someone who speaks a second language (English) i want to know just... how Sophie thinks. Has she been thinking in the enlightened language the whole time while in the Forbidden Cities? Is she thinking in English the whole time she's in the Lost Cities? Did she ever start talking in the enlightened language around humans? SO MANY QUESTIONS SOMEONE COME UP WITH HEADCANONS FOR ME

[mudhornchronicles]

dreamboat | greaser!frankie morales | part two

diner cred to @thatretrobitch​

pairing: francisco “catfish” morales x reader; 1950’s greaser!frankie x reader

warnings: swearing, drinking, smoking, ya know… 1950s stuff + death and war, and being rude af

a/n: part two of dreamboat

masterlist

dreamboat: part one | part two

“If I didn’t know any better, Francisco, I’d say you were teacher in a past life.” You look up at him and smirk. He looks over to you and gives you a crooked smile. He adjusts his jacket and runs his left hand through his hair.

Frankie taught you a lot more history than the teacher. Frankie had a lot more patience and explained each topic that was covered in much better detail and simply enough to understand. Like when Hattie Wyatt Caraway of Arkansas became the first woman elected to the U.S. Senate in 1932 to fill the vacancy caused by the death of her husband. Frankie compared it to the demonstration of the first long distance telephone service between New York and San Francisco in 1913 – surprising but needed.

You didn’t have Frankie for a third period, just first and fourth, but he made sure to meet you out each of your classes and walked you over to your next class. He had conversed with the boys about asking you to Rosie’s Diner on Friday night. Everyone knows when a guy takes a little darlin’ down to Rosie’s, she’s unavailable. Frankie knows you probably don’t know what going to the diner with him means but he assumes if you did, you wouldn’t go. So he decides that the less you knew the better – well at least that’s what Tom decided.

“Ya know, doll. I like the way you say my name, but how ‘bout ya just call me Frankie, huh? I don’t use the entire thing anymore.”

You cock your head to the side and your smiles turns into a slight frown. “Do you not like the way Francisco sounds?”

He tucks his hands into his jean pockets, shrugs, and looks down at his dirty Chuck Taylors. “Thanks, I do like it, but it don’t… it don’t sound cool, you know? I got a reputation to keep up – all the guys do.”

Frankie stopped using the name Francisco at the start of freshman year. Pope stopped using Santiago around the same time. Their teachers would call them Francis and Saint because they found it difficult to pronounce the boys’ names correctly. Frankie was too shy to say anything and Pope was still unsure about his accented English, so when Will laughed and told the teacher, “Ain’t that a bite? You got a degree, but can’t pronounce an ABC name,” the boys knew Will was going to be a great friend. The boys thought that would be the end of it, but then Benny decided to join his brother and say, “How ‘bout, since ya feel so high and mighty, you call ‘em Frankie and Pope? We got Francisco like that city on the west coast, so call ‘em Frankie. Then we got Santiago. You wanna call ‘em Saint, then give ‘em the highest honor.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” you stopped walking and placed a hand on his arm. “I like your name. I think it suits you very well.”

He smiles and nods. He doesn’t know if he’s nodding because he’s convincing himself he likes it too or if he’s nodding because he’s glad you like it too. He liked your company because you weren’t too invasive, but he could also tell that you wanted to get to know him. He knew he wasn’t the most open to people, he has his father to thank for that.

As young 19-year-old – about a year older than Frankie – his father was drafted and fought in World War 1 in 1918 as a US Army soldier and was then sent off to France a few weeks in to fight with the AEF, the American Expeditionary Forces. Because of this, Frankie’s father wasn’t the most expressive when in public but was easily the most caring when it came to his family. When Frankie was growing up, his father had spoiled his baby boy and made sure he worked hard as a welder so that Frankie wouldn’t want for anything. Frankie remembers his father coming home from work late at night, oil and bits of metal stuck to him, and always turning his frown into a smile when he laid eyes upon his son.

His father’s closure to the world only grew when he saw his family in danger. Frankie figured that by growing up within a military family, it would lead to him serving in the military as his father did before him. When Frankie was coming to the age of enlistment, he told his family about him wanting to go off to the military, but his father was very much against it. All his father wanted for his son was for Frankie to live his life the way he wanted to, so Frankie didn’t enlist. One day when Frankie was at school, recruiters came to the Morales home and were knocking the door down. Frankie’s father had informed them that his son would not be serving. He was told that because Frankie was able, male, and was soon to be of age, he had to enlist whether he was needed or not. His father complied; except he wrote his own name down instead of his son’s.

His father never regretted going to war. He still had nightmares, which Frankie knew all too well. He had met Frankie’s mother when he came back home in 1921 and after years of trying, he was blessed with a son in 1935. All was good in the world until the year 1950 – Frankie was 15 years old. In August of 1950, a letter came in the post reading the following:

SIR: FRANCISCO MORALES SR.

You are hereby notified that you, on the 21 day of August of 1950, have been legally drafted in the service to the Armed Forces of the United States of America. You are to report to the Armed Forces station below and will be transported to Daejeon, Korea.

Frankie’s father never came back.

His body was never recovered – just his ID tags. Frankie’s mother was told that the last transmission received with the whereabouts of Francisco Morales Sr. were near the Nakdong River in South Korea. Frankie always carried his father’s ID tags around his neck no matter where he went. Those tags always reassured him of himself knowing that he was doing what his father wanted him to do.

Frankie walked you down the steps of school building and stopped at the sidewalk. “Ya know, if ya need a ride, I can take ya home – aint no trouble.”

You smile and shake your head. “I appreciate that. I told my mother I’d take the bus back home.” You knew your mother would have a fit if she saw you get dropped off by a boy, but she may still be at work. You looked back at Frankie and saw that he had a slight frown on his face as he played with a necklace hidden in his white t-shirt. You weren’t sure the reason behind it, but he didn’t want to pry. “Actually, I’ll take a ride.”

His eyes lit up and nodded. “Great but I do gotta warn ya, doll. I gotta take Ironhead and Benny back to their place. Pope usually goes back to mines.” A ride home in a car full of teenage boys – what can go wrong?

The pair of you walk down to the school’s parking lot and there you see students laughing in their cars – 4 to 5 in a car – all while having a smoke and others are drinking from beer cans. You have no doubt that it’s beer cans when one gets tossed towards you with left over beer splattering over your white skirt. Frankie takes notice of the yellow stains and the grimace growing on your face. He looks over at the teenagers in a beat-up Chevy.

“Aye watch where ya tossin’ shit, birdbrain.” The teens look over at Frankie and walk over to him. You place a hand on his arm and look up at him.

“Frankie, c’mon. Let’s just go to your car, huh?” you plead. His arm tightens and as the teens arrive in front of him, Frankie protectively put you behind him and adjusts his jacket – a tick of his you’ve taken note of. The three boys who walked over to Frankie look over at you and smirk.

“Well shit Frankie, pal.” One of them takes a smoke and blows the out towards his side. “You already smashin’ up this little new betty? Don’t you work fast… first Michelle, then Tiffany, now this one?”

Frankie’s jaw tightens and his hold on your arm shifts. “How ‘bout you stuff it, Jack? You know you ain’t even supposed to be here. This ain’t your turf.”

Jack removes his hat, a cowboy hat he’s become fond of, and fixes his hair. He puts it back on and laughs. “You’re right, but I clearly don’t care. Oberyn ain’t out the can ‘till Friday, so I call the shots. My boys wanna be here and screw all these chick-a-dees, then they will. I know you ain’t gon’ do nothin’.”

“He will,” you hear a click and quickly turn your head to see Pope and the boys, Benny holding up a pocketknife. “But he ain’t doin’ it alone either.” The Bandits circle the three men and puff up their chests.

“Alright,” Jack holds his hands up. “We’re gone but trust me when I say that Oberyn ain’t gon’ be too happy to hear this.” With that he snaps his head over to his boys directing them back to their car. They turn to leave and Jack walks away backwards. When he’s satisfied with the distance between himself and The Bandits, he turns on his heel and runs to his car. He jumps in the driver’s seat, gives his girl a smooch, and revs the engine – with that he’s gone.

Pope looks at you and gives your shoulder a quick squeeze. “You good? Hope those bumrats ain’t spook ya too bad.” You shake your head and smile shyly. You look down at your ruined skirt and shrug.

“Just a ruined skirt but that’s okay. I wasn’t fond of it.” Will laughs at your comment fluffs yours skirt from the bottom, earning a nudge from Frankie.

“Let’s get her home, huh? I gotta drop off everyone else,” Frankie says. Tom tells Frankie that he’s got detention and to go on without him. Tom goes back towards the building while everyone piles up in Frankie’s Cherry Red 1945 Mustang GT – his father’s gift to him for his 15th birthday, also his last gift.

Per usual, Benny and Will leans the driver’s seat forwards and get in to sit in the back while Pope goes to sit in his usual spot as shotgun. Frankie tuts at Pope and points to the back. Pope scoffs but shoots Frankie a wink. He gets in and sits in between the brothers, being the smallest of the three, and Frankie runs over to open the door for you to sit up front. He grabs your books and hands them to Pope. As you situate yourself and buckle your seatbelt, Frankie gets in and turns on his baby. He revvs the engine and backs up out the school’s parking garage, but not before revving his engine one more time for the freshmen per Benny’s request.

On the drive to the brother’s house, Benny grabs your notebook and looks through your notes of the day. He looks through the math notes you took during 4th period and immediately closes it. “You sure are smart if you’re taking this angle stuff. I’m guessing it’s college prep?”

You look over your shoulder and nod. “I’m currently taking college preparatory trigonometry. They unfortunately didn’t have any other advanced placement for me here.”

The boys let out a harmony of “ohs” and Will shakes Frankie’s shoulder. “Frankie! She’s smart like you, buddy!”

Pope smirks and joins in on the teasing. “Lo vez, hermano! Being smart doesn’t make you un-cool. Being you does! No te hagas ver como el tonto porque no lo eres.”

You see, brother… don’t make yourself seem dumb because you aren’t.

You look at Pope and smile. “I agree with you, Santiago. Frankie is very intelligent so he shouldn’tdumb himself down because he thinks that’s what people think of him.” Pope stops and looks at you. “You know some Spanish, angel face?” You eagerly nod. “I’m very familiar with the language. They had us choose electives at my old school. I took Spanish, Italian, and French. I had a lot of a free time.”

Pope looks at you in shock but happily hollers. “Well sugar you sound pretty good speakin’ ‘em”

You couldn’t explain it, but you felt giddy. You felt happy to be around the boys and you knew you wanted to continue to be around them.

With Frankie getting out of the car and moving his seat forward, Will and Benny get dropped off first, but not without teasing him about “asking the chick.” Frankie flips them off and Pope lets out a belly laugh. Frankie apologetically looks at you and mouths sorry. You blush and mouth that’s okay.

Once leaving the brothers, Pope tells Frankie to turn up the radio. Frankie looks at Pope through the rearview mirror and narrows his eyes. “Switch to 12,” Pope says with a wink. Frankie rolls his eyes and turns the knob so the needle hits channel 12. Once Frankie hears the recognizable melody from “Takes Two to Tango” by Pearl Bailey. Frankie goes to switch the channel, but you stop his hand. He glances over to you and he sees you mouthing the words. He looks back at Pope who wiggles his eyebrows and sings out loud and to Frankie’s surprise, you join Pope singing at the top of your lungs. He laughs at your attempts at dancing in your seat and looks back at Pope who was waving his hands in the air.

Frankie thought that you’d be this proper, shy little thing but here you were having singing and laughing with his best friend. You gave him the slightest nudge and smiled in his direction. “C’mon Frankie. Don’t be a sour puss. I know you know this song!” You were right. He did know this song. He and Pope sang it so much because Pope thought he could woo some girl – he didn’t really know what the lyrics meant so you can guess what happened. If you guessed he slept with her… you’d be correct.

You poked Frankie in the ribs light enough to not affect his driving and giggled as he sang out with Pope. You liked seeing this Frankie – not that big tough guy you saw at the parking lot. He seemed like he had a big heart but was scared to show it and you were determined, but you were ripped away from your internal planning when Frankie politely asked for your address.

“It’s a shame you ain’t hangin’ longer sweetheart,” Pope began. “I think you’d like being around us two mucks. You would definitely like Frankie’s mom’s cooking. She makes the best food in town.” You smiled as the two best friends bickered about whose mom had the best food.

“I would have loved to, but I have to be home and do chores before my mother gets home.”

Frankie looks over to you and gives you a reassuring smile. “It’s alright. Maybe next time, cool?” You smile at the invitation and nod. Frankie continues to drive as you and Pope make a conversation about the possibility of you tutoring him in math. With them being high school seniors, they are not failing one class.

You feel on top of the world, laughing and talking with your new friends, until you spot the yellow Pontiac in the driveway and your mother coming out of it. Your face drops and the boys immediately take notice.

“What’s wrong?” Frankie asks. You straighten out your top and ask Pope for your books as you ready yourself to run out of the car. You look at Frankie and offer a weak smile.

“My mother won’t be happy with me is all.” You’d ask Frankie to drop you off a couple of houses before your own, but you know your mother has already seen you. As Frankie pulls up to your house, the boys’ jaws drop. You wouldn’t say your house was big, but to the boys, it was huge. Your two-story home consisted of 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. The exterior of the home was beige with dark brown trimming and the river rock pathway leading up to your home was lined with grass so green you’d think it was plastic.

Your mother, dressed to the nines in a pale pink dress and white belt, looks at the hot rod parked in front of her home and places her hands on her hips as she sees Frankie run out and open your door. Your mother would normally love seeing her daughter be treated by a gentleman, but she isn’t very happy to see that it’s Frankie. She has always dreamed of her daughter being courted by a young man in polished Oxford shoes and ironed pleated pants not a worn out leather jacket and dirty chucks.

You thank Frankie for the ride and look over at your upset mother. The boys say hello to her as she gives them the ungenuine smile of hers you have seen many times. You wave goodbye to both boys and begin to walk up to your mother. You hear whispers behind you and then you hear your mother say, “Is there something else you’d like to say, boy?”

You turn and you see Pope shove Frankie towards you. His face turns red as he sees your mother staring him down and he knows that this may not be the best time to ask you.

“On with it, young man. My daughter and I have work to do.”

Frankie once again runs his hand through his hair and clears his throat. “I- I, uh, I was wonderin’ if ya wanted to hang with us at Rosie’s on Friday. The shakes are pretty good so we could ma-“

“What’s your name, young man?” You look at your mother. You narrow your eyes at her for interrupting Frankie.

“It-It’s Frankie,” he stutters, “my name’s Frankie, ma’am.”

Your mother gives her less than friendly smile again. “Well, Frankie, you’ll understand where I’m coming from when I tell you this – you are not the kind of person I want my daughter befriending. You just don’t quite… how can I put this nicely? You don’t fit a mother’s standards.”

“Mother!”

“Quiet.” she tells you. “You will not be around these boys again, do you understand? Your father works too hard for you to just ruin your life like this. You asked to be taken out of the pristine private school we paid for you to go to and we allowed you to enroll in public school. Why are you bringing home some… some hoodlum! How can you do this to us?”

You wished this had surprised you, but it wasn’t the first time your mother disrespected your choice of friends. You huffed and you felt tears coming to your eyes as you saw Frankie’s defeated look in his eyes and Pope fighting the urge to get out of the car.

You mother calls your name, and you turn to look at her. She walks to you, heels clicking the pavement, and cups your jaw. “You will not associate yourself with these boys, do we understand each other?” You see Frankie nod to you and walk back to his car. You look back at your mother and nod. “Yes, Mother. I understand.” Your mother smiles at you and gives your cheek a pat. “Good girl. Now… get inside and put that skirt in the hamper. Your allowance is going towards a new skirt.”

She leads you into the house and you look back and see Frankie’s car is still there. You stop in your tracks and look at your mother. “Mother, may I please run back and grab a paper I left?”

“Is it school related?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well. Go grab it and say goodbye and come back in. We have to get dinner going.” You nod and run back to the car and your mother walks into the house.

Pope rolls down the passenger side window and both boys look at you. You smile at Pope and look at Frankie.

“Does Rosie’s Diner have sundaes?” Pope smirks and turns to Frankie while Frankie nods with a confused face. “Well,” you start, “If Friday’s invitation is still open, pick me up by the green house down the street at 6pm. She’ll be going to my grandmother’s house up north.”

“Sounds like a plan, doll.”

The light breeze surprises you as it picks up the more you walk down the street. You walk past two houses and you see the red backlights of the cherry red mustang you seemed to miss.

Your mother, thankfully, left to your grandmother’s home about two hours ago, much earlier than expected. She called not very long ago to make sure you were home and doing homework. You told her that you were planning to retire early as your homework began to give you a headache. She insisted you eat dinner and sleep as she didn’t want to see eyebags under your eyes when she got back tomorrow. She bid you goodnight and said she’d be home by tomorrow’s lunchtime. Once you hung the phone on the hook, you ran to your room and began to ready yourself for the night.

You grew giddy as 6 o’clock crept closer and closer. You had applied your blush and mascara so carefully you’d have thought you were dusting the finest of china. You did not want to wear too much makeup; you didn’t want to seem as though you were trying too hard. You picked out the pins out of the curls on your head you’d put up right when your mother left and watched as the soft and tight curls fell and framed your face. You grabbed your wide tooth comb and brushed the curls out, parting your side at a side so there was more hair and volume on one side. You sprayed a tight hold hairspray all over so you could make sure your hair stood – Frankie wouldn’t want to see frazzled hair, no man would, you thought.

As you went through your closet, you decided that a dress was the best choice as it was simple enough to either be dressed up or dressed down. You went with a white collared black dress with thin white windowpane patterned lines all over. You wore your black flats and added a black shiny belt running across the waist. You get closer to Frankie’s car and you see him get out of his car – you figured he had seen you coming.

“How ya doin’ there, doll?”

“Hello, Frankie.” You wave and get closer to him. Once you’re in front of him you fix his jacket lapel and look up at him. “Aren’t you sight for sworn eyes.”

His eyes widen then starts laughing loudly and your face goes red. He nearly falls in laughter as his hands catch himself on his knees. “W-What’d ya just say?”

“I said aren’t you a sight for sworn eyes,” you frown. “Is that not appropriate?”

He catches his breath and puts a hand on his belly. He reaches over and tucks your hair behind your ear with the other hand. “The saying is a sight for sore eyes, doll; not sworn eyes.”

