#gull wing doors

[superhyperfastcars]

[yz]

Delorean at the Ashland Car Show, September 2024.

Fujifilm X-T50 with XF 23mm f/2.0.

[slyandthefamilybook]

apparently one of Elon's motivations for the Cybertruck was to be able to use it on Mars (lol) which reminded me of the Chariot from Netflix's Lost in Space, a vehicle that is everything the Cybertruck wishes it was

✅ Electric

✅ Rugged

✅ Cool sci-fi screens

✅ Sharp angles

✅ Towing capacity

and for those of you wondering, yes, they actually built them practically, yes, they really drive, and yes, they're glorious

[partywithponies]

Every time I see a cybertruck I just think that Elon Musk wants to be John DeLorean so bad.

Wacky futuristic sci-fi looking car that only comes in shiny steel-grey? Be so incredibly for real. You will never be the delorean.

[thefakerachelray]

I recently had the awful realization that if Back To The Future was made today the time machine would probably be a Tesla

[tesla-motors-official]

YOOOO THE DOORS OPEN????

[thestompinggroundshowappropriate]

MercedesBenz 300 SL Gullwing

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Daihatsu Akindo Concept, 1997. Presented at the 32nd Tokyo Motor Show, a prototype small delivery van with a folding gull-wing door on the side and conventionally hinged door at the rear.

[floofiestboy]

Conan Puzzle Voice Line Translations

The Conan Puzzle Match-3 gacha game has a number of voiced lines associated with its character cards. Most of these lines are anime lines or same-y game-related phrases, but there were a handful I thought were fun out of context too. I've translated them here.

[Best Friends Since Childhood] Morofushi Hiromitsu & Furuya Rei

Special Voice 1

Hiro: Woah, Zero! You sure know your way around a knife now!

Furuya: It's all thanks to you, Hiro- ow!

Hiro: That's no good. You need to curl your left hand like a cat's paw when you're cutting. You'll struggle if you ever work part-time at a café or anything if you don't fix that.

Furuya: Don't worry. I'll never work part-time at a café.

Hiro: Huh? But you might need to for an undercover assignment or-

Furuya: (stubborn, sing-songy) I definitely won't ever work at a café!

[T/N: "Curling your left hand like a cat's paw" is a common Japanese saying for how to hold your non-dominant hand when cutting vegetables.]

Special Voice 2

Furuya: Hiro! Where are you going?

Hiro: Matsuda asked me to go shopping.

Furuya: Shopping?

Hiro: He asked for a DVD called Steamy XXX Hot Springs Vacation. He said the clerk would give it to me if I told them the name. I wonder if it's a travel documentary?

Furuya: M-Matsuda, that bastard...

[A Mission They Can't Escape] Matsuda Jinpei & Furuya Rei

Special Voice 1

Furuya: Matsuda! Fix my alarm clock, would you?

Matsuda: Why?

Furuya: It rings an entire thirty minutes later than I set it to. That means I'm late waking you all up as well...

Matsuda: Isn't that a good thing? It means we can sleep in thirty minutes longer.

Furuya: Matsuda... don't tell me you were the one to break my clock...

Matsuda: *innocent whistling*

Special Voice 2

Matsuda: Zero! You call Morofushi "Hiro", yeah?

Furuya: Yes. We're childhood friends, after all.

Matsuda: Gimme a nickname too. Something cool like "Hiro" or "Zero".

Furuya: Hm, I wonder... what about "Ero"?

Matsuda: E-Ero?

Furuya: Don't you like it? It rhymes with Hiro and Zero too.

Matsuda: Please just stick with Matsuda.

[T/N: In case you're unaware, "ero" means perverted in Japanese.]

[Aiming To Become a Police Officer] Date Wataru & Furuya Rei

Special Voice 1

Furuya: Leader, I'm sure you know this already, but don't tell anyone I'm in Public Safety.

Date: Yeah. I'm telling anyone who asks that I dunno what you're doing or where.

Furuya: Thank you, leader. I'm currently infiltrating an extremely dangerous organization, after all.

Date: But still, drop me a line sometime, yeah? Only seeing you when we pay our respects to graves is kinda, y'know.

Furuya: Understood. Now then, I'll be seeing you next when we go pay our respects next year.

Date: Hey hey hey.

Special Voice 2

Furuya: Everyone was so shocked to learn you have a girlfriend.

Date: This again? You guys are way too shocked about this!

Furuya: Well, I thought it wouldn't be strange if you had a girlfriend.

Date: No, I'm pretty sure you were really shocked too.

[Childhood Friends Who Know Each Other Inside And Out] Matsuda Jinpei & Hagiwara Kenji

Special Voice 1

Hagiwara: Jinpei-chan!

Matsuda: What's up, Hagi?

Hagiwara: I'm going out on a blind group date again, but we don't have enough guys... lemme count on you again!

Matsuda: Don't wanna. You'll just take all the girls for yourself even if I go.

Hagiwara: I see... I guess I won't be showing you this video of my sister waking up in bed then...

Matsuda: That group date. Where, what date, and what time might it be? Kenji-kun.

Special Video 2

Hagiwara: Woaaaah, Jinpei-chan. You've sure got a lot disassembled here.

Matsuda: Hell yeah. It's super fun.

Hagiwara: It looks like a car, but... what are you planning to do to it?

Matsuda: I'm gonna give it gull-wing doors like a plane. Since he was going on about the Mitsubishi A6M Zero fighter jet and all.

Hagiwara: W-Wait, this car- don't tell me-

Matsuda: It's our demon instructor's RX-7!

[T/N: Gull-wing doors are doors that are hinged at the roof rather than the side (per Wikipedia)]

[A Dramatic Escape By The Skin Of Their Teeth] Hattori Heiji & Edogawa Conan

Special Voice 1

Hattori: This puzzle game sure is fun!

Conan: So, Hattori? What did you actually come here to do?

Hattori: Like I said, ta visit ya!

Conan: Huh? Just for that for real?

Hattori: Why not, eh? It's us!

Special Voice 2

Hattori: I gotchu now, Kudo!

Conan: Not so fast, Hattori.

Hattori: Well played... I'd expect no less from the Great Detective of the East!

Conan: But well, we're playing a puzzle game, not having a deductive battle...

[Executing a Top-Secret Mission] Kazami Yuuya & Furuya Rei

Special Voice 1

Furuya: Shall we go rest somewhere after this?

Kazami: Thank you for your consideration.

Furuya: Come now. We're going.

Kazami: Yes, sir!

Special Voice 2

Kazami: Thank you for your hard work. You were perfect again today, Furuya-san.

Furuya: Kazami. You did well.

Kazami: T-Thank you very much.

[The Santa Freeloading At the Kudo Mansion] Okiya Subaru

Special Voice 1

Okiya: Huh? You think I'm overexcited? I don't believe so. Though I'm certainly looking forward to Christmas.

[Merry Christmas!!] Edogawa Conan & Okiya Subaru

Special Voice 1

Okiya: So you're a reindeer? How nice.

Conan: I don't have a red nose though...

Special Voice 2

Conan: You made that cake, Subaru-san?

Okiya: It's Christmas, after all. I couldn't miss the opportunity.

Conan: You're surprisingly into this.

Akai Shuuichi (Various)

Voice Line

Akai: There's times when one can't speak the truth in order to protect someone. But if possible, I'd prefer not to lie to you.

Voice Line

Akai: I'd like to understand you more than anyone else, right by your side. So I'd like you to be sincere to your feelings in front of me as well.

Morofushi Hiromitsu (Various)

Voice Line

Hiro: It's important not to get too heated. Else, you might lose sight of what's truly precious to you.

Furuya Rei (Various)

Voice Line

Furuya: I feel quite the allure from you. It's normal to feel drawn to the strong, no?

Voice Line

Furuya: I trust you. So don't do anything to betray that trust, won't you?

Voice Line

Furuya: It's fine to throw yourself into solving puzzles, but I'd like you to pay some attention to me as well.

Voice Line

Furuya: Lies are sometimes necessary. Like lies you tell yourself in order to surpass your own limits.

Voice Line

Furuya: There's times when one must carry something through to the end, even if it means sacrifice.

Voice Line

Furuya: There's times when hatred can become one's strength. Though I can't say whether that's right.

Voice Line

Furuya: Forgoing sleep and food to throw yourself into something… there's times in this world when that's necessary.

[phillippadgettwrites]

Could you write a pre x-files hook up please? 🙈

December 31, 1984

Rated X / 3599 words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

December 31, 1984

College Park, MD

10:38 pm

The air is so thick with cigarette smoke and Drakkar Noir that it’s starting to give Mulder a headache. Or perhaps his headache is from the blare of highly synthesized music pounding against his eardrums, though at least the music serves to drown out his miserable thoughts. He swallows the last of his beer, wincing at how warm and sour it’s become as he nursed it over the course of at least ninety minutes. 