You feel as if your face is about to burst as you start laughing at yourself. You just cannot believe you’ve messed up your first attempt at flirting with Frankie. “I was really sure it was sworn.”

He smiles brightly and shakes his head. “Hey… can’t say ya ain’t tried right?” You giggle and nod. He look you up and down and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Te vez hermosa.” You look beautiful.

Have you ever had that feeling when there’s a puppy trying to get comfortable, but it can’t so it walks over to you and lays with you – falling into a deep and peaceful sleep? You know how it makes your heart feel as if it’s grown twice in size because the puppy chose you and trusted you to protect it while it slept? That’s how you felt when those words came out of Frankie’s mouth.

“Muchas gracias, Francisco.” Thank you very much, Francisco.

He playfully rolls his eyes at you and lets out a laugh. He points to the car and says, “get in the damn car.” He runs over to your door and lets you in, as per usual, and off you two went to Rosie’s Diner.

Frankie leads you into a bright neon-lit diner not very far from your home, about 25 minutes from your place. The diner stands out from the black concrete parking lot and pine trees decorating its background. He opens the light brown doors and places a hand on your lower back as you walk in – not too low or too high.

“Howdy’ho kiddos.” You’re greeted by a woman in her late 40’s or early 50s – the grey hair and sweet smile give it away. “Hey there, Frankie. Bandits meetin’ ya here?”

Frankie smiles at the woman, gives her a hug, and a quick kiss on the cheek; a kiss she smiles at and hums in content. “Hey Ro. Boys are comin’ in a while. You know they ain’t missin’ your special tonight.”

“There’s a special night every night for my favorite bandits, Frankie. Who’s this, huh? You finally bringin’ a girl for me to meet?” Frankie shakes his head from side to side smiling. He turns to you and introduces you to Rosie, the diner’s owner and one of his favorite people. “She’s new in town and I wanted to show her the best diner in the world.”

Rosie slaps Frankie’s arm and laughs. “Stop talkin’ sweet ‘fore your teeth rot, boy. You’re too pretty to be all gums now. I knew my boys were comin; your usual booth’s open, but take the table next to it, yeah. Ya need the extra seat ‘less you sittin’ the girl on ya lap.” Frankie begins to stutter a protest as you stifle a laugh.

“It’s very nice to meet you Miss Rosie. I’m in awe of your diner and excited to try your food.”

“Well it’s very nice to meet the girl who Frankie finally decided to bring to the diner. It’s a very special moment in his life ya know?” You cock your head to the side and take a quick glance at Frankie.

“Why’s that, Miss Rosie?”

As Rosie was about to explain the beginning of courtships of 99% of the teenagers in town, Frankie dragged you away with the dramatic excuse of being so hungry he can eat a horse and how he’ll drop dead if he doesn’t get a shake.

As you make it to the table Rosie had sent you to, you’d think that Frankie would have pulled out your chair, but a couple of some teens you remember seeing at school look in yours and Frankie’s direction whispering among themselves. You took a seat and looked at Frankie to ask if he knew them but as you were about to ask, you saw his face looking back at them with a deep stare. He gave them a single nod towards the door and to your surprise, they ran. Frankie scanned the room and he knew everyone would be taking in the scene. Frankie had never taken a girl out in public – especially not a girl like you. Sure people knew about other girls he’s been with, but everyone knew they weren’t together.

Frankie sat down after everyone in the diner turned their attention back to where it previously was and he passes you a diner menu, but still tense due to the eyes that locked with his back once more.

When the waitress you learned was named Vi and was obsessed with Will, Frankie had ordered a basket of fries for the two to share, a cherry soda for him and a sundae of your pick for you. Vi was also an older woman, best friends with Rosie, and had an innocent crush on Will’s blonde self. Frankie told you about the time Will brought Vi a bouquet of flowers for her birthday and Vi almost attacked the poor kid to the ground with kisses. Vi was sweet and she made you feel very good about yourself as she fixed your collar and fluffed your hair because “her Frankie needs to see what he’s got in front of him.”

You were nearly done with your sundae as you heard the distinctive pitch that is Benny’s voice as he said “What’s cookin’ good lookin’ don’t you look like a dream,” and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. You greet each and every one of the boys as they take their seats around the table – Benny calling dibs on one of the seats next to you. Benny puts his arm around the back rest of your white chair and calls Vi over to place a new order.

As the night continues, you feel free. You feel so relaxed and at ease with the boys around you that you don’t even notice the dirty looks some girls were giving you. Benny puts his head on your shoulder and give his cheek a little pat resulting in Benny playfully trying to bite your hand. Frankie clears his throat and Benny looks over at him and smirks.

“I ain’t trynna steal ya girl, Frankie. If she hangin’ with us, ya gotta get used to us playin ‘round.”

Frankie turns red as Benny calls you “his girl” and rolls his eyes with a chuckle. He looks out the window and immediately tenses. You follow his gaze and see a 1942 black Ford with some boys in it – one of the being that Jack guy from school – revv its engine as it speeds back and forth through the parking lot. He grabs the boys eyes and directs them towards the window and Benny stands up immediately. The boys follow suit and Frankie turns to you.

“Stay here alright, doll? We’ll be back.”

You turn from Frankie to the window and back to Frankie with a worried look painting your face. “What’s going on Frankie?”

“They shouldn’t be here. This ain-“ You both turn at the sound of a crash and see Pope being held against Frankie’s car by a guy in a black tee with its sleeves rolled. Frankie runs out of the diner and you run after him. You know you shouldn’t be getting in between this, but you aren’t going to let anyone hurt your new friends.

Frankie runs up behind this guy, turns him around, and shoves him away from his car and friends. The guy smirks and nods at Frankie. “Did you miss me Frankie?”

“What the hell are you doing here, Oberyn? We already told ya friend there that this ain’t your turf.”

You had to admit, Oberyn had this strut to him that showed his self-confidence and the combination of his flirtatious smile and smoldering eyes only made him more attractive than he already was. Jack came to stand next to him and as he turned to toss some keys over to another friend of his, you caught sight of the word VIPERS with two snakes on the back of his jacket.

“Yeah… he told me ‘bout it. But ya anna know what else Jackie told me? He told me that ya got ya’self a knockout.” Oberyn locks eyes with you and winks. He tries to walk over to you, but Frankie pushes back and away from you.

“Don’t get near her.” Oberyn lets out a sarcastic chuckle and gets in Frankie’s face.

“How ‘bout ya make me, Morales?”

The next thing you knew, you were yelling and crying with Will held you away as you saw Frankie and Oberyn duke it out on the concrete while Benny and Pope tried to pry Oberyn away – Jack and some other guy pushing them away. You caught a glimpse of Frankie’s bruising cheek and Oberyn’s bloody nose. You only noticed the officer’s arrival once Will dragged you back in the diner and making sure Rosie held you back as he ran back to be by Frankie’s side when the local sheriff gets out the car.

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[photos-by-emilyc]

Title: Escaping The Inferno

Title: Theo: Homeless At Age 7

Presentation By: Emily Calderon

Photography: Mini Research Project

Photographer: Gabrielle Lurie

Website: www.gabriellelurie.com

Bodies of Work: 1) Escaping the Inferno, and 2) Theo: Homeless at age seven.

The bodies of work that I have decided to write about are two pieces from the works of Gabrielle Lurie. The projects are Escaping the Inferno, and Theo: Homeless at age seven.

The photojournalist was born in Washington D.C., educated at NYU and found her fame and fortune in San Francisco.

These two projects are similar in that they both chronicle events that have a severe impact on the quality of life of the people and events photographed. These projects differ in that, one event was caused by an act of nature the other was caused by the inaction of a political system.

The first project that interested me was,” Escaping the Inferno.” The photos in this project speak to the power and destruction leveled by the fire that devastated Butte County, California in November of 2018. This fire caused the death of eighty-six people and the destruction of 19,000 structures.

In the two photos attached, the aggressive style of Gabrielle Lurie appears to jump right out at you. The first photo depicts a one family home fully engulfed in flames. Although not high in resolution, the picture is accented by diffused light, caused by the ashes and embers filling the sky. This tends to have the photo give off an eerie and surreal affect. The use of dark muted colors by the artist, in my estimation, adds to the starkness and reality of the event.

The second photo that I decided to speak to is the burned out vehicle sitting by the side of the road. The vehicle, apparently destroyed by the great fire, sits accented by automobile lights. Once again, this gives the photo a surreal feel. The indirect lighting from the rear of the car, sets an eerie tone. The one thing that these two photos share is, the ability to provoke thought. Upon first thought I wondered, Where are the victims now? How was it when the fire came? Who took these pictures?> How did they do it?

The second project of Gabrielle Lurie that I decided to write about is entitled, ”Theo: Homeless at 7“. This is also a story of a disaster but unlike the first project, it is a political disaster.

The political disaster in question is that of homelessness. This is a malady experienced by an increasingly large amount of people. The series of photos depicts, seven year-old, Theo and his mom, from Berkley California, as they bob and weave through their sea of homelessness.

Ms. Lurie captured the full experience of Theo and his mother. Through her use of available light photos, she was able to capture the extreme love between Theo and his mom. The photos follow Theo and his Mom as they navigate their way through their daily routine while living in motels, RVs and cars.

There are many photos in this project that have captured my attention. I have picked two of these photos to discuss they are below.

The first photo from that project that caught my imagination is from the Sarah Ravani article, “Letter from Washington D.C.”. This photo Shows Theo and his Mom embracing inside of their tent which it pitched under the highway overpass. This photo utilizes muted colors, dark lighting and slight contrast. The one constant that Ms. Lurie has captured is the love between Theo and his Mom.

The last photo that I wanted to discuss was taken in July of 2020. It shows Theo as he sits in his tent, his home, in a park in Berkley. Once again Ms. Lurie’s work is highlighted by the contrast of the photos and her use of available light. The photos exhibit Ms.Lurie’s ability to show the true emotion of people as they experience some of the most dehumanizing aspects of life.

Bibliography Page

www.sfchroinicle.com

www.garriuellkelurie.com

www.nppa.org

NPPA - The Campfire Teamwork, Sue Morrow January/February 2019

http://www.gabriellelurie.com/paradise-lost

http://www.gabriellelurie.com/theo-homeless-at-age-7

[eugenesmorphine]

New Beginnings // Joe Liebgott Imagine

Taglist: @alienoresimagines

I hopped off the ship, straight out of the Pacific theater. The war had ended in the Pacific, now I was back in my city. Now a war beaten female Marine that had zero clue on what she was going to do with life.

  I held my C-Bag tightly in my left hand and used my right to adjust my cap and flatten my skirt. A heavy sigh left my lips as I looked around. Sailors and Marines met with their families. I watched as men ran to their women, kissing them and embracing them happily. How they ran to their families, shedding happy tears. I wasn't going to receive that for my home coming. I didn't have a man, or well I did when I first left, but he had broke things off with me whilst I was n Guadalcanal. Left me for some broad in a bar. Tragic right? I didn't have any family here in San Francisco. I didn't have any pets or any real friends to come home to. Just my apartment and my bed. Which I was more than appreciative to finally come home to instead of sleeping in a dirty and muddy cot in the middle of some jungle. While it poured and we feared that the Japanese would come and override us. But now, I get my nice comfortable bed and warm blankets. I was so ready for it.

  I walked to the curb , clutching my bag's handle. I glanced right and left,  looking to see if a cab would be so kind and stop. Hoping that I wouldn't be charged to much money for a ride to my apartment building. I swung my hand out, waving towards a cab that was coming in my direction, in which it stopped. Surprisingly, I only waited just a minute or two for a Taxi. Especially since it was later at night, I didn't really know the time. I didn't think twice when the cab came to a stop in front of me to open the back seat door and hop into the seat. Placing my bag right besides me. I looked in the rear view mirror, making eye contact with the driver. And wow did I not want to take my eyes off him. Being the only female Marine in all of the Pacific, I was hit on by a lot of men, but I rejected all of them. It is safe to say that Marines just aren't my type. But, let me tell you, this cab driver was something else.

  "Where to Ma'am?" he asked, looking back at me. His accent was different, how he spoke was different. Not a bad different. But very unique. A voice I could easily get lost in.

  "457 South Street, the apartment building," I responded, sliding my Garrison cap off of my head and placing it neatly on my lap.

 "Hey, I live there," the cab driver said as he began driving. A small smile formed on his face as he looked at the road in front of him. I smiled in response. "the name's Joe," he added, looking at me through the rear view mirror. "Joseph Leibgott," he finished. I nodded at his words.

 "Y/N L/N, nice to meet you Mr. Leibgott," I smiled. He chuckled. He seemed very sweet.

 "You were a Marine?" he asked, looked into the mirror. I nodded, looking down at my lap. quickly realizing and processing the things I have been through in the past few years. How in the world was I going to adapt to normal life now?

 "Yes sir, served all the way from Guadalcanal to Okinawa," I stated. I straightened my shoulders, trying to look and act more strong and proud than I actually was. He nodded, an impressed look spreading across his face.

  "I was in the Airborne, 101st, European Theater," he replied. I nodded in response. I wouldn't even think of him as being apart of this awful war. I looked down at my lap, awkwardly not knowing what to say. It had been so different trying to have a normal conversation outside of what I just endured for the past few years. "I understand the having trouble with the conversations like you did before leaving," he chuckled. I gave a small laugh back. Joe was very nice, I wanted to get to know him more.

  Soon enough, my stop came. The cab came to stop at my apartment complex. I was glad to be home, more than anything. But, I had a strange inner feeling of sadness within me. For some odd reason, I didn't want to depart from Joe. I got a safe feeling from him, or something like that while speaking. I sighed as I grabbed my bag. I reached into my pocket to grab some cash, pulling it out and handing it out to him. In which he put his hand up, refusing the cash. I made a face at him, pushing my cash filled hand towards him again.

 "Come on Joe, take the money. You drove me to my apartment and it's late as hell. You deserve at least a little something," I pleaded, keeping my hand extended to him. He pushed my hand away and turned in the drivers seat to look at me. This way I got a full view of his face. My face grew red. He was even better looking.

"Nah Y/N, don't you worry about it. It's on the house," I sighed at his response. Knowing he wouldn't be changing his mind any time soon. I placed my money back into my chest pocket, shaking my head slightly in defeat. I glanced up to see him turn back around in the drivers seat, a small smile on his face. I grabbed my C-Bag, shuffling myself out of the cab. "See you around L/N?" he asked, a small smile on his lips. I looked at him, pulling a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

  "See you around Leibgott."

///

   The next couple weeks were rough. Between failed job interviews, nightmares, not sleeping, and trouble interacting socially with people in everyday life. But by far, the nightmares were the worst. Waking up every night in cold sweats, crying, and constantly reliving all the horrors I saw back in the Pacific. I could never sleep after them either. So getting a full night's rest was rare on most occasions. I hated it and there wasn't really anything I could do about it.

  Today I had another job interview. I had one of the worst nightmares I have had these past weeks. I left my apartment, puffier eyes than usual and more tired than usual. I wasn't at all prepared for the day and at this point of failure, I had just given up in the moment. I ran my fingers through my hair as I walked quickly down the sidewalk. I heard a car horn honk at me. Wonderful. The gross men of San Francisco. I looked in that general direction, ready to give the person a nasty look. That was, until I met the eyes of no other than Joseph Leibgott. My face softened in the slightest. I was tired, but I always had time for him. He had a smile and smirk all in one plastered on his face. I looked left and right before quickly walking over to his cab.

 "Well good morning Miss. Y/N, how are you?" he was cheery, but not as cheery as usual. I noticed his eyes. They seemed red and puffy. Like he had just finished up crying. His nose the slightest tint of pink. Was he feeling the same way I did? He had slight blue bags beneath his eyes. Was he not sleeping either? I nodded in response to his question. I had no time to talk to him, I had already been running late for the job interview.

  "I'm fine Joe, I don't got time this morning. I have another job interview," I said it came much ruder than I had expected it to. But, sadly I had no time to apologize. I watched his somewhat happy look on his face quickly fade into a sad and disappointed look. I huffed and looked away.

 "Oh, I'm sorry Y/N. I didn't mean to get in your way or anything," I sighed and just muffled and 'I'm fine' before turning around and quickly. Trying not catch he look of pure sadness sketched across the man's face. I kept my head down and kept walking.

///

    I was walking home now from the interview. And just my luck, I got caught in the pouring rain. Without an umbrella. So now I was walking in the rain, hair soaked, tightly hugging my jacket around my cold body. A small coffee shop came into view, in which it looked open. Anything to get out of the cold rain. I also could use a coffee, this day had been awful so far, and right now a coffee is what I needed at this moment. I walked to it and open the door, a bell ringing as I walked through the entrance. I ordered just a normal hot coffee and once I retrieved the hot mug, I walked and sat at a booth by myself.  I cupped the mug, enjoying the warmth radiating out of it and into my hands. For a brief moment my body stopped shivering and my teeth stopped shattering, appreciating the small amount of heat coming from the mug. I went to take a sip, lifting and pressing the mug between my lips. Tilting the cup so the hot liquid would go down my throat. Oh how soothing and relaxing it was. Besides my hair and clothes dripping wet, making me feel as if I was going to catch Pneumonia, the moment was very nice.

  As I sat alone, I heard the bell on top of the door ring. Out of spite and out of straight curiosity, I looked up to see the person who walked in. And I locked eyes with non other than Joe Leibgott. His hair was dripping wet along with his jacket. His eyes seemed redder than earlier that day when I had first encountered him in the morning. Oh god, I was so mean.  Now that I think back on it, Joe didn't deserve how I treated him. I wanted to apologize so bad, I was just scared to. Scared to hurt him even more some how.

 His look softened when our eyes met, the tiniest smile spreading across his face. I looked back at the mug that was on the table in front of me. Ever since the day Joe drove me home from the ship yard, ever since we actually became friends these past few weeks going into months, Joe's smile never failed to make me smile. No matter what. I heard footsteps approach my table, I glanced up at the person. As I thought, it was in fact Joe. I had an awkward look in my eyes as I looked up at him. I couldn't help but feel so awful for how I acted this morning. All I could see wad the look of pure sadness after I had yelled at him. He sat on the opposite side of me. I glanced up at him, his puppy like smile still on his lips. Making me raise my head to look at him fully, straightening my shoulders.

  "Look, I'm sorry for the way I had acted this morning Joe. I was just in a bad mood, I had a rough night and you just didn't deserve that," I apologized. I tried showing more emotions. It was one of my weaknesses recently. I felt tears prick at my eyes just at the thought of how awful last night was. Not including how terrible the day had been. Though, as soon as I finished apologizing,  Joe looked up at me.

  "Y/N, don't apologize, I get it. I live right beneath you, I can hear your restless nights when you have crying fits with the nightmares. I get it Y/N, I deal with it to," I looked at him shocked. My mouth slightly agape as I just stared at him. He heard me crying all those nights? He knows about my nightmares almost every night? He understands? My face changed a slight shade of pink in embarrassment, wishing he had never heard me any of those nights. He just looked back at me, seeming to be waiting for a response. But what was I supposed to say to that? I felt a few tears slip down my cheeks. All I could think of were questions.

 "Why is it so hard coming back Joe?" I asked, my voice shaky. I tried to keep my face faced away from the man in front of me. That was until he had reached over, placing his index finger and middle finger beneath my chin and tilting my head up to look back at him. I swallowed hard, not wishing for any more tears to fall.

  "No one said it was going to be easy Y/N. Hell, I do understand the painful nights. The nightmares, the random crying fits, panic attacks. It is something we have to deal with us to. But, we don't have to do it alone," he understood. How stupid was I to not think he would be feeling the same way and or experiencing the same things I was? And what was he trying to say, 'We don't have to do it alone.' Was he meaning with me. With someone else. Together? God I was stupid and confused. I sniffled, quickly wiping me eyes from its tears. Trying to pretend and ignore the fact that I was crying. Marines weren't supposed to cry. Especially some roughed up female veteran.

 "Care to take me home Mr. Taxi Man?" I asked. Looking up at Joe, giving him a smile. He gladly gave me a smile in return, standing up. I followed his actions and we walked out of the coffee shop together. Laughing as we tried running through the rain to his Cab, trying not to get any more soaked then we were. But, by the time we had reached the cab and hopped in, both of our clothes had been dripping and water droplets fell from our hair. My mascara must have been running, it would've been a miracle if not. I caught the eye of Joe once more. Who had been staring at me in some sort of way I couldn't make out what it was just yet.

  "Why are you staring at me like that?" I asked, laughing slightly between words. I must've not been looking to cute in the moment. My H/C hair was drenched and dripping, much red lipstick slightly smudged, and my mascara was most definitely running. Most likely, I wasn't looking the cutest.

  "You are so pretty," he replied, the softest smile on his face. His eyes filled with what I could see was love. That's how I knew he meant it. My face turned a bright shade of red as I giggled shyly at his comment. I had been given thousands of compliments like his in my Marine Corps days, but none of them made me feel as nice as his did when he said them. I looked down at my lap, smiling as I bit down on my bottom lip slightly. I glanced at the man in the driver's seat out of the corner of my eye, seeing the small smile curled on the side of his lips as he started the vehicle and started driving.

  The car ride was somewhat quiet. Surprisingly. We drove until we stopped out our apartment building. It had gotten dark, but the rain hadn't quit yet. Joe and I had made sure to quickly hop out of his cab and quickly run through the rain for what seemed the thousandth time today. And once again, we got inside the building and we were drenched completely head to toe from the rain. We looked at each other and started laughing. We both looked relativity funny at the moment. And with that, Joe and I were running up the stairs to reach my floor. Like children we ran up the multiple flights of steps while laughing loudly. Doing this all the way up to my floor and running up to my door. Giggling as we had ran out of breath and we stared at each other. Just standing that way for a while and staying in silence. Just looking at each other.

  "What I meant by when we don't have to deal with all that bad stuff by ourselves, is that we can do it together," his voice soft but hard. He meant every word he said and would take that to the grave. I looked up at him and he got closer to me. My cheeks and ears heating me up like a stove on high. I felt him reach for my hand and I reached for his back. Keeping my eyes locked on his.

  "I'm okay with that," I replied, my voice soft as can be. I continued looking up at him, mentally laughing at the large height difference between the two of us. He tilted my head up with once again with his index and middle finger. Smiling slightly down at me.  He arched his neck down, his lips getting next to mine. Though he stopped just a few inches short. I could feel his hot breath on my lips. Making me whine slightly.

 "Is it alright if I do this?" though, before he could finish asking, I stood on my toes in order to press myself up to his lips. His lips were chapped but soft. The felt perfect against mine. I wasn't complaining at all. Our lips moved perfectly in sync with each other as he pulled me closer to him.

 We kissed for only a few moments later before we parted for air. I panted slightly along with him. My cheeks and ears feeling hot as the corners of my lips curled upwards. My eyes locked on his. Joe's cheeks were flushed red as he scratched the back of his neck a little awkwardly with a smile growing wide on his face.

  "Well Mr. Leibgott, I have to turn in for the night. Meet in the morning tomorrow?" I asked, my smile never leaving. He nodded, shoving his hands into his jackets pockets.

  "Of course Miss L/N, I'd be more than happy to," a toothy grin displaying onto his facial features. I gave him a soft wink as he went to walk towards the stair cases. He turned to give me one last little smile and two fingered salute before he began walking down the stairs and I turned to open my apartment door. Which I pushed open and walked into. I kicked off my shoes and changed out of my wet clothes and cleaning off my gross makeup. I laid down in bed, my smile not leaving my face once. I was the happiest I have ever been.

  That night, I didn't have any nightmares. No panic attacks. No crying fits. Neither did I the rest of the week. For once the week was peaceful. All from the work of once retired paratrooper. I felt like I was in love. Was I? God, I knew I was. And I didn't care. Joe was who I wanted. My angel in disguise I guess. He was and is more than I ever asked for.

 Life was good for once.

[ofmarcos]

( shawn mendes, cismale, he/him ) i just saw MARCO SPIEGELMAN walking down the street’s of provincetown the other day playing 100 BAD DAYS BY AJR out loud. rumor has it that the TWENTY TWO year old is WARMHEARTED, but can also be UNNECESSARILY OVERWROUGHT — overall they’re a POLYMATH. they remind me of A WORN GUITAR NECK WITH OLD STRINGS, COMING HOME THREE MINUTES BEFORE CURFEW, A CRACKLING WOODFIRE, AND FRESHLY BLOWN OUT BIRTHDAY CANDLES. ( ophelia, 19, est, they/she )

hello guys, gals, and non-binary pals, my name is ophelia and it’s lovely to meet u all!! i am nineteen, living in florida, work at an escape game, and my t key on my laptop gets stuck so um if u ever see me leave a t out of a word that’s why. also, fun fact!! i’m originally from a small town in ma about a two hour drive from provincetown :O but enough about me !! this is marco, he’s an actual meme, and you can read all about him under the cut. like this and i’ll come slide into ur dms for plots. <3

(also this got way longer than anticipated, i’m sorry, pls love me)

PINTEREST.

tw: cancer, death, car crash, addiction

marco joshua spiegelman was born on an overcast august day in the city of boston, massachusetts. he was the fourth child and the youngest by seven years, meaning that in some way, he was his parents’ last hope.

the spiegelman family practiced orthodox judaism – his dad was raised orthodox and his mom converted from reform judaism in order to marry his dad– so marco’s childhood was very much focused on religion. the spiegelman family went to services every friday night, celebrated every holiday, forced marco to wake up early on sundays to go to hebrew school, and treated him they same as they had treated his older siblings. however, as his siblings grew up and moved out, they all stopped devoutly practicing judaism and moved into a more modern and laid back interpretation of their religion. marco craved this from a young age, but because he was stuck at home with his parents, he was forced to follow their rules and beliefs.

marco went to jewish private school for elementary and middle school, had his bar mitzvah in the seventh grade, and tried to blend in as best as he could. he liked history and english, eager to learn more about the past and help shape the future. at this point in his life, he had his goal of becoming a politician pretty much set. he would help the end the fighting in israel, solve world hunger, and just be an all around awesome guy.

however, his plans shifted on valentine’s day his eighth grade year. after coming home from school, his parents sat him down and told him that his dad had stage four exocrine pancreatic cancer. he knew that his dad had been losing weight and not eating as much recently, as well as complained all the time that his back hurt, but marco didn’t realize that it was something so terrible and life threatening.

with a survival rate of about one percent, the spiegelman family knew that his dad’s chances of survival were not good. the next few months were difficult, his dad went through lots of chemotherapy and experimental trials, but nothing seemed to be working, and he passed away before june. this crushed marco and his mom; his dad was a kind, gentle, and loving person, and the three of them had grown extremely close with each other due to marco being the youngest and the only child still living in the house.

it was hard for the two of them to live by themselves in a town that his mom didn’t really have any connection to, so a few months after his dad’s passing, marco and his mom moved to provincetown, the place where she had grown up, to try and start fresh. their new beginning came coupled with the loss of their connection to their religion, and marco and his mom no longer practiced judaism

freshman year in a brand new town was intimidating for marco, and this resulted in him being extremely quiet and shy for the majority of the year. however, his history teacher saw how invested in history and current events he was and convinced marco to join the debate team. this is where he found his voice once again.

marco did a type of debate called public policy debate, a style of debate where you talk extremely fast and have to do an insane amount of research to ensure that you know what you’re talking about. in order to participate in that style of debate, his teacher assigned him a partner and he grew extremely close to her very quickly. the two of them went on to win the national title their sophomore and junior years

after joining debate, marco grew more confident in himself and began to talk more both in and out of class. being good at something gave him the boost he needed to no longer be shy, and he was well liked by most people at school. this was also when he found the snackpack, and he has always been grateful for their presence in his life.  marco’s sophomore and junior years were quite possibly the best years of his life.

however, right before the trophy ceremony his junior year, he got a call from his mom, telling him that his sister had gotten in to a car crash and that she was in a coma in a hospital in san francisco. marco flew to san fran immediately after receiving the call, leaving his partner to collect the trophy on his behalf.

for the following two weeks, marco rarely left the hospital for fear that his sister would pass away without him there. although the two of them were not that close, losing another family member was something that marco could not imagine. on the fifteenth day of her being in the hospital, the doctors said that there was nothing they could do to save his sister. so they harvested her organs as donations, and the spiegelmans were forced to put another member of their family into the ground.

senior year came around and marco was a changed person. he was not as passionate or confident as he used to be, he quit debate, and he focused on judaism again to try and give his life some meaning. however, he explored the type of judaism his sister was into, reform judaism, based more on learning and exploring the ideas of religion than sitting in a sanctuary and praying.

although he skipped school often and had mediocre grades, he managed to graduate, his dreams seeming unimportant and his life in shambles. throughout this, he still managed to keep a positive attitude, now convinced that god had a plan for him and that everything would work out fine. he does have really bad anxiety tho, so it’s this classic combination of trying to have faith in the way things work out but never really being sure that they will

without his debate professor, he wouldn’t have even gotten into college, but with the help of someone making sure he followed through, he got into u mass amherst to study sustainable food & farming. this seemed like a out of the blue choice, but it combined marco’s love of research & science, and allowed him to feel like he could have a greater impact on the world than he could as a politician. 

college went by without incident, but here are some highlights (joined hillel and loved being w/ other jews, was a nerd, did nerd things **including a lot of acid, lived his best life)

he just graduated and is home for the summer, he has a job working for the local farmers’ market, and is just chillin’, trying not to think about the other shoe that is bound to drop

he’s doing okay, and that’s all he’ll ever answer the question “how are you?” with

headcanons:

marco worked as a waiter at an italian restaurant in high school so that he could have spending money. money was never a problem in his household as his mom is a cardiologist, but he always felt bad asking for money for things, so he made his own money instead

if marco was a crayola crayon, he’d be pine green. the color is a bit darker than most of the other greens in the crayola family, just like marco in his family, but also has a hint of blue in it, hinting at the sadness that lies beneath marco’s outer layer.

marco really loves old school video games. his old nintendo 64 is collecting dust in his closet, and although he rarely has time to play it anymore, he refuses to throw it out. while growing up, video games were his way of connecting to his two older brothers, his older sister always watching on with a disapproving gleam in her eye. whenever the siblings get together, however, they always manage to turn on an old, favorite game of theirs, and the competition is always heated

in high school, marco smoked a lot of weed. he would always be seen outside at any high school party, smoking by himself or with a group of other people. however, after graduating, marco switched to cigarettes. he smokes frequently, but will furiously deny being addicted if approached about it

marco plays as waluigi when he plays mario kart/party

marco has a slight boston accent

marco is a night person. he utterly hates getting up early in the morning, but staying up late comes easy and natural to him.

marco recycles religiously. if something is recyclable and you don’t put it into the recycling bin, he’ll lose a bit of respect for you as a person

marco absolutely loves space and the universe and stargazing (part of his appreciation for nighttime), but he also wholeheartedly believes that aliens are real, no doubt about it.

wanted connections

his debate partner from high school 

romantic connections (male or female or nb!!)

exes w/ lingering feelings

exes who ended on good terms

the person who took his virginity l m a o

that person that he’s been pining after since freshman year in high school who he just wants to get w/ but has convinced himself he cannot

neighbors when they were growing up

current roommate

that friend that u always compete with and like ur friends w/ them still, u are, but also u always want to brag about how great ur doing

someone who confides in him who he rarely confides back to

u KNOW they probably made a band in high school

people he went to college with

anything ur heart desires!!

[littleredroseonthevalley]

Dejame

Summary: Wildest Dreams sequel. In the wake of Nathan’s wedding, Emily decided to pick up and leave the city. So many miles away, at a bar on a border town, will she find someone new?

Rating: M -  Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Notes: Here we are. Two-hundred followers, which is 199 more than I originally expected. Thanks to all of you, and a special thanks to @wickedgypsymoon, who joined the rank as my two-hundredth. Thank you!

Let’s get to business, shall we?

The inspiration for this fanfic is Dejame, from the Argentinean pop band Miranda! Yes, they style themselves with the exclamation. As this is a Latin American song, I placed a few references to the continent, and Argentina in particular, throughout the story. So, yeah, that’s where those are from.

Without further ado, enjoy.

It was sometime around three in the morning, in some lonely highway, right on the state line between New Hampshire and Maine. From the side of the road, it was possible to see the summer moon reflected on the calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

Emily was deadbeat tired, driving non-stop ever since she crossed the Martha’s Vineyard ferry. Her initial intent was to return to her shitty apartment in Boston, but when she got to the injunction, she just drove past, kept going north.

Finally, she reached Portsmouth, NH and ran out of gasoline. As the nearest station she could find already closed for the night, she decided to go over to a small pub that seemed to be open and running, still.

As she crosses into the threshold, she notices why: there was an ocean of men in navy blue Air Force suits, merrily shouting and singing drunken songs with long neck bottles of beer.

The thought of it being a private event did cross the redhead’s mind, but she dismissed it. She was much too tired, and depressed, to leave without even trying to argue a case favourable for her getting something to drink.

So the still-finely-dressed woman slithered her way through the heavy mountains of muscles that passed as soldiers, mostly inconspicuously. Reaching the bar, she raises a finger and the barman slugs tiredly over to her.

“A Bud, if you still have one.” She asks.

The middle-aged man bends down, places a bottle in front of her, and says, rather snotty: “There you go.”

“Thanks.” The woman gives him a weak smile, out of sympathy. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s the air base in town.” He says, gruff. “They’re going out on summer leave and come here for a last hurrah before heading home. Last call’s been hours ago and there’s nothing that gets them outta here! Anyways, if you need anything else, just call.”

“Thanks.” She smiles once more. “I’m sorry for all the rowdiness.”

He gives her an acknowledging nod and walks over to yet another customer demanding booze.

The clock goes on, while she admires the little bubbles and the cold fog on the muddy-coloured glass of the bottle. She does not know how long it been, until such time a man slides on the stool next to her.

“Hello.” He greets, amicably. He was tall and blond, as muscular as any of the men in the perimeter are, but with a naiveté of sorts on his light blue eyes, something that screamed boy-next-door.

“Hey.” She greets back.

“You’re not from around here.” He stated, clearly not meaning it as a question.

She smirks slightly with the question, amused. “What gave it away? The accent? The dress? Those stupid clasps on my head?”

He shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. Just that you’re kinda crashing our party, and the locals try to avoid the military people.”

The woman could not help but laugh softly. “Coulda fooled me. But, anyways, I’m from Michigan, originally, but I live in Boston these days.”

“The Great Mitten!” He exclaims, well humoured. “Detroit?”

“Grand Rapids.” She corrects, and then asks, “Yourself?”

“Not a local, either, but I’m closer to home than you.” His grin shines on the dim lighting of the bar. “I’m from Cherryfield, Maine. A stone throw from Canada.”

“Cool.” She responds, not really knowing what to say. “You got anyone waiting for you over there?”

“You mean, like a girlfriend or something?” The blond asks, capisciously. “No, I’m a single man. Though, my mom’s still up there. I’m going over there to see her in the morning.”

“And your dad? Out of the picture?” She asks, bluntly.

The man did not seem to mind. “Yeah. He walked on us when I was little. And how about you? What’s waiting for you in Michigan?”

“A mother, and a bunch of busybody aunts and their harlot daughters.” She responds with a grimace. “I also don’t have a dad, though mine died when I was little.”

“Only child?” He follows up.

She nods. “Yup. You?”

“Two siblings.” He responds, with some wear. “AJ’s at San Francisco. She’s a freelance visual novel artist. And there’s Kyle. He’s a surfer.”

“Aren’t you guys from Maine?” The redhead asks, legitimately confused how a surfer could rail from such a chilly place.

“He moved to Hawaii for college.” It was the simple answer. Trying, and failing, to disguise his discomfort, the man asks: “I’ve just realized we never introduced ourselves.”

“Then by all means.” She extended him her hand. “I’m Emily Harper.”

“I’m Christopher Powell, but you can call me Chris.” He took her hand in his much larger one. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise.” She checked the sleeves of his shirt and salutes him slop and mockingly. “Captain Powell.”

“At ease, Cadet Harper.” He responds, in equal humour. “So, what brings you to New Hampshire?”

“Aw, man.” Emily says, self-depreciating. “How long do you have?”

The dirty-blond-haired man looked at his watch. “My bus leaves at five, so I’d say about one hour and a half.”

“Let’s hope it’s time enough, right?” She winked and threw him a smirk.

He chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.” The woman says, in all seriousness. “Well, it all began last New Year’s…”

And so, Emily told Chris everything that had happened between her fateful encounter with Nathan Sterling to her crashing his wedding earlier that night. The man listened patiently to her tale, making appropriate interruptions for comments and elucidations.