“You wanna another?” Adam slurs from beside him. 

Mulder turns to look at his friend, who is red-faced and glassy-eyed. He’s never understood how people can drink so heavily night after night and still manage to function, though he supposes that Adam might have lower standards of living than he does. 

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, leaning back and slinging his arm across the top of the cushioned bench on which he and Adam are seated. 

He surveys the room, which is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty twentysomethings in various stages of carnal pursuit. In a corner near the bathrooms, he spots a woman with her skirt hiked up around her hips and a man in a cheap flashy suit unmistakably working his dick through his open zipper in preparation to fuck her. Mulder looks away instinctively, but within seconds his eyes wander back over to them. They can’t reasonably be expecting privacy, can they? The man steps up close and bends his knees a little, and Mulder watches the woman’s face raptly as her mouth falls open before her eyes roll back in her head. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as his cock stirs, threatening an unwelcome erection.  

“Betcha don’t see that at Oxford,” Adam says loudly, jabbing Mulder in the ribs with his elbow. 

Mulder follows his line of sight to the very same couple he’d been watching. The woman now has her legs wrapped around the man’s hips and her arms around his neck, and he’s slamming into her sharply over and over. 

“No, can’t say that I do,” Mulder says dryly. 

Truthfully, he’d rather be back at Oxford than here in this smoky club with a childhood friend he now wonders what he ever had in common with. The invitation to spend Christmas break on Adam’s couch instead of on the Vineyard making awkward conversation with his mother sounded too good to be true, and so far it’s been exactly that. He feels lonely and homesick, and wildly out of place. 

“Fuck, I need to get some of that,” Adam says, openly gawking at the live pornography occurring in the corner of the room.

“Well, the night is young,” Mulder says encouragingly, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “But I think you’re going to have to actually talk to someone if you want to be getting laid by midnight.”

Adam heaves a blustering sigh. 

“You’re right. I’m gonna go find my girl,” he says with a cheesy but hopeful smile. 

Adam disappears into the sea of bodies and Mulder heads for the bar. It’s so crowded he has to elbow his way to the rail, then squeeze in sideways behind a man in a Thriller-esque red leather jacket. 

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks brusquely, barely looking at him.  

“Just water, please.”

The bartender makes a disapproving face before pouring a half-full glass of tepid water, no ice, and pushing it unceremoniously across the counter at him. 

“Thanks a lot,” Mulder says under his breath, but the bartender has already moved on. 

He sips at his water and tunes into the conversations occurring around him. Women laugh at decidedly unfunny jokes while men talk up their expensive degrees and trust funds, and Mulder shakes his head at how performative it all is. 

“My DeLorean is right outside, you know,” Red Leather Jacket is saying. “We could get outta here.”

“No thank you,” says a female voice from beside him. 

“Awe, come on! I bet you’ve never seen gull-wing doors on a car before, have you?” Red Leather says insistently. 

“I don’t think my boyfriend would approve,” the woman says. “In fact, I bet he’s looking for me.”

“Now you’re making up a boyfriend?” Red Leather scoffs. 

Mulder leans back and peeks around Red Leather Jacket’s shoulder to see the woman he’s addressing. She’s petite and looks quite young, though her sequined blue minidress and heavy makeup are a clear attempt to appear older. Her cinnamon hair is piled up on top of her head, and she’s nervously chewing on the straw in her glass as Red Leather Jacket berates her. Mulder gets the impression that this has been going on since long before he showed up. 

“I’m not making anything up,” she insists, but it’s as clear to Mulder as it is to Red Leather Jacket that she’s lying. 

“Listen, I get it,” Red Leather says to her, leaning in. “You don’t want me to think you’re easy. I’m willing to work for it, sweetheart.” He reaches out and lays his massive hand on her tiny shoulder, and the woman visibly recoils. 

Mulder takes two steps into the crowd and then turns back, forcing his way into the space beside the woman. When he reaches her, he slides his arm across the tops of her shoulders, knocking Red Leather’s hand away. The woman looks up at him sharply, and is opening her mouth to speak when he interrupts her. 

“Hey honey, I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says warmly, leaning down to drop a kiss to her cheek. She’s short as shit and she smells amazing, and when a confused smile blooms on her pouty mouth his heart skips two beats. 

“I thought you might be,” she says, catching on and threading her arm around his waist. 

Red Leather Jacket gapes at them for a beat, then turns on his heel and bulldozes his way through the crowd angrily. Mulder watches him go, his arm still around the woman’s shoulders