“Now I’m not sure what exactly I want to do with my life. I’m pretty sure I don’t have a job anymore. I don’t want to go back to Boston, never liked it, really, but I’m on the fence about Michigan, too. Perhaps I need somewhere new, to start fresh, you know?” She finishes the tale. Checking the clock, she cheerily says, “Looks like I wasted exactly one hour and fifteen minutes of your life.”

“I had fun.” He says, earnest. “Deployed life doesn’t allow for good conversation, and you’re a good storyteller. I’m hung up on every word.”

The redhead laughs, self-conscious. “Don’t flatter me.”

He raised his arms in rendition. “I’m telling the truth. In fact, I want to make you a deal.”

“Hm?” The woman nods for him to proceed.

“Cherryfield isn’t far. It’s a few hours on the U.S. 1. Why don’t you take me there on your car? I’ll pay for your gas, and you get to be somewhere you’ve never been before. If, by the time we arrive, you decide to go back to Boston or to Michigan, I’ll help you out, too.”

She let out a wide grin. “Let’s do it.”

It was a fair weather day in Maine. The sun shone, and people could walk the sinuous and forested streets of Cherryfield with sleeveless tops and open shoes, and most preferred such, so they would soak in the rare sunlight that shone on that part of the world.

Emily sat alone with a book on her lap on the lonely red brick house that served as that little New English town’s library.

Ever since the last librarian’s retirement, some six months earlier, the place had been closed. It was an understatement to say the town council had been only too glad to have a Northwestern English graduate like Emily to take the job.

The pay was not anything to be proud of, but it came with a small loft and utilities paid. As long as it paid for the food, clothing and a health insurance, it was more than good enough.

That afternoon had been quiet, as usual. The only visitors she had up so far was a couple of schoolchildren looking for help on their summer assignments and a lady after her book club’s weekly title.

It left her plenty of time for leisure reading, cleaning and organizing the dusty shelves of the library and, most importantly, for her poetry writing. It was the greatest progress she made ever since moving to Boston, and certainly her new material was of a higher quality than whatever she had written since college.

On that particular part of day, the redhead had put on some music on her phone while she cleaned and repaired a pair of shelves on the far back of the library, which held several volumes in Maine history, as much so as the books were mostly history themselves.

“Déjame que te comparta, todo que lo siento dentro de mi alma.” She sang along the lyrics when the front door’s bell rung, signalling the arrival of a patron.

It was Chris, and he held a salad bowl neatly wrapped. “Hey, Emily.” He greets with a wide smile. “Nice show you’re having there.”

She smirked. “Glad you like it.”

“What is it, though? Never heard it before.”

A sad smile ran through Emily’s features quickly, before she supresses it and responds: “It’s Argentinian pop music. I grew up on a minority neighbourhood in Grand Rapids.”

“Argentina, huh? That’s nice.” He attacks her from behind, placing his hands on her waist, turning her facing him dead in the eye and dipping her very low, on a quasi-90º angle. “Land of romance. And tango.”

She laughs and slaps his arm. “Let me go, Casanova! Sneakers and t-shirts are hardly tango-appropriate.”

The man lets his ‘dance partner’ stand up straight and, with a wicked turn of lips, says: “Well, I think the one thing we were short of was a rose.”

“Those are usually provided by the gentleman.” The girl makes a slight swirl with her hand on her red hair and then continues, “What brings Captain Powell to my humble establishment?”

He held up the bowl. “I come bearing gifts. I’m starting to think my mom likes you better than me.”

“You brought me into your home.” She shrugs. “You should’ve had thought it through beforehand. It was pretty clear I’d steal your family and murder you from day one.”

“Of course, a grave oversight on my part. Please be kind when chopping my body into pieces before dumping me into the river.”

“I’ll think about it.” She winks. “What’s on the menu?”

“It’s chicken alfredo. She’s been testing that cookbook you got her. I don’t know whether to thank you or damn you.” He taps his still-hard-rock stomach for emphasis.

The woman rolls her clear eyes. “If ya gaining weight, it’s you who is lazing around. Go for a run, for Christ’s sakes! The weather is mighty nice for it.”

“I would, but it’s oh, so boring on my own.” He complains. “Would you like to come with? You didn’t see anything on Maine yet except from the town hall, the library and my house.”

She fishes a piece of chicken and plops it into her mouth before responding: “I thought that was it.”

“Very funny, big city girl.” Chris teases. “Come on, tomorrow morning?”

“Fine, but if you rush ahead on your big, G.I. Joe calves, I am taking away your library card.” She points an accusing finger at him. “And I’ll have a mighty good time slashing it into pieces.”

Chris takes a deep breath, filling his expansive lungs with the clean air of the Northeast. Smiling with the placidity of the taiga forestry, he stops for a moment so he could enjoy the feeling of being home, a feeling yet not made redundant by the two weeks he already spent at Cherryfield.

He was thrown back into what he was presently doing when a strained, woman’s voice called from down the trail.

“Oh, God!” She complains. “How long did you say until we reach the top again?”

“We’re close. It’s just after those trees.” He points to a pair of pines a few steps in front of him. “C’mon, Emily, it’s just a teeny, tiny hill.”

“What does the military feed you?” The woman wonders, rather bitterly. “I can’t. I really can’t! If I take another step, my foot is going to fall off.”

“We’ve walked greater distances over the week.” The blond points out.

Emily huffs. “I remember I whined quite a lot in all of those occasions. Something on the lines of ‘how a man who spends most of his time piloting an aircraft isn’t a fat slob’, perhaps?”

The man chuckles. “Yeah, how could I forget?”

“Go, Chris, go on without me!” She dramatically plops on the overgrowth. “Finish your hike, walk away into the sunset! I’ll be fine here with my calluses for company.”

Chris rolled his eyes and walks over to the girl. He kneels down and says: “Hop on.”

“What?” She shot him a puzzled look.

“Hop on.” He repeats. “We’re so close, I’m not letting you give up now.”

“You can’t carry me!” Her pitch rises in disbelief.

“We’re going to have to see about that, ain’t we?” He grinned, cockily. “I’m not going to drop you. Scout’s honour.”

“Were you a scout?”

“Not really, but I’m on the Air Force. Big-ass jet planes should trump needlework and pinecone arts and crafts, right?”

She looked wearily at him once more, and finally complied wordlessly. Chris smirked and navigated through the last leg of the trail until the forest clears into a small cliff that overlooked Millbridge and Narraguagus Bay.

The late-morning sun shone on the ocean water, reflecting placidly on the dark azure wideness. The small town on the seaside was far from bustling, as it was Sunday, but the stillness made it seem like a model train station underneath a Christmas tree.

Chris places Emily down gently on a rock where she could sit up straight. The Midwestern woman, however, was marvelled with the scenery.

“Chris…” She breathes out. “This is so beautiful! How did you know it was here?”

He shrugs lightly. “This is a small town. When I was a teen, I didn’t have much to do on weekends besides hanging around the town square with the other kids, so I thought I ought to put the time into something productive, so I explored the trails on the woods around here.”

“And you never got lost?” The woman wonders.

“Nah, I had a map, and most trails are marked.” The blond man points to the path downhill. “It’s not much different from walking down a street.”

“What was like? To grow up here, I mean.”

He scoffs in good-nature. “What’s that about now?”

“I just noticed that I’ve told you all about my life back in the Midwest and all the Nathan crap but I don’t know much about your past.” She weighs. “Your mom wouldn’t show me a single embarrassing baby photo!”

“I don’t think she has any.” The man stated, a little unfazed by it all. “As for not telling you anything, I guess I don’t have many interesting stories. I never crashed a wedding, I haven’t dated a People magazine’s eligible bachelorette, nor have I moved across the country to pursue a writing career.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m not interested on what you have to say.” The redhead counters.

Chris sighs. “Fair enough. What would you like to know?”

“Everything.” Emily says, rather excitably. “What was like when you were a child? What do you like to eat? Have you ever been in love? Why have you gone into the military? Have you ever robbed a bank?”

He shook his head. “Nope, never robbed a bank, sorry to disappoint.”

“How sad.” The girl laughs it off.

“As for my childhood, well, my dad was a truck driver. He worked for a shipping company here in Millbridge.” He pointed at the compound, on the other side of town. “He was on the road a lot, so it was mainly my mom and I.”

“What ‘bout your siblings?” She wonders.

“AJ and Kyle are close in age to each other, but I was eight when AJ was born. And, anyways, my dad bailed on us when Kyle was seven months old, so I guess it’s been mom and I for most of it.”

“How old were you when your dad left?” Emily asks, on a low, tactful voice.

“A little over ten.” He responds, grim.

“That’s rough.” She says with a sad smile on her face and a comforting hand on his arm. “My dad died while I was in college and it was hard enough. It must been terrible to lose yours so young.”

“Not really.” The blond says, chilly. “He was just this guy who would stop by once every two months. He was never there. I know this sounds rather terrible, but I didn’t miss him all that much when he was gone.”

The redhead woman smiles kindly at him. “You don’t have to feel sorry about that, you know? If your dad was lousy, then you’re not obliged to miss him. I wish your dad were a good man and that he stayed, but that’s because I wanted for you to have that experience, not that just because the man is your father, he’s any less of a dick.”

Chris gave her a thin, constrained smile in recognition. “Thanks, Emily. Anyways, where were we?”

“You were telling me about your rebellious years.” She shot him a lopsided smirk, full of mirth and wickedness.

The blond scoffed. “I had no such thing. High school and I was more of the dorky wallflower. The basement of the social totem, wallflower.”

“I have trouble believing that.” She states. “In fact, I see three pairs of muscle right about now further my point.”

He snorted. “That’s the work of the military. Well, that and a part-time I took junior year. Up until then, I was thin and scrawny.”

The redhead laughs and throws back her head. “Fine, whatever you say, Mr. Wet Dream.”

“I’m serious!” The Air Force official defended, his pitch a little high due to the stifling laughter that resonated through the otherwise silent forest.

“You also didn’t tell me anything juicy.” A thin, pale finger pokes him on the tip of the nose. “Tell me ‘bout your girlfriends, and make it saucy.”

“I only had one. Sorry to disappoint.” He responded.

“Tell me about her.” The librarian nudges.

He had a nostalgic smile on his face. “Her name was Nicole. She was the head cheerleader and my boss’ granddaughter.”

“The Geek and the Princess?” Emily scoffed. “How MTV-esque.”

“I have to admit it’s kind of a cliché, yeah.” He nods, slightly humoured. “We dated throughout our senior year. Come summer, though, she broke up with me. She was heading to Orono for college and I was to stay in Cherryfield, I was no football star or super genius to have a scholarship and I couldn’t afford tuition.

“She said college would be a new experience for her and she didn’t want to string me along.” He could not contain a pained grimace. “I know, though, that the truth is that she didn’t want to be with someone who was going nowhere in life. The following week, I enlisted on the Air Force, and that’s that.”

“What. A bitch.” Emily deadpanned. “Where’s her now? Please tell me she flunked out and has to flip burgers for a living.”

Chris shook his head. “Nothing like that. She met a guy from Presque Isle freshman year, really nice sort. Last I heard, they’re engaged to be married.”

“Twenty dollars say he’s gay.” Her eyes glinted on nastiness. “Nicole’s a beard, I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t even know the guy.” He points out.

She shrugs. “Don’t need to. If he’s willing to swear in front of the community, a minister and God to spend forever and then some with Nicole, either he’s retarded or gay.”

“Whatever you say.” He smirks at her. “Anyways, I’m starving. What you packed for lunch?”

“Oh, right! Pass me my backpack.” She said and the man complied. “Straight from Latin America, another devious concoction of mine to make you fat. Tres Leches cake!”

Emily stood in the middle of Augusta bus station with a tickle on the side of her clear right eye, the spot where a tear threatened to form and spill through her cheek.

The place was busy and loud, an expected scene on a summer Sunday, as people leave the vacationing bliss of Maine for their own grey, stressful lives in the south.

“Thanks again for driving me here, Emily.” Chris said, with the pitiful attempt of a cheerful smile. It ended up looking more like a grimace.

“No problem. I wanted to say goodbye here rather than back in Cherryfield.” She rubs her eye softly.

After a rather long leave, some twenty-something days, Chris was summoned again at the base in New Hampshire, and Emily drove him to Augusta, where the military had set up a bus, serving the enlisted from northern Maine. Having finished his pilot training the month before, he was to be sent into combat.

After a rather long moment of silence, Emily says: “God, I hate those things.”

“Goodbyes?” He asks, kindly.

She nods. “And geopolitics.”

“Geopolitics?” He asks, confused.

The young woman shrugs. “What I’m blaming over the fact you’re going to war.”

The blond chuckled softly. “I’m not going to war. I’m shuffling soldiers between Ramstein and Bagram. I won’t be seeing much action, it’s more like a very exclusive airline.”

The woman huffs. “Well, excuse me for worrying about you. I promise you it won’t happen again.”

Chris let out a vociferous laughter. “Don’t be offended. I’m even a little flattered with your concern, but don’t waste energy on it. I’m going to be fine.”

The young redhead cannot help herself but to let out a sigh. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He smiled confidently. “So much so, I’m willing to give you a keepsake, so that I’ll have to come back to get it.”

“Are we really going to do that? Because if you die anyway, I’m throwing whatever you give me in the river out of spite.” She nudges an accusing finger on his toned, stone-hard chest.

The blond smiles. “Yes, we are doing it, and please cooperate. You’re ruining the mood.”

He takes a step towards the young woman, places a calloused finger softly under her chin, and bobs her head upwards. With the shiny green on his eyes peering deep into hers, he closes the distance between their faces and gives her one of those toe-twirling kisses you see at the end of a romantic comedy movie.

However, it is fair to say, it was not the end of a movie. They usually end at a rekindling of a relationship, a meeting on a busy airport or at a ‘Happily Ever After’-kind of wedding.

This was nothing of that.

Much the opposite. This was a separation, and that tone peered from the edges of that kiss. Which, despite being very much pleasurable for both parties involved, lost a nickel of its glamour, its momentum.

Nevertheless, the two of them broke apart breathless. Chris seized the silent moment of his companion and says: “Emily, being with you this last month was one of the best times of my life. You make me feel like I could do anything, like I mattered more than anybody else in the world. I love that feeling, I love being with you, and I could very well see myself falling in love with you in the future.”

At a first moment, Emily’s lips were pressed together on a thin line of incredulity and appraisal. As he went on, it gradually dissolved into a smile, and finally, on a scandalous laughter.

It wasn’t the reaction Chris expected, and his face turned into a grimace. Then, the young woman pressed her hands on each side of his face and kissed him sloppily.

“Oh, God, that was so cheesy! I loved it!” She said and kissed him again. “I can see myself loving you in the future, too.”

He chuckled. “Good. But don’t laugh next time I tell you I like you. It’s not much of an ego boost.”

She smirked. “Duly noted, sweetheart.”

Afterwards, the joyful mood dissolved back into melancholy when Emily hugged the man’s broad frame as tight her puny arms could hold him.

“I’m going to miss you.” She whispered against his chest.

“I’m going to miss you, too.” He whispered back.

With that, they break apart and Chris walks over to his bus. As he boarded, he takes a last look behind and there she was, red hair and short stature, looking teary-eyed at his retreating frame.

She waves at him, which he responded with a small, rather depressive show of hands.

He will come back, of that much he was certain. What was still left to be undecided was how much it would pain him until he does.

The snow fell softly yet constantly over the small town of Cherryfield, Maine, forming a thick white carpet over the land and the houses.

It was Christmas night. Late enough for most children to be asleep, dreaming about the visit of Santa Claus, while parents spread the gifts under the tree and gorged on cookies and milk.

On a red brick house, near the school and the town hall, Emily sat alone, nursing a cup of hot cocoa. She gazed through the window, admiring the falling of snow from the sky.

She peered at her open laptop on her bed. She wanted to check and see if Chris had sent her something that night.

The two of them had been communicating via e-mail, mainly, ever since he was deployed overseas. But as of late, their exchange was spotty at best. The last message she received was about a week ago and it concerned her. She knew internet connection in Afghanistan was hardly worth mentioning, but the man had said that he would send word whenever he was in Germany.

That must not have been happening often as of late, must it?

She sighed one last time and reached for the computer to turn it off. There was nothing new in there, and it was depressing enough to spend Christmas alone, on the internet was sticking a little too far.

Her puny salary, even lower than what she made at the shipping company, was not enough for a plane ticket to Michigan. Some families in town had invited her to spend the night with them, but she did not want to impose on family time. She could pick on the leftovers in the morning.

As for Barbara Powell, her none-the-wiser mother-in-law, she went on a cross-country trip to San Francisco to see AJ and Kyle, last Emily heard.

She did not talk often with the older woman, funny enough. Mrs. Powell hardly ever came by the library, and Emily never seemed to find the woman at home when she swung by.

The redhead finished her tea and was about to cover herself for the night when she hears a loud banging noise coming from downstairs.

Cherryfield was as tranquil as one can expect from such a town, but Emily was from a rather rough neighbourhood in Grand Rapids and was wary of urban violence. A stint in Roxbury did not help, either. Not to mention, for a girl alone at night, any loud noise was enough to throw reason out the window.

She picked up a curtain rod she swore she would be putting up for weeks now and starts making her way downstairs, careful not to make any sound. Skipping the creaking last step, she sees him.

A large, dark figure was by the wide-open backdoor. He had a considerable amount of melting snow pooled on the floor by his boots and was fumbling with the door, having his back against Emily.

Thinking it to be her chance, she runs forward to hit him with the rod, all in the while shouting, “GET OUT OF HERE, YOU PERVERT!”

“What the hell!” He winces in pain, trying to protect the injured ear with one hand while turning on the lights using the other.

Emily drops the rod. “Oh my God, Chris! What are you doing?!”

“Trying to make a romantic surprise, that’s what!” He complains, between groans of pain. “Why did you hit me with a stick?”

“I thought you were a burglar or something!” She shouts back, still high on the adrenaline.

“What kind of person tries to rob a library, Emily?!”

“I don’t know! I panicked, I’m sorry!” She walks over him and checks his wound by moving his hand away from his ear. “Does it hurt?”

“Not so much.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, I should have known better. Looking back, it does sound pretty stupid to break into a single girl’s apartment.”

She smiled, in spite of the situation. “But I’m not single.”

“You’re not?” The blond’s voice raises a pitch.

“Nope.” The girl shook her head emphatically. “I have a very handsome, very kind boyfriend who’s kinda slow sometimes, but I’m very glad to see him, nonetheless.”

Chris grinned, wide enough for one to wonder if his face was going to crack. “Well, I’m pretty sure he’s very happy to see you, too.”

“Good.” Emily kissed his cheek. “Now let’s get you to bed, you feel too cold.”

He swept her off her feet. “Lead the way.”

Taglist: @alicars; @boneandfur; @choicesfannatalie; @emerald-bijou; @kennaxval; @liam-rhys; @liamxs-world; @lizeboredom; @mfackenthal; @mrsdrakewalkerblog; @radiantrosemary; @topsyturvy-dream

[hometophil-archive]

Call Me By Your (Screen) Name

Chapter One: The Arrival

AO3 Link

Rating: teen

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: slight internalized homophobia

Summary: 18 year old Dan is used to interns coming every summer to live with him and his family to work for his Dad, a famous movie producer. But this year, the intern particularly piques Dan’s interest, though he isn’t quite sure why. (Based on Call Me By Your Name).

A/N: hey guys, I’ve had this idea for literally forever but have just now decided to write it. Disclaimer: I know CMBYN doesn’t sit right with everyone due to the age of the characters and the nature of their relationship possibly reinforcing negative stereotypes. I for one do not vibe with pedophilia in any form, so I changed the ages to be legal. If anyone has any complaints or suggestions please message me on tumblr @/geminiphan. Love always, Lucy.

“I can’t believe you have to give your room up to some random guy,” Dan heard Sarah chime in from the bed as he was packing all his clothes to move one room over. “I mean, you’re eighteen now, your parents can’t really force you to do anything.”

“I really don’t mind... Well no, scratch that, I do mind I’m just used to it by now.” Dan said with a forced smile. Every summer for six weeks he gives up his room to some bright-eyed intern who’s just overjoyed to be in the big city with a man like David Howell. Hopefully this year’s pick will be more interesting than the last. Ginger was sweet and all, but she wouldn’t stop hitting on his dad, an image Dan could never get out of his head.

“You could always stay with me at night whenever you want.” Sarah said with a smirk. Dan raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t like her to be so upfrontly sexual, but it didn’t particularly bother Dan. Before he had the chance to respond, a car rolled into the driveway of the Howell’s house. 

Bidding a quick farewell to Sarah, Dan ran down the stairs as his Mom called out for him. Even though he had the full intention of acting normal, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the new intern. He was absolutely breathtaking. Not in a beautiful way, because Dan didn’t feel that way about men. No, he was just striking, in every aspect of the word. His raven black hair, almost obviously dyed, was perched up in a quiff on the top of his head. He was pale, almost translucent, and had the bluest eyes Dan had ever seen. For some reason, Dan couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

“Er, hello there mate, you must be Dan,” The intern stretched his hand out to shake Dan’s hand but Dan felt like he couldn’t move. “I’m Phil Lester.” The intern– Phil– spoke with a british accent, but not the classic posh vernacular. The way he spoke was more casual, what Dan supposed was the redneck accent of England. When he realized it had been almost a full minute of Phil standing with his hand outstretched, Dan awoke from his paralysis.

“Yep, that’s me. Come on, I’ll show you where to put your things.” Dan started up the stairs and let Phil follow him through the excessively modern house. When he opened the door to his bedroom, Phil immediately put his stuff down and hopped into the bed with a satisfied moan. “Wow you must have had a long day of travel.” He heard a muffled agreement coming from the pillow. “So this used to be my room, but you’ll use it while you’re here and I’ll be in the next room over. We’ll have to share a bathroom though, sorry about that.” Dan opened the bathroom door. “Say, where are you from?”

When he was greeted with no response, he looked over at Phil and saw that he was already fast asleep. Dan rolled his eyes and walked down the stairs. This could be a long six weeks. When he sat down at the table with his family, his mom gave him a knowing look. “Honey, I know it’s hard to give up your room for a whole summer, especially to someone you’ve never met before.”

“It’s fine mom, nothing I’m not used to.” Dan shrugged off his mother’s comments and fixed his gaze on the meal. “Oh, and Phil won’t be joining us for dinner, he just passed out.” After his parents gave satisfied nods, the conversation turned to Dan’s music, much to Dan’s dismay. 

“So, have you been working on anything new?” His father asked. The question was innocent enough, but there was a harsh edge to it. 

“Uh, yeah. I’m actually working on a trap remix of Mozart’s Lacrimosa. It sounds weird but it’s actually pretty cool so far.” Dan whipped out his laptop and started playing the beginning of the classical piece. However, once the choir came together, a beat dropped, the perfect merge between modern and ancient music. Dan looked up at his father, hoping for a flash of pride, but all he got was a wrinkled nose and a critical sneer.

 “That was incredible.” Dan turned his head to see Phil, standing in the kitchen, looking as if he had just woken up. “Sorry, I’m just grabbing a glass of water. Dan, seriously, that’s amazing. Do you do any original songs?” Dan opened his mouth to respond but his father beat him to the punch.

“Well Phil, as you know, to compose music takes actual talent.” Phil blinked, unaware of what to say. What neither of them knew, however, was that Dan did compose. As much as he loved to compose music, he felt immense pressure from his father to “make it big” but he also wanted to get there on his own merit. He would rather stick to mixing than disappoint his father. 

The conversation turned to politics, and Phil politely excused himself back to bed. As the sun set and the clock passed 8pm, Dan decided it was time to retreat to his room.

Laying in bed, watching the clock tick by, Dan couldn’t keep his mind off of the young man sleeping in the next room over. The walls were so thin that he could hear Phil’s heavy breathing and the occasional shuffle of sheets. Phil was like no one Dan had ever met. He was weird, funny, and extremely good looking. Fuck, Dan was utterly obsessed with this guy he had just met. 

“Step one of getting over a crush is acknowledging it exists,” Dan thought to himself. The fact that this crush was on a boy opened a whole new can of worms that Dan didn’t even want to think about. He wasn’t gay, not in the slightest. He was dating Sarah for christ’s sake, and he definitely got turned on by her. So why was he getting hard imagining the shirtless man in his bed next door?

He unzipped his jeans and started to palm his dick until he realized what exactly he was doing. He promptly put it away and prayed for the blood to start circulating back to his brain. He was not going to jerk off to the thought of another guy, it was just wrong. “This is just a phase,” Dan thought. “I just need to sleep it off and pretend it never happened.” Still, as he tossed and turned, he could stop picturing Phil’s face, tired and slightly droopy, but as enthusiastic as any of Dan’s father’s other interns who were coming from San Francisco.

“This summer is going to be fun.” Was the last thought Dan had before drifting off to sleep, only to dream of the striking man he met that day

[acsversace-news]

Rating: 9.3 Darren Criss: 10 Writing: 10 Direction: 8

American Crime Story Season 2 boasts a star-making performance from Darren Criss.

American Crime Story could be titled American Dream Story. The country’s national myth, dating back more or less to the Declaration of Independence, is a paean to individualism in a fiercely competitive world, to equality of opportunity, that living well is theoretically available to all. Today, the American Dream is really about the pursuit of celebrity, notoriety, money, sex and power.

In both seasons to date, exploring the OJ Simpson trial and Andrew Cunanan’s killing spree, Ryan Murphy’s series gives us the American Dream turned to ashes. OJ Simpson’s entitlement became warped by accruement of wealth and fame. Cunanan’s was instilled in him almost from birth, his existence of lies constructed around make-believe riches, and fame is very much what he wanted. While tackling different themes – Season 1 is about race and Season 2 is focused on homophobia – both American Crime Story entries to date dovetail perfectly, because each represent specific 1990s real-crime sensations that changed the country’s approach to sensationalist, rolling content, the very type Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers (1994) keenly satirised. OJ Simpson’s trial cynically piggybacked on discussions about race relations in Los Angeles and social justice in America, while Cunanan’s crimes shone on a light on homophobic attitudes in society at all levels. The stories are national tragedies atop personal tragedies, reflecting uncomfortable facts and provoking soul-searching questions, yet simultaneously feeding our demand for juicy stories with monstrous men at the fore.

Class has emerged as a major ingredient in American Crime Story, too. From the projects of San Francisco, Simpson journeyed to the refined world of Brentwood, LA. He earned his way to the top by being genuinely gifted as an athlete, becoming a star and personality off the back of his footballing achievements. Behind the sunny persona and bonhomie, however, Simpson (aka. The Juice) was a man crippled by jealousies and slights, both real and imagined. He was a guy who thought he was so unique, so different, he had transcended his African-American roots. He once exclaimed in all seriousness: “I’m not black, I’m OJ.”

As counterpoint to Simpson’s rags-to-riches tale, Andrew Cunanan went to a private school, lived well enough, until his father’s fraudulent career as a conman was exposed, and his special talent was for BS. Handsome, funny, well read, Cunanan turned into a pathological liar. Even when people knew he was talking crap, he did it in such charming fashion, so amusingly, friends forgave him or brushed it off as just one of his quirky insecurities. All the while, Cunanan was edging further and further towards murderous schemes. Cunanan, as depicted in The Assassination of Gianni Versace, is F. Scott Fitzgerald’s great pretender, Jay Gatsby, crossed with American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman. He’s like a great white shark prowling San Diego and San Francisco, posing as a harmless Nemo. He dreamed of living in the lap of luxury, but he didn’t want to work for it. Fortitude and hard graft were alien to him. Cunanan’s life disappointments eventually manifested as an obsessive fixation on Italian fashion designer Gianni Versace, who journeyed from relatively humble origins in a dirt-poor region of Italy (Calabria) to international superstardom.

Season 2 is a more intimate and experimentally plotted affair than its predecessor. American Crime Story creator Ryan Murphy and collaborator Tom Rob Smith used Maureen Orth’s investigative non-fiction book, Vulgar Favours (1998), as the text off which to springboard. Across nine episodes, we get Versace and Cunanan’s life stories played out on screen. But, like in an experimental film, it is plotted unexpectedly. There has been criticism of the show’s narrative structuring (chiefly: the plot is unnecessarily convoluted), yet it moves well and demonstrates how daring television is becoming, how it can borrow from cinema and literature to tell a captivating story out of chronological order and do so with fine results.

At the heart of The Assassination of Gianni Versace is a triumphant performance by Darren Criss. In snobbier times, critics might well have declared it ‘too good for television’, but in a veritable golden age of small screen entertainment, any such critique is a bust. As Cunanan, Criss delivers a magnetic and layered portrait of a psychopath far away from dog-tired movie clichés. Cunanan was a mercurial personality, jocular and kind or a moody, preening, spoilt brat at the flip of a mental switch. He breathlessly lied and stuck steadfastly to his made-up nonsense, as if by force of will he could change reality and manifest his fibs into being. The genius in the acting comes from Criss’s ability to make ‘Andy’ not only likeable, but in making us feel sympathy for a devil. It shouldn’t be transgressive to acknowledge monsters can love; it’s just they love monstrously, selfishly and destructively. The final couple of episodes are especially heart-wrenching. What Criss does so well is craft a performance based on a very complicated person and allows such complexity full rein before our eyes. The effect is astonishing.

Criss dominates proceedings so totally that it’s easy forget the cast includes Édgar Ramirez as Gianni Versace and Penelope Cruz as Donatella Versace. The script poignantly documents two people almost aloof from everyday reality, as well as a brother-and-sister dynamic made of love and fiery rivalry, of two artists sometimes forgetting they’re related, because the empire they’ve built is much bigger than either of them. Donatella emerged from under her brother’s shadow in the worst circumstances, and their interactions are peppered with a sense of competitiveness, the older brother telling his little sister to up her game, stop thinking so commercially and take more chances artistically. It doesn’t matter Cruz and Ramirez are Spanish-accented actors playing Calabrese, especially when the former gets Donatella’s distinct mumble down to a T. Presenting the pair as virtual demigods among mere mortals cleverly taps into our febrile celebrity culture and Cunanan’s own obsession with Gianni Versace and a world dripping with gaudy riches. Ramirez has the aura of a doomed saint, while Cruz’s Donatella is granite-hard, refusing to appear vulnerable, although she’s deeply wounded by her brother’s murder.

One of Season 2’s most powerful aspects is the examination of institutional homophobia (in police departments, the FBI, the media and the military). The Matt Bomer-directed episode (Ep 5 – Don’t Ask Don’t Tell) is set against the backdrop of the US army’s policy to portray the hideous experiences of Jeff Trail (Finn Wittrock), a former navy officer and one of Cunanan’s victims. But it’s also embedded in little scenes – a cop’s embarrassment of questioning Versace’s partner, Antonio (played by Ricky Martin), and clumsily insinuating the fashion designer was murdered because of his lifestyle choices. Another police officer wisecracks to a colleague she got the case to hunt down Cunanan because she’s a lesbian (inferring she can understand gay people). In its presentation of a world lacking all empathy towards the murder victims and their families, while the news coverage feasts on every scrap of info it can dig up, American Crime Story stings with horror and truth.

Both seasons make for essential viewing, with The Assassination of Gianni Versace taking the show into masterpiece territory. John Travolta’s comeback role as Robert Shapiro reminded us all a guy who has spent a decade or so coasting in a range of B-movies still could deliver the goods. Darren Criss, best known as a Glee cast member, presents the shock of the new. His powerhouse performance is unlikely to be forgotten in a hurry.

[wantniallie]

Free Rides

Thanks to Iczel @addictingnarry and Shirley @flickerbyniall , you guys are the very best and your help means everything! Niall goes hitchhiking around America, but as he comes near the end of his trip, he doesn’t have the money for his ticket back home. Luckily there’s a farmer who has a job for him.

P R O L O G U E  The sound of laughter fills the air as Harry steps out of his car on Liam’s driveway. The buzz is already noticeable from outside the house, making Harry smile to himself as he pushes the door of his 1965 white Chevy shut. It squeaks loudly in protest, reminding Harry that he needs to fix it.

As he enters the house, the laughter becomes more clear with each step he takes. He walks through the hallway and follows the sound into the kitchen where his best mates are cracking up about something that’s apparently very funny. He watches them from where he’s leaning in the doorway, savouring the moment before he makes it known that he’s there.

They would have these kinds of nights most days of the week when they were still in high school. Nights filled with laughter, jokes, and stories, Harry remembers them so well, cherishes them deeply. His favourite memories are with these guys. He smiles as his mind goes back to one of those nights. It had been very warm, hot even, Harry remembers. It had been late in the evening, just as the night started to fall. Louis was with Eleanor, Liam with Sophia, and Harry with Nadine, a girl he thought he loved at that time. They were still young back then, must have been around the age of 16. Eleanor had been with Louis for a while already, always a steady, loving relationship for as long as Harry can remember. It was something Harry admired and hoped to have too, one day. Liam and Sophia, on the other hand, were nothing more than a fling just yet. Liam had the biggest crush on Sophia and when she finally had agreed to go out with him, he couldn’t have been happier. So now they were dating for a few weeks, and Liam had asked her to come along to the Lake. It was a place near Harry’s house where they would hang out as much as possible, that summer. “Come on, Liam. You chose dare, now you’ve got to do it.” Liam had stupidly picked a ‘dare’ when Louis asked him for the silly ‘truth or dare’ game they were playing. Liam sighed and gave Harry a pleading look, but there was nothing Harry could do. “Sorry, Li. You chose dare so now you’ve got to do it.” Louis smiled slyly at both of them and rubbed his hands together in anticipation and excitement. “Get on with it, Liam. It’s just a quick dip, in and out. Except naked. No worries, though,” Louis grinned. “I’ll cover Eleanor’s eyes, she won’t peek.” Sophia gave Liam a shy smile, told him not to worry, that he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to. But Harry knew, like Liam, that Louis would never let him live it down. He would never hear the end of it. Not that he would hear the end of it if he did do it, but it would be a better story if he had done it, instead of chickening out. So Harry decided to take one for the team and sighed as he got up. “Okay, Li. I’ll go with you,” he said as he took his shirt off. Liam gave him the biggest and most thankful smile. “You will?” His eyes had widened hopefully as he looked up at Harry. Harry had sighed again but nodded yes anyway. He couldn’t let Liam do this by himself. He knew Liam would be too embarrassed with all the attention on him, especially in front of Sophia. Harry didn’t mind a bit of nudity anyway, so why wouldn’t he join him?

“Hey, that’s not the rule!” Louis complained as he jumped up from where he was sitting on the grass. “You are supposed to go skinny dipping by yourself!”

“Well, Lou,” Harry had said. “You can either stay here shouting at Li or come with us, but I’m going to join Liam.” Louis had given him a bewildered look, almost pouted at Harry. He was sure Louis was just about to start begging him not to join. But to Harry’s surprise, he just grumbled under his breath as he toed his shoes off. “We’re all gonna go, then?” Liam had asked and they all nodded. The boys quickly undressed until they only had their briefs left and walked up to the lake. “Okay,” Louis said. “One, two, three.” They took off their briefs and quickly ran into the water. All three of them naked to their bums. They were shrieking and laughing, and Harry enjoyed the water around him, enjoyed the freedom of being completely naked in the water. He looked over at his two friends with a smile, Louis was pushing a struggling Liam down in the water, who on his turn, tried to splash water in Louis’ face. His gaze turned to the girls at the lakeside who had gotten up and were standing together whispering and giggling at the boys. He looked over the lake while he tried to stay afloat and watched the sun disappear into the water as he heard the shouting of his friends behind him. He remembers that night very well, he had felt completely and utterly happy in that moment. Comfortable in his whole being.

But now they’ve gotten older, and their meetings have gone from being every day to once a week and now it’s only once a month that they can have these types of nights. It’s still one of his favourite moments when he gets to sit down with his friends for some beers, just fucking around. A night where he doesn’t have to think about his business and the work that’s waiting for him the next day. One of those nights where he can forget about everything else and just focus on having fun.

But apart from his friends, there’s another bloke at the table as well. It’s someone he hasn’t met yet. He guesses it's the one that Liam had told him about over the phone. The hitchhiker, what was his name again? Harry thinks to himself. Niall, something like that. His eyes are drawn to the boy as he’s laughing at something one of the other boys must have said. His pink mouth is wide open, showing off all his perfectly lined up teeth and his tongue moves in sync with the sound that comes from the back of his throat. He’s clutching his stomach with one hand while the other is folded into a fist on the table. It’s one of the most free and open laughs Harry has ever seen like the boy doesn’t have a care in the world. And Harry admires him for it.

He clears his throat to make himself known and lifts a hand to greet the boys. He gives Liam and Louis a tight hug before he comes to a stop in front of the bloke, who’s smiling brightly at him. “Hi, I’m Niall,” he says as he extends his hand to Harry.

And once again Harry is stunned by the boy in front of him, but this time it’s his eyes Harry gets lost in. They’re the most beautiful blue eyes, fresh and deep, like the ocean. His eyes have a slight shine to them, a sparkle that makes them look bright and friendly, and the brunette hair atop of his head makes them stand out even more. He soon realises that he’s being rude for not taking Niall’s hand so he quickly catches it in his and introduces himself.

He sits down at the table, across from Niall, as Liam gets a beer for him.  Liam’s happy chattering fills the room as he tells the story of how he and Niall met but Harry is not really listening, his eyes are still on the boy in front of him. Niall is laughing again at something Liam is saying and once again Harry finds himself mesmerised by the sound and the sight in front of him.  

“So, Niall. You’re a hitchhiker?” Harry says, cutting off Liam mid-sentence.

Niall turns to look at him and gives him a bewildered look as he was clearly listening to Liam’s story. Harry’s cheeks burn at the look he’s getting as he realises that he’s being quite rude again. He doesn’t really know what’s happening to him, he’s obviously happy to see his friends, but he feels a bit uncomfortable. He doesn’t know where to look or how to behave, how to be friendly to Niall. He can’t really seem to warm up or open up to the boy in front of him. Maybe it’s that he rarely gets to meet new people anymore. Maybe he’s forgotten how to behave in front of strangers. Harry lives in a small town and everyone knows each other. Even if Harry doesn’t know them they sure know him or his dad or the business. He hardly ever has to introduce himself or explain who he is. And often people are so interested in him or the business that he doesn’t even get the opportunity to ask questions about the person in front of him.

So Harry is a bit thrown off by the stranger in Liam’s kitchen, even though he knew Niall was going to be there and even though he has been nothing but friendly. He clears his throat uncomfortably and apologises to Liam who just waves it away and encourages Niall to tell his story.

The brunette starts to talk hesitantly about the journey that got him here, but soon his enthusiasm takes over and he tells them all kinds of stories about funny or strange experiences he’s had on the way. Harry only hears some parts of the stories, he hears cities come by like San Francisco, Salt Lake City and Nashville but he doesn’t really listen. He still feels a bit uncomfortable and can’t really get past the awkwardness he just felt. He does notice that the boy has a strong, thick accent. The words that form on his lips sound thick and rich, a bit teasingly even. Liam told him Niall is from London, but somehow he doesn’t really seem to recognise it as the posh London accent. Then again, Harry isn’t familiar with English accents, so what does he know, really?

Harry soon realises that he’s spacing out and once again behaving quite indecent so he turns his attention back to the boy, who’s animatedly talking, coming to the end of his story. He starts listening just in time to hear the story of how Niall ended up in West Palm Beach and how lucky he feels to have met Liam.

As the story ends, Niall turns his attention towards Harry, stealing glances at him. “And what’s your story?” He asks expectedly as he gives Harry a curious look.

Harry doesn’t know where to look, avoids the boy’s eyes because he doesn’t know what to tell the brunette. He doesn’t have those kinds of stories to share so he rubs the back of his neck while he softly murmurs out, “Ehh, I own a farm?”

[bluesakura007]

What She Had to Do - Chapter 4: Woman to Woman - Khan Noonien Singh x OC

Summary: This is a flashback chapter, where about a year and a half prior to the rest of this story - four months after Undeniable’s alternate sad ending - another of Zinalya’s comfort booze bouts has left her staggering around and looking like one of the living dead one night, until a certain science officer comes to her aid.

Warnings: Some angst and alcohol abuse, but other than that it’s friendly comfort. And this is NOT a femslash between Zinalya and Carol, it’s purely platonic. 

There was a crashing noise which resounded through the air nearby as a bottle of beer was accidentally dropped to the ground.

About a year and eight months ago, four months after the incident of the "superman" getting taken away and put into a coma in his cryotube, lieutenant Carol Marcus had just exited out of the San Francisco nightclub she’d spent the last hour or so in and was about to walk across the pavement she was now standing on outside, so as to begin the journey on foot back to her own apartment a few blocks away when she suddenly heard this sound. 

It was a high-pitched crash to be specific, so this was a giveaway to her that the dropped item was a booze bottle or something else made of glass, and the fact that it sounded like it was rather close by made her turn her head to the right to get a look at the source of the noise.

It was none other than Zinalya, leaning up against a drainpipe to her left which was mounted onto one of the club’s exterior walls and shaking slightly in silent laughter at her having dropped this half-empty bottle of beer. Her left hand, presumably the one that had been holding this bottle, was empty, but her right one was clutching another identical bottle, also partially empty.

"Oh hi!~" She greeted Carol upon noticing her presence ten feet away when she looked up from the shattered remains of the bottle that had fallen from her hand. Her smile grew even wider into an inane grin as she gave this greeting.

"Are you alright?" Dr. Marcus asked with her own amicable smile in return, although she already had a feeling about what the answer would be if Zin was sober - the latter appeared to be swaying and staggering somewhat on her feet.

"Yeah, yeah donworry!" Zinalya slurred in reply, her words crashing into each other. The laughter then picked up again, this time being out loud, as she looked back down at the smashed bottle, due to it calling to mind a metaphor: "This one I've still gohere's been left on its own while the other one's gone away - islike it's poetic orsomthing!" She held up the still intact other bottle in her right hand, the one which hadn't fallen.

Carol blinked and looked at her with concern at this comment. She’d heard from Scotty, Chekov and the captain a couple of times before over the last couple of months about Zinalya’s recently-emerged drinking bouts, but she hadn’t seen any of these instances firsthand until now. And even without recalling these mentions, it was still no mystery to her what it was that had brought on said drinking bouts. 

"Are you sure you don’t need any help at all?" The blonde took a few steps closer to the other young woman. "It’s rather late, so do you want me to help you out with getting back home again?" This other one staggering, swaying and laughing like she was served as a pretty clear indication of the fact that it wasn’t going to be entirely safe for her to walk all the way back to her apartment on her own.

"Eh... maybe. Maybe, yeah." The Canadian hybrid admitted feebly.

After that, the next few minutes were the part that she could remember a little bit less clearly: Carol helping to guide her along the moonlit city streets, which were less busy at that moment compared to during the daytime due to the lateness of the hour, with the intoxicated Zinalya herself stopping every so often to steady herself whenever she experienced a moment where she felt especially dizzy to the point where she got an inkling that she might fall on her face.

"My flat's just down this street." Carol told her when they reached one particular neck of the woods. "It's closer to us than yours, so do you want to come in and sleep it off until the morning?" She offered.

"Yeah, thanks." Zinalya gave her another goofy grin.

It was mostly the conversation-oriented parts of that night that she could remember with the most clarity. After this exchange upon reaching Carol's street, she was led by this lieutenant with the shorter-cut hair down this street until they eventually reached the block which housed the latter's flat; with this process still being somewhat of a blur, they went into the building and up the stairs, Carol still leading the way, and then into the flat itself after unlocking it.

"I'll see if I can find a spare duvet for you somewhere." The blonde, after turning on the lights and helping Zin to sit down on the sofa in the living room without falling over, went off into her bedroom to begin this search.

This latter one of the two women, the one with the dark burgundy hair, laid down flat on this sofa, staring up at the ceiling while she waited and feeling like she had hummingbirds zooming around inside her head from place to place. 

She'd put down her beer bottle onto the nearby coffee table a second ago, but it did nothing to stop or even ease the dizziness of her drunken state - she let out a sigh of slight exhaustion and then additionally chuckled to herself quietly out of satire at the fact that she'd brought the drunken dizziness onto herself, evidently along with the need to get back to an indoor place with assistance. She squinted at the sight of one of the ceiling lights above her, feeling the inside of her head beginning to sting when she looked at it.

Her attention was grabbed another few seconds later as she saw, out the corner of her eye, Carol coming back into the room, appearing to now be holding a bedsheet and a cushion, both looking to be as soft as the other. "These were the best spares I could find. I’m sorry I couldn’t get anything better for you."

"No, no, it’s okay, these are just fine. Thanks." Replied Zinalya gratefully, taking this cushion and bedsheet that was handed over to her and putting them respectively underneath her head and on top of her legs. "So what were you doing out this late?"

"I was having some trouble sleeping." Answered the science officer, sitting herself down in front of Zin’s outstretched legs. "I just laid there for hours and nothing seemed to do the trick no matter how much I tried to drift off, so I thought I might as well pass some of the time and go down to a club or a bar."

"Why couldn’t you sleep? Is something up?"

Carol momentarily took a pause. "I was worrying about you. Dr. McCoy and some of the others told me about how they’ve spent this last month trying to help you to try and stop your reliance on alcohol whenever you feel upset about Khan, and I suppose I was also thinking about how you must have been really hit hard by what happened to have that reliance."

Zinalya nodded, before sitting up in an upright position and reaching for the beer bottle still perched next to her on the table with a sigh. "Yeah. I’ve spent these last couple of weeks trying to kick the habit but it’s hard, especially since that thing that happened isn’t just a temporary punishment." She took another swig from the bottle before putting it back down again, the concerned science officer observing this, and then also pushed it further away across the table to show that she was done with it despite it not being empty. "There, that’s it, I’m not drinking any more outta there."

It was now said science officer’s turn to nod her head. "Alcoholism isn’t good for you, lieutenant-commander."

"It’s okay for you to just call me Zinalya if you want." The half Trill gave a small but cordial smile, still sitting upright. "Can I ask you something too?"

"Of course." Carol’s expression mirrored hers.

"If it’s not a rude question, where did you get that British accent of yours from?"

"That's not a rude question, no worries." The smile of the weapons specialist grew in size. "And to answer it, I spent a large majority of my childhood being raised by my mother in London, so it's just stuck with me."

It was the city name which, at that second, caused Zinalya to recall the chain of events four and a half months ago that led her and the man she was missing so much into first meeting each other in those ruins on Kronos. "Ah. London." Zin said with a smile of her own that soon quickly seeped away again as this train of thought came into motion, which Carol picked up on.

"I take it your own outing tonight was because you were thinking about him again?" The latter asked tentatively.

"I was. Even though these months have gone by it’s still always just the same thing that happens: for a few days I’m relatively okay and there’s no incidents, but then the deep thoughts about him come unexpectedly and within minutes I’m either crying like an idiot or just feeling drained, like I don’t want to do anything." While she gave her reply, she leaned back on the sofa.

"It’s not idiotic to cry about it like you’ve been doing. It’s like grief: everyone contends with it in different ways." The one out of the two with the lighter hair colour said reassuringly.

"Yeah but the thing is it’s like a vicious cycle with me - what I mean is when I start that process of deep thinking and then either feeling drained or crying, it also makes me think about everything that happened. The whole thing with his vendetta against Starfleet and the captain’s temporary death, and all the stuff with your dad. And then all that makes me feel guilty that we as the rest of Starfleet weren’t able to find out about the manipulation he was going through and put a stop to what your dad was doing; Khan told me back during the court case that I shouldn’t blame myself, but sometimes it’s just hard not to."

Carol looked down slightly towards the floor. "Truth be good I’ve felt a little bit of guilt like that a couple of times as well. And I’ve been thinking back to that moment on the USS Vengeance during those times: in spite of the things he did do there, Khan chose not to kill me. He had reason to despise me, but when he had the opportunity to do away with me he didn’t go ahead with that. And from the data received on the Enterprise after the incident, it seemed that he didn’t try to destroy us after he returned me and Mr. Scott and captain Kirk either, and was instead just trying to cripple us."

"So that he could have a better chance at getting away with his crew without risking killing innocents." Said Zinalya. "By the way, speaking of Kirk, what’s going on between you two?"

The English woman’s attention was now fully focused back on Zin. "I’m sorry?" A light chuckle laced her words.

"There’s a rumour going around that you two are a thing." This new turn in the conversation was helping the security chief with getting a smile to return to her face. "I mean come on, haven’t either of you two noticed the way you interact? It often looks like you’re behaving as if you’ve known each other for years."

"I’m afraid I haven’t noticed that, from the sound of it, but if that really is the dynamic me and him have then maybe one day we could be more than just crewmates." The discussion was having this same smile effect on both of them. "He’s kind, he’s handsome, he’s funny - he’s effectively housing everything I like in men. Including his cheeky bad boy personality."

"Are you going to tell him about all those things you like about him?"

"Probably. At some point in the future, but to be honest I don’t have the faintest idea when exactly because I didn’t even come to the realisation until ten seconds ago." Carol joked.

Zinalya nodded, the poignancy in the back of her mind making a return. "Knowing my luck I’m most likely gonna end up going to the grave without a husband or even a boyfriend." She laughed bitterly.

"No, don’t say that! You’re a nice person yourself, you make funny wisecracks, I’m sure it’s not going to end up coming to that."

"The only problem with that is that even if I do get the chance to hook up with some guys out there, I can’t imagine me feeling with them the same thing I felt when I was in his company. I’m doubtful about whether I‘ll ever meet any man that wonderful again." Said the one with the hazel-green eyes.

Despite the ambiguity in the word “his”, it didn’t take long at all for Carol to put two and two together about who it was that the slightly shorter woman who’d just spoken was referring to. "I’m sorry myself if this is an offensive thing to be asking, but did you think that something serious was going to come from you and Khan as an item? As in it would’ve become a serious relationship?"

"I thought so, yeah. I really, really thought it’d become serious someday." Her head fell down slightly to its right against the sofa by a few degrees, in the blonde’s direction, before she turned it while still in this position to look at her. "Now I’m stuck watching Spock and lieutenant Uhura’s own relationship going smoothly along with this possibility of you and Kirk getting together at some point too, while I’ve just been left with a hole in my life, and that hole’s basically stuck there forever. The guy I was having thoughts about settling down with in the future - the big one." It was at this point when her breath hitched in her throat, just for a second, before what she said next was a cross between both despair and anger, but mostly the former. "When I finally met that guy who’s the other half of my life, why did he have to get taken away like that? Why can’t I just find love like other people around me do?"

"It’s sad but bad things just happen to good people without warning, unfortunately."

"But there’s no logical reason why those bad things happen. And look at me: I’m a wreck! I can’t fully decide whether I wanna give dating other men a try or whether choosing not to makes me arrogant, and tonight I couldn’t even get back from the club properly without help!"

"It’s like what I said a minute ago: your predicament is like the stages of grief. You don’t have to know exactly what you want to do next in your life or how exactly you think and feel about the matter itself straight away, you can just start taking small steps in your own time. This is your grief so as to speak, so you can take as long as you like to go down the road of recovering and use whatever methods you like." Carol gave more of her reassurance in reply.

It was made more difficult by the presence of the growing mist in her eyes, but Zinalya smiled a little bit. "You’re pretty wise."

"Not really." The science officer shook her head with another chuckle. "But I’m serious - don’t think that you have to get over this in a certain amount of time to keep others happy or anything like that. The others wouldn’t want you to do that either, especially Mr. Scott and ensign Chekov."

"Those two have been amazing with helping me out whenever I’ve talked to them about this." Zin and Scotty both considered each other as their best friend, but Pavel was rather close with this duo in the friendship department as well, and she still continued, as always, to be grateful for the fact that she had this pair in her life. "Thanks for having this talk with me, Carol." She managed to get this sentence out before a tear each fell from both of her eyes, the left one travelling down somewhat further compared to the right one.

"That’s alright, Zinalya." As the two tears continued to trickle, Carol leaned forwards and provided her with a friendly and consoling hug, another thing that the recipient found herself grateful for. "How about I make us some tea?" The provider spoke again after a few seconds, her tone being the vocal equivalent of the hug.

Zin nodded her head in response, still smiling in relief at having gotten her current troubles out again.

[apparitionism]

Streets 3

Hey, anon of a couple weeks ago, you asked about Streets, and whether I would continue it. First, yes! Evidence below! Second, though, I’ll say that while it may seem to outside observers that I have abandoned certain stories, believe me when I tell you that nothing is abandoned. I always finish what I start. It may take years, but as long as I manage to avoid being run over by a bus, in a literal or metaphorical sense, I will finish everything. Including this, which began its life, in part 1 and part 2, as a gift to @blackfoxreddog and continues that way, too. Previouslies: Myka and Regent!Helena were, surprisingly, on vacation. They were in San Francisco, where Pete and Claudia managed to rope them into refereeing a snag contest based on a mode-of-transportation disagreement. As part 2 ended, Myka and Pete were driving away from Myka and Helena’s hotel. Helena and Claudia were standing outside said hotel, waiting for their Uber to arrive. They are still waiting.

Streets 3

Helena determines that this non-moving while could be put to some real purpose: she extracts her Farnsworth from her too-small coat pocket. “Put this in your satchel,” she instructs Claudia.

“Okay...”

“And this,” Helena says, handing over her telephone as well.

“Do I look like your butler?”

“Not in the slightest. He was well over seventy, bald as a newborn, and had a pronounced stoop.”

Claudia twists her face. “It’s weird how that was almost a compliment. But I’m still not your butler.”

“And yet between us, there is only one satchel.”

Now Claudia sighs. “Do you want me to hold your Tesla too?”

“I am under strict instructions to keep my hands on my Tesla,” Helena says, doing that. “And I have additionally been instructed to not allow myself to be whammied.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d need to be instructed.”

“I don’t need to be instructed. Well, perhaps about the Tesla, because I would he happy to confer that into your care as well. And yet, regardless of need, I like to be.”

“Aw. Because it means she cares.”

“She does.” That that thought can even now, in an instant, warm Helena’s heart is both absurd and lovely. “And you might wish to bear that in mind, as you drag me into our misadventure, which is, I would like to note, taking its time to commence. Unlike Myka and Pete’s misadventure, which commenced some time ago.”

Claudia begins a scowl, but it transforms into a bright smile as she exclaims, “Hey, the car’s here!” A compact maroon automobile cuts toward the curb in a maneuver that Helena suspects has managed to anger an impressively large number of other motorists, particularly the one who is leaning on his or her horn to express his or her displeasure at currently being blocked by said compact maroon automobile.

“Uber driver!” shouts the motorist with the impressively earsplitting horn, leading Helena to believe that this displeasure is perhaps not an isolated occurrence.

“Your preferred mode of transport seems less than universally popular,” she says to Claudia.

“Dinosaurs. C’mon.”

A slight, young-ish man, whose dark skin is complemented by artfully disheveled hair even blacker and more glossy than Helena’s own, is piloting the compact maroon automobile. Its back seat is even more compact that it appeared it might be... “Smaller on the inside,” Claudia comments. “So, hey, you must be Ramon.”

“Yeah. And you’re Claudia.”

“Do you two know each other?” Helena asks. The young man has an accent of some sort, but she can’t place it.

“It’s how the app works,” Claudia says. “Ramon, my friend, take off. We’re heading for... hang on, I’ll text you the address in a sec. But let’s head north, okay? Go around the block, get on 3rd, and head up.” She is fiddling with her telephone, most likely because she believes that under the semi-public circumstances she should not fiddle with her Farnsworth. But Helena, when using her Farnsworth, has received compliments from several onlookers regarding her “phone,” so the distinction seems one without a significant difference. Then again Claudia can be as careless in public as Pete is, when it comes to making Warehouse business known. Helena supposes she should be glad of a small episode of discretion.

Ramon follows her instructions, angering several more drivers as he abruptly reenters the traffic. Helena resigns herself to the afternoon’s musical accompaniment being electric horns. “So you don’t seem like you’re from around here, man,” he offers to Claudia as he does so. “I mean not just this baking show lady, but you too.”

“Baking show lady?” Helena interjects.

They both ignore her. Claudia tells Ramon, “Maybe that’s because you picked me and H.G. here up outside a hotel. Just a guess.”

“No, you kinda got this weird vibe. Not so West Coast.”

“Vibes are totally cheating,” Claudia pronounces.

“In terms of unfair advantage,” Helena says, “may I remind you that you yourself are psychically connected to...” She raises her eyebrows to convey the significance.

“Yeah, to the Warehouse,” Claudia finishes for her. So much for discretion. “Except for no, not completely. Not yet. And hey, Ramon, if you could keep whatever weird stuff we say to yourself, that’d be great. Capisce?”

Ramon squints at her in the rear-view mirror. “I’m not a native speaker, man. What’d you said there at the end?”

“That would not help you,” Helena informs him. “It is Italian. Slightly bastardized.”

This elicits a “huh” from Claudia, who then says, “I thought it was just old-fashioned slang.”

Helena asks Ramon, “Of what language or languages are you a native speaker? If that is not too intrusive.”

Ramon smiles at her in the mirror. His smile is small—he does not show his teeth—but pleasant. “Thanks for asking. Most people jump to Spanish, ’cause Ramon, but it’s Tagalog. Little Spanish too, but that’s mostly Spagalog. Big Filipino family. Came here when I was seven.”

“Well done,” Helena says.

“Thanks. So when’d you?”

Helena tilts her head. “Ah. When did I come here. Like that. As an immigrant.”

“Unless you just visiting. The hotel and all.”

“No, I... live here.” How interesting, she thinks. She has no plans to live in England again—would Myka want to?—yet she has never once ideated herself as any sort of expatriate. From her original historical time period, yes, but not from her country of origin. “And I have lived her for five years. No, six. Technically I suppose I am a resident alien.”

“And H.G. brings it back to the subject. Smooth,” Claudia says. “You got the address, Ramon? Then step on it.’

Helena says, “I fail to see how we haven’t already lost. They had quite the head start.”

“Steve gave us different ping coordinates than he gave them.”

“That seems an unlevel playing field.”

“Since when did you get all righteous and rule-crazy?”

“Since I am ideally spending four more days with Myka in a hotel room, and hope to spend them with her not resenting me. And vice versa of course.”

“I bet you’d both get over it pretty fast,” says Claudia, with what she clearly believes is a leer. “Anyway, you can take it easy. The pings are supposedly almost exactly the same distance from your hotel.”

“In which I wish I were.”

“Quit complaining. No wonder Myka’s constantly annoyed with you.”

“That is not at all true. She was extremely pleased with me—and by me, I would like to add—before you and Pete so rudely inserted yourselves into our holiday.” Helena produces her own leer. It is far more lascivious than Claudia’s, she is certain.

Claudia waves a hand, apparently reluctant to acknowledge Helena’s superior ability in producing suggestive facial expressions. “In public she’s annoyed. Unavoidable eavesdropping aside, the other business is your business.”

“In public,” Helena repeats. But she considers that Claudia is not wrong: on the latter side of that private/public divide, Myka indeed takes on a veneer of what might be called annoyance... or exasperation... or irritation... “Do I provoke her so very terribly, do you think?” she asks Claudia.

Claudia shakes her head. “I’m not denying that you can be a pain. But my theory is she plays it up to keep her eyes from actually going all googly when she looks at you. Now your eyes, on the other hand... is there such a thing as a brown neon sign? Because those baby browns of yours do nothing but neon-sign ‘smitten,’ then ‘kitten,’ over and over and over.”

“What could that possibly mean,” Helena says. Because she wants to hear the answer. Wants to hear it said aloud.

“You already know, but I’ll say it anyway: either it’s that you can’t help yourself, or you just don’t care who sees how crazy you are about her.”

Now Helena is the one to make a slight noise of speculation. “I don’t suppose I do care,” she says.

“It’s sweet. Mostly. Except when you’re acting way too sensitive about itty-bitty vacation interruptions—and did you see how smooth I just brought us back to the subject? So did you ever get abducted by aliens, H.G.?”

“I feel as if I’m being abducted by an alien right now. Or possibly two—Ramon, have you achieved citizenship? If that is what you wished, of course.” Ramon nods, and Helena cheers him with another “well done.”

Claudia says, “Think, though. What would make someone believe they’d been abducted by aliens?”

“An inadequate grasp of reality. An inappropriate assessment of reality. An incorrect interpretation of reality.”

“Or it might actually be reality. Can’t completely rule that out, right, Pops?”

“They call that genre science fiction for a reason,” Helena points out.

“They call a lot of books ‘fiction,’ and all that happens in most of those is people do stuff and talk. I’ve seen people do stuff and talk, in actual reality. I’ve seen you do stuff and talk. I’ve done stuff and talked. Today.”

“Hence you find alien abduction plausible. Your logic, may I say, is somewhat suspect.”

“It’s more plausible, and way less suspect, than a lot of junk that supposedly really happens. Hence aliens, Daddy-o.”

From the front seat, Ramon contributes, “I saw a giant squid one time. It really looked like it might be a alien.”

Helena inhales with alarm. “You have heard us mention someone named Myka,” she says to him.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Should you meet the lady in question, please do me the very large courtesy of refraining from mentioning your squid encounter.” For if Myka is concerned about Helena being affected by an artifact—thus resulting in a negative effect on their remaining holiday—Helena would be similarly concerned about Myka experiencing some tentacle-related trauma, which would most likely result in a far more negative effect on their remaining holiday. For alas, Myka does not easily dismiss traumatic thoughts of tentacles. She in fact tends to recall such thoughts at times that most would consider inappropriate—i.e., at times that such thoughts interrupt activities.

Helena considers that she herself may have developed a mild anxiety disorder, one triggered by the mention of tentacles.

Claudia interrupts Helena’s mild anxiety with, “FYI, the lady in question stopped moving.”

“What?”

“They’ve been still for a little while now—well, still-ish—so they must’ve gotten there.” To Helena’s look of confusion, Claudia says, “I’m tracking Pete’s phone.”

“Is that not cheating?”

“How? He could do it back.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Don’t underestimate the guy who wired that whole Pete-cave,” Claudia cautions. “But Myka’s probably tracking you instead anyway.”

“If she is, it isn’t anything to do with me. It’s my telephone.”

“Well, right. But to keep track of you.”

“No, more likely for the telephone. She finds my misplacing it to be irksome. Genuinely irksome; I don’t believe that it is related to any attempt to control the behavior of her eyes.”

“You can’t tell me she isn’t playing ‘Where in the world is H.G.’ when you’re off getting all Regenty.”

Helena sees she will need to explain to Claudia how this all began. She says, “I left my telephone in Jakarta.”

Claudia blinks. Then she says, “I left my wallet in El Segundo.”

Helena hears a snicker from the front seat. Then she hears, also from there, “I gotta get it, I got-gotta get it.” Then she hears a snort-giggle from beside her. She sighs and says, “Be that as it may. She thought that I was stranded there, suffering an... item’s effects. Alternatively, that I was being held, ah, incommunicado. By sinister forces. As I understand it, she threatened one or more persons with physical damage based on their failure to reveal the terrible fate that had befallen me.”

“What had befallen you?”

“I was in Singapore. Lovely city. I sang its praises when next she and I spoke.”

Claudia snorts. “And I bet what happened then was something you don’t want me to call a little spatlet. And I also bet it wasn’t so little anyhow.”

“In any event, she has sworn never again to make any inferences about my own location based solely upon the location of my telephone. When I contact her, she informs me of that location and asks if the telephone and I are in fact together. She is far more calm about my answers than she once was.”

“See, so I was right, now you do have little spatlets. Or littler. Because it’s true, she’s getting more laid-back about... stuff. Some stuff. Which is a good, because it’s also true that if she freaked out every time you did something new and differently weird—because let’s face it, you do a lot of new and differently weird somethings—we’d have to medicate her.”

“Do not do that. I like Myka as she is, whatever ‘freaking out’ may come. But also I have made a concerted attempt to reduce the number of new and differently weird somethings with which I confront her.”

“Keep it simple, stupid,” Claudia says.

Helena nods. “Pete has used that locution on me, so I understand that you are not conveying the insult I assumed he was. Fortunately, he explained before I tried to retaliate.” Claudia gulps at the mention of retaliation, and Helena smiles. “I have also attempted to reduce my inclination to retaliate. But further, yes, I am learning, in many arenas, to keep it—whatever ‘it’ is, in the arena under review—simple.”

And the more intimate, the more simple: though that learning had at first seemed that it might take form of a hard landing. She and Myka had hardly been together, as a couple, a particularly substantial length of time—they had hardly been together, as a physically intimate couple, a particularly substantial number of times—when, in the middle of what Helena was working with diligence to make the best physically intimate time yet (better every time, different and better, that was her determined goal), Myka stilled Helena’s very busy hands and mouth. She moved a slight distance away, so that they lay very close, but markedly apart. And then Myka said, or rather implored, “Will you please stop trying so hard! I’m sorry, but I just don’t—look, I can’t keep up. It’s like you want to prove something to me every single time, and I don’t even know what it is. And whatever it is, you don’t have to. Unless—” She stopped talking.

Helena waited, but no more words emerged. She and Myka breathed across the distance, onto each other’s skin. When Helena felt her own skin begin to cool, she asked, “Unless what?”

“Unless—are you trying to keep yourself interested?”

“What? No! I mean, yes, of course, but no, I want to make sure that you. What I mean is, I thought you would want.” She cleared her throat. “Not rote.”

“You thought I would want not rote,” Myka repeated.

“Correct.”

“I think there’s a world of difference between ‘not rote’ and ‘now we have to turn to page 42 of the manual and do that one because it’s next on the list and we haven’t done it yet.’ Because that’s what it feels like.” Helena wondered if she was perhaps expected to laugh, but Myka went on, “Though I don’t know. I’ve never been with anybody long enough for anything to seem rote in the first place.”

“I would say ‘nor have I,’ for I understand what you mean, but that would be inaccurate. A relationship need not be of notably long duration for its physical aspect to become... tedious.”

“So why can’t we just do what feels right in any given moment?”

“That is, if you will forgive me, absurd. Physical intimacy is a most strategic undertaking. Any given moment generally involves preparation for the next moment.”

Myka said, in a tone that she usually reserved for public admonishments regarding nonsense, “I meant, as long as it feels right instead of tedious.”

“Oh. Well.” Helena cleared her throat again—uncharacteristic, she admonished herself, and why are you unsettled by this? she asked herself. “Also, I have read that for the average couple, any approach that has not been attempted in the early, intense phase of their relationship, they are unlikely ever to try.”

“I’m actually okay with it if our repertoire isn’t... vast. If it isn’t the most vast. And why can’t we be something other than average in terms of what we do when? I mean it’s not like we fall in the middle of the bell curve when it comes to anything else. Also: where did you read this? When did you read this?”

“On the Internet. Some weeks ago.”

“Okay. Why did you read this?”

“For research purposes.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but... what were you researching?”

“Relationships. How they might be ideally conducted.” The existence of a felt need for help in that matter was an admission Helena had never imagined she would volunteer, so she tried to make light of it: “Do you know, a veritable industry of advice surrounds that question.”

“I kind of do know that. I might have consulted some of it myself. Maybe even for the same reason you did.” And then Helena was very glad of that reason, for Myka moved closer, and they softened into a kiss.

But  the discussion was not really over, so once the kiss ended—and its end indicated that the discussion should indeed continue—Helena asked, “And what did you learn?”

“That we both probably need a lot of therapy. Most of it for things that have nothing to do with.” Myka sighed. “Sex. I really hoped this could be the easy part.”

“It is not easy,” Helena said. “It is strategic,” She had not intended the words to emerge as such a petulant whine... or perhaps she had intended that after all. For if Myka was so very dissatisfied with everything, if she did not even respect that Helena cared to consider the next moment, then what could possibly be the reason to—

“Look,” Myka said, stopping Helena’s sulk. “I’m not telling you how to think... during. It. You want to strategize? Art-of-War your heart out. But you told me what you assumed I wanted, and I’m telling you that your assumption wasn’t valid.”

Helena crossed her arms over her chest. “It might have been.”

“It might have. But you would’ve known for certain if you’d thought about checking with me. You know, the person you were making the assumption about.”

“You were right,” Helena admitted, “when you said I wanted to prove something. Several somethings, in fact.”

“There’s nothing to prove. Rote or not rote, that doesn’t matter. I don’t care if it’s new every time; I don’t even care if it’s good every time. I care that it’s you.” She shrugged her shoulders—or, no, she began a shrug, but her shoulders stayed high and tense, near her ears. “Even if you’re a little confused about the difference between sex and three-dimensional chess.”

Helena laughed. “They are both three-dimensional,” she pointed out. “But I will concede that there may be salient dissimilarities.”

Myka exhaled, and her shoulders descended. “Then I think you should come over here and figure them out.” Now she laughed. “Or pretend they’re the same thing. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” Helena began to move very near again to Myka.

She moved so near, in fact, that she felt Myka’s smile, when it began to curve, against her own mouth, and even more as Myka said, “I was going to tack on a ‘within reason’ to that, but you know what? Yeah. Whatever you want. Just don’t try so hard.”

“And yet what if that is what I want? To try very, very hard to please you in ways you have never been pleased before?” But those questions were nothing but braggadocious teases. Helena had known then, and she knows now, that regardless of what might appear on all the pages of that metaphorical manual, she would be just fine without all of it. She knows too that the younger versions of herself would find such a conclusion unexpected—those versions had wanted so much, so many—but what she wants now are only time, only peace, and only one lover, this lover, with whom to share these simpler, yet superior, things.

Myka had smiled yet again, and that smile said I know. Then she said, aloud, “You do please me in ways that I’ve never been pleased before. You. Just you.”

And since the reverse was also true... “I love you,” Helena had said. She had never said it like that, unadorned and unmistakable, to Myka. Nor, for such a very long time, to anyone at all.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Helena echoed. What would come next?

What came next was that Myka kissed her, hard and quick, then said, “That’s what I want. And you understand why, right?

“I have hopes,” Helena said, but as with the unmistakable three, unadorned. No carapace of conceit.

And then Myka said those unmistakable words back to her, fine and simple and true.

Keep it simple, stupid. Myka is, as far as Helena knows, the only person among the Warehouse family who would be unlikely to say those words directly to her. (Helena is surprised that Mrs. Frederic has not yet seen fit to say them.) And yet it is only for Myka that she would ever make such a genuine effort.

Now, however, she is making a genuine effort to refrain from tesla-ing Claudia, who is tugging on her arm, pointing out the window, and shouting, “That guy has a really flashy flashlight! And this is really close to where the ping was! Turn around, Ramon; we gotta find him! Got-gotta find him! H.G., are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That the torch will come in handy when night falls, as it will soon? Or if he should happen to find himself in a poorly lit, enclosed space?”

“Alien abduction, H.G. Put that together with a flashlight shining through the fog, and what comes to mind?”

“An illuminated alien abduction?” Helena guesses.

Claudia groans. “God, that’s right, you don’t know what X Files is. Because we haven’t gotten there yet in your pop-culture lessons.”

“Film? Television program? Or perhaps Broadway musical? The latter do seem all the rage.”

“It’s the first two. Not a Broadway musical, but I just might pay Hamilton money to see X Files: The Musical. I just might. I can practically hear its big first-act ender, ‘I Want to Believe’... yeah. And there’d be some big love duet that pretends like it’s not actually a love duet, like you and Myka and your whole ‘the price is too high’ deal.” She focuses her gaze out the window, yelps at Ramon to turn left, then continues, “Actually, I think that’s the song that ends the second act in our big Warehouse musical. And of course Jinksy and me, we kill it with our ‘Never Had a BFFWYLION Like Me’ number.”

“You’ve consumed a mind-altering substance, I’m certain,” Helena tells her. “Please let me know when its effects wane.”

Ramon says, “I wanna hear this BFFWY... whatever number.”

“You bet you do,” Claudia says.

“It is an initialism,” Helena informs him. “One that is as inane as all such are.”

Claudia says, “Isn’t it an acronym? Anyway, I think he gets that. Ramon’s down with O.P.P., am I right?”

Ramon snickers just as he did earlier. He says, “Yeah, you know me,” at which Claudia, for her part, snort-giggles again. “I get the BFF part,” he says, as he responds, quite calmly, to another shouted “turn here!” once the giggle subsides. “I guess I gotta hear the song to get the rest of it. That’s good, though, man; I like musicals. That’s from my mom. And big bro was a battle DJ. Musicals and rap taught me English—wasn’t saying it right, I thought, if it didn’t got a rhythm. Like that was proper English.”

“That should totally be true!” Claudia crows. “Ramon, you are my brother from another mother. Or father. Or maybe from the same mother or father; I don’t know all that much about my family history tbh.”

“Initialisms,” Helena mutters. “But also acronyms: that hideous ‘scuba’ word.”

“You can have a song about how they’re destroying the language. Wait, can you even sing? Never mind; Broadway-H.G.’ll be able to. We’ll get Idina Menzel.”

“Now you are uttering nonsense syllables,” Helena proclaims.

Claudia shakes her head: “No, ‘Adele Dazeem’ is nonsense syllables. I see that Steve and I are gonna have to dig in and really Broadway-school you.”

Prompted by the idea of digging, Helena paws through Claudia’s satchel for her Farnsworth. She calls Myka. “Please rescue me,” she says when she sees that blessed face smiling back at her from the screen. “I will owe you everything.”

Claudia scoffs, “You always already say you owe her everything.”

“My dear sweet love,” Helena tells the face that, its owner having heard Claudia’s comment, is now smiling even more widely, “I will owe you everything raised to a power of your choosing if you will get me out of this.”

Myka laughs. “Oh no. You got us into it.”

“How in the world did I get us into it?”

A tinny laugh once again emerges from the Farnsworth. “You didn’t. But I was hoping you might forget, since of course I won’t. And exactly how do you propose I get you out of it from here, anyway?”

“We will leap out of our respective vehicles,” Helena begins.

“That would probably hurt. Besides, I’m not in my vehicle.”

“I am,” Helena says. “And it would most likely hurt. However, here is my current proposal: I will leap and bravely bear the pain, you will make your escape however you wish, and then we will meet at the hotel. Then, perhaps, you could dress my wounds. Or undress them?”

Claudia takes her eyes off the street long enough to give Helena a look of great skepticism. “Are you trying to make the idea of flinging yourself from a moving car sound sexy?”

“Only the aftermath. And only if Myka agrees.”

Yet another Farnsworth-mediated laugh: their repeated incidence is making Helena think that Myka is not, in fact, fully in “agent” mode, hotel-room-exiting attitude aside. Myka says, in a voice that indeed does not sound official at all, “You might have a weird idea or two about what’s sexy. But I—”

Claudia shouts, alarmingly close to Helena’s ear, “Anyway we’re about to snagbagtag it, so it won’t matter!” She smacks Helena’s Farnsworth closed—before Helena even can say a brief goodbye—and entreats Ramon to pull over “and wait for us, because we’re gonna be heading out in just a second to lord it over some losers.”

Helena sighs and follows her from the car.

TBC

[buzzesquenews]

A Primer on the D. B. Cooper Mystery

In 1971, a mysterious man wearing a suit boarded a flight from Portland to Seattle, ordered some drinks, hijacked the plane, negotiated a ransom, refueled the plane, took off again and parachuted out into the void of infinite forests of the Pacific Northwest with a suitcase full of money. Who was he?

What We Know

The D. B. Cooper mystery is a real rabbit hole of interesting details. There are details about the details that can be discussed ad infinitum (the amount and type of rare metals found on things he touched, for example). However, we are going to summarize the key story here. The avid reader will find a plethora of reading material out there in the expansive annals of armchair speculation. On a flight from Portland to Seattle on November 24, 1971, an attractive man wearing a suit and smoking on the back of the 727 ordered a bourbon and soda. He was wearing a black raincoat, a dark suit with a white shirt, a black tie, and a pearl tie pin. All of the other passengers had been offered to sit up front but the man, whose ticket was issued to Dan Cooper, was sitting in the back. One other person was sitting in the back, a sophomore from the University of Oregon. As the flight progressed, Cooper handed the flight attendant, Florence Schaffner, a note after she had sat down to make small talk with him. Schaffner pocketed the note, apparently because she both thought he had given her his phone number and wanted to retain said phone number. At that point, Cooper says "Miss, you'd better look at that note. I have a bomb." Schaffner read the note but it was later given back to Cooper and she could not read the exact details but that the general idea was he had a bomb in a briefcase. He then asked her to sit with him. She asked to see the bomb and he opened the briefcase enough for her to see two rows of four red cylinders connected with wires to a battery. He then shut the briefcase and told her his demands. He wanted $200,000 in "negotiable American currency" (which apparently sounded as weird in the 1970s as it does to our ears today), four parachutes and a fuel truck waiting at the airport to fill the plane back up. After Schaffner relayed the demands to the crew and returned, Cooper was wearing sunglasses, leading to the infamous FBI sketch we know today.

FBI Wanted Poster of D. B. Cooper The crew told the passengers that there was a mechanical issue with the plane and for two hours, they circled over Puget Sound while Cooper negotiated with the FBI over his demands. During this time, Cooper made small talk with the flight attendants and made a few curious comments that are important to the story. At one point, he looked down and said "Looks like Tacoma down there". He also commented that McChord Air Force Base was only 20 minutes from the Tacoma airport. Both of these comments would shape the rest of the investigation and may already have your gears cranking. After a series of further negotiations on the ground and a slight refueling problem, Cooper told the crew to take off and fly to Mexico city as slow as possible, at a low altitude, with the landing gear down and the rear airstairs open. The pilot told him that, following that plan, there would definitely not be enough fuel to make it anywhere near there and Cooper and he decided they would refuel in Reno. The pilot also told Cooper that the rear airstairs could not be down when the plane takes off. Cooper argued that the plane can take off with the rear airstairs open but, rather than argue, he would open it later.

Example of airstairs on a 727 at the time. At that point, the Air Force had dispatched fighter jets and they were following the plane. In total, there were five aircraft following the 727. The plane was only going right above 100 miles per hour and had only been flying for about half an hour when the airstairs were activated. Just prior to closing themselves off in the cabin, one crew member saw Cooper tying something around his waist. Later, it would be discovered that he had used one of the primary parachutes for its straps, probably for that purpose. In fact, he chose to use as his primary chute the more manual of the two options he had. At this point, Cooper presumably jumped out of the plane somewhere near Lake Merwin or South of Ariel, Washington. However, not a single person witnessed the jump. Evidence We know that Cooper left behind some of his clothing, including the black tie. Later, fingerprints and some DNA were lifted from the clothing. These fingerprints and DNA have not yet matched any living person but the DNA were partial matches to begin with, meaning the samples were not perfect.

Tie worn by Cooper which was used for fingerprint and DNA evidence. The authorities released the full list of serial numbers that were on the bills. They also offered a reward, as did a number of other organizations, for anyone who could produce a single bill that had found its way into circulation. So far, nobody has successfully found a single bill in circulation. In 1980, a boy named Brian Ingram was playing on a beach on the Columbia River, near Vancouver, Washington and found three stacks of money which totaled to $5,800, all badly eroded, buried in the sand. The money was confirmed to have been part of the ransom money paid to Cooper. The bills were still wrapped in rubber bands and were in the exact same order as when given to Cooper.

What We Think We Know

We know his name was probably not Dan Cooper, and with even more certainty, was not D. B. Cooper. A journalist tracked down a D. B. Cooper which seemed to fit the background of someone who could pull off the hijacking but that person was quickly ruled out. However, the journalist confused the names and released the name in an article as D. B. Cooper, which is how it came to be the way it is today. Cooper's knowledge of the plane and his specific instructions for flying it, including the exact angle of the flaps, seems to indicate he was very educated about flight. This led the FBI to focus on people with military backgrounds or people working in aviation.

The Pacific Northwest is profoundly remote and difficult to search. Traces of titanium and other metals were found on the tie. This seems to indicate that Cooper was probably working in advanced manufacturing somewhere. However, there were many possible factories where he could have been exposed to such metals in the area and the evidence was circumstantial at best. The money that was found had been eroded in a rounded way, with the corners being rounded off pretty heavily. Based on this, most people believe Cooper did not bury the money in the sand but it rather came down from upstream in one of the many tributaries.

Some of the money found by Brian Ingram. In 1978,instructions for lowering the rear airstairs of a 727 was found by a deer hunter on a logging road near Castle Rock, Washington. This is well north of the primary search location but it is not out of the realm of possibility considering the stormy conditions on the night of the event. In 2017, some amateur investigators found the remnants of a parachute strap in the area, as well as a piece of foam. It is suspected that they could be related to the case but it has not been confirmed.

What We Do Not Know

Despite intense efforts to re-enact the jump and the path of the plane, the area in which Cooper could have jumped out of the plane is vast. The entire region is covered in thick Northwest forests which are about as remote as you could get in the continental US. The area has been narrowed and widened tremendously and there is almost no consensus about where he could have jumped out exactly. In 2009, someone realized that Dan Cooper was also the name of an obscure French language comic about a Canadian pilot who parachutes out of planes and even took ransom money in a backpack. The comic was in print from 1957 to 2010 and somehow escaped public attention nearly the entire time. The circulation of the comic was really centered in France, Belgium and French speaking Canada. Based on this, some people have speculated that Cooper must have at least seen the comic and could have either been in the military in Europe or could have been French Canadian. Cooper did use the strange phrase "negotiable American currency", which is not something you would expect to hear and could indicate that English was not his primary language. However, all witnesses said that the man did not have a discernible accent, indicating he may have grown up outside of Quebec, where French speakers in Canada are much less likely to have an accent. The back and forth with the pilot about where the refuel is bizarre, since Cooper seemed to have planned on jumping out as soon as possible regardless. He must have known that the crew would notice the change in cabin pressure and would realize, due to the parachute request, that he had jumped out.

What We Know We Do Not Know

D. B. Cooper became a folk hero in a way that perhaps no other person since the cowboy bandits of the 19th century has been able to match. In the months and years following the case, there were numerous copycat attempts.

Richard Floyd McCoy, Jr The most famous of these was Richard Floyd McCoy, Jr. who pulled off a nearly identical hijacking in 1972 from the San Francisco airport and jumped out into the desert near Provo, Utah. He was caught with handwriting analysis, put in prison and escaped with another inmate by ramming through the fence of the prison with a garbage truck. He was then killed in a shootout in Virginia Beach. The FBI focused heavily on McCoy but largely ruled him out as a suspect because he did not match the physical description of Cooper. Due to the extensive time the crew spent with Cooper, his physical appearance has been used to rule out various suspects, some of whom have even confessed to being Cooper on their deathbeds. Most importantly, we do not know if Cooper even survived the jump. The conditions were horrific with heavy rain and wind. Anyone who has ever seen Twilight can attest to the fact that jumping out into the endless sea of fir trees, in the dark, with a parachute has a very low chance of success. The money that was found had washed down the river and seems to indicate that it was not inside the bag he had used to carry it. More importantly, the media attention surrounding the case was so extreme that people did report finding money with serial numbers within a digit or two from Cooper's bills. This seems to indicate that, had a bill showed up in circulation, it would almost certainly have been found at some point. In 1980, Mount Saint Helens erupted and covered much of the area in volcanic ash. It is possible that any surviving evidence was destroyed or buried as a result of that event and that we may never know the actual identity of D. B. Cooper. In all likelihood, Cooper will recede into the past like Billy the Kid and become just another legend of the American West. Before you go: https://buzzesque.com/the-dyatlov-pass-incident-revisited/ Read the full article

[sevlies-blog]

hey babes !! i'm kat and i forgot.. that today was thursday, hence my acct being so late, work's rly playing mind games with me kjdlsfj. anyways, i'd make this super long and unnecessary like i normally do but im at work atm so i'm gonna make this quick. if you wanna plot, im me and feel free to ask for my discord, i prefer that over tumblr tbh ! so here's my rly.. weird bio for yeseul, hopefully you don't cringe like i still do but no promises lmao

{ aphrodite – park chaeyoung } did you see NAM YESEUL walk into the sorority house ? i heard the TWENTY-TWO year old SENIOR is known to be EBULLIENT & METICULOUS. but in the hallways, SHE is infamous for their TEMERARIOUS & DECADENT behaviour. one thing is sure, the SOCIOLOGY major is perfect for pennbrooke.

yeseul was born to her securities analyst father and secretary mother on the twenty-fourth of july, 1995. the youngest of two with an older brother two years her senior, she would live a fairly normal childhood in their three bedroom apartment in a high-rise uptown — taking on an admiration for the colour blue and puppies with luscious white fur long before plants, butter cream frosting and egyptian cotton sheets were to stand alongside them.

a maternal aunt had been the kids’ guardian while their parents worked during the day and early evening, suppers and bedtimes perhaps the most time they’d spend together on a given day, though that did not take away from seulie’s idolization of her eomma and appa. because efforts were always made to connect with their children, the occasional weekend outing an apology for their late hours and almost constant exhaustion.

she began her years of education in a uniform with a black sweater and skirt and a periwinkle button-up, a ribbon tying her bangs back subsequently matching the latter. eager to learn and meet new people, her first day of school was invigorating for her five year old self, which would remain constant as the years went by.

her parents had a happy marriage, which continues now, and are the source of seulie’s dreams for a relationship in the future. in fact, it was due to their strong relationship that upon her husband being offered a higher position in the korean-based company he worked for at their branch in san francisco’s financial district, her mother was the first to suggest moving - completely ecstatic in the matter - which led to the nams leaving ulsan for america when she was thirteen years old.

luckily, her parents enrolled both her and her brother in a school with a program for international students with little knowledge of english. while they understood the language quite well all things considered — perhaps from watching popular american shows while growing up — yeseul and taeil spoke it minimally.

thus the younger would end up spending an extra year in the program at her own accord, wishing to become more knowledgeable before being thrown into high school, entering at fifteen years old as opposed to fourteen.

she found the institution to be more complex than she would have preferred; while courses such as biology and pre-calculus were not troubling, she faltered in english and american history, albeit due to circumstance. so she was quiet and focused, it felt as though it was all that she really could be in this situation and it soon became her high school persona.

her brother often played protector when she was a child, from the rude upperclassman who shoved her off of their swing to the boy next door who laughed at her sobs upon falling off of her bike and skinning her knee on the sidewalk. she never asked that of him, he never made a vow to do so; it was merely an unspoken dynamic that remained even when her first girlfriend broke her heart by stringing her and her best friend along in junior year, remembering vividly taeil’s venomous words being spewed in the hallway of an acquaintance’s house party.

a girl as plush as the throw pillows on her double sized mattress, a slight evolution took charge as she transitioned into adulthood. with her kindness not being thwarted, she felt as though the dissolution of her naiveté, of her careful approach to much of the world around her, was necessary. these things do not happen overnight, as she had come to realize while standing in the middle of a friend’s older brother’s house party. any boldness that she had while standing on the doorstep dissipated at the sight of college kids all but forced to press against one another in the living room that reeked of pot, unintentionally listening to barely audible moans beneath the loud music that came from an unguarded upstairs bedroom. thus, after a couple of months of pushing her own boundaries — frequenting keggers with friends and the like — even seulie noticed that she had eased into a more outgoing and adventurous persona. she allowed most of her inhibitions to crumble and her confidence to grow, seemingly proud of the shift and rightfully so.

commencing her four year attendance at pennbrooke — far from the familiar alleyways of san francisco — she was determined to be one of the few who sail through university without the burden of uncertainty weighing them down. from a young age, she had an interest in both the humanities and science, a curious child endlessly fascinated by fiction and fact, the reasons for human behaviour and for life itself. thus this led to her proficiency in such subjects, in combination with being a high achiever it resulted in obtaining excellent grades in those courses.

this would edge her in the direction of longing to understand society and those suffering within it. uncovering varying family and sexual dynamics in, as well as values specific to, all cultures intrigued her, so much so that she often found herself reading journals about such topics when her homework for the next morning had since been completed.

she eventually came to the conclusion that garnering a knowledge in the differences of individuals and society’s effect on and reaction to them was something she wished to endure, especially if it helped people like her; perhaps she wasn’t an immigrant in the way that many others were, with her father having moved to america — and the family following — for an already acquired position in his company, however she still reaped the benefits of some narrow-minded individuals mocking her slight accent or much worse. her identity was split in two to accommodate her past in ulsan and her present and future in san francisco, and yet she felt a disconnect on both ends — knowing she’d be rejected by some of her beloved elders in her hometown for not following a more traditional and exclusive set of values, while either not being enough of or being too much of a stereotype to fellow classmates. it was for those reasons primarily that she wanted to study sociology, specifically social inequalities, and to hopefully pursue a career in such.

college was what she would consider her sexual liberation, much like other students. where high school was pivotal for first loves and long lasting friendships, post-secondary was a hub for flings and fleeting emotional attachments. of course, this was ideal for a girl who wished to invest in a relationship when it felt right, as though it would not simply be for someone’s thrill of the chase or in conjunction with half-assed efforts in building upon a connection. and with her ability to separate sex from love — unless the latter arose somewhere down the line organically — it didn’t take her long to dive into the realm of meaningless hookups in the winter semester of freshman year and subsequently deal with their aftermath. she had never intended to sink her proverbial claws into the soft skin of her lovers and lead them along, however such would often be the outcome and by the end of her sophomore year, she’d come to accept that — even embrace it. now her reputation is more than confusing to some, the laidback and seemingly kind-hearted girl seducing others only to lead them astray being a little farfetched. maybe it was the new role to assume that lessened the guilt over time, an unexplored dynamic that made her more than comfortable with the slight burden she had to bare to continue her escapades.

currently she embodies a charisma chocked full of sincerity and gentle bluntness, while teasing friends and hookups alike in various ways. she’s able to remain calm and collected in conflict, though she may become defensive if it involves her loved ones or if it’s courtesy of someone who disrespects her or another’s boundaries. in moments of stress, she is actively trying to stay calm if it warrants such a response, in her eyes; for instance, a short deadline for a research paper or the disappearance of her mother’s engagement ring would lead to those attempts.

she considers the temptress within to be an alter ego as opposed to a variation of herself; where she normally attempts to think decisions through, she is impulsive and tactless under these circumstances, prioritizing her own pleasure and desires above all else.

she loves love, hence why she wishes to pursue such a thing after college, when people tend to take it more seriously. it doesn’t hinder her from helping her friends, more than willing to find suitable partners for them, however she’s quick to talk them out of it if it seems like a mistake that will only hurt them in the end.

seulie enjoys compliments, giving and receiving them, however she is often quick to deflect most of the latter. she doesn’t seek praise only to respond in a false humble manner, but simply to know if she’s doing something correctly or if it’s appreciated by others; thus if one compliments her on perhaps her beauty, she tends to insist otherwise — at least initially.

she despises individuals who don’t respect boundaries, and due to fragments of her sex life spilling from the lips of some past lovers, she often attracts such people and has no qualms about putting them in their place. she also dislikes avocados, soap operas and birkenstocks - she simply doesn’t understand their appeal - as well as dismissive, argumentative and/or obnoxious people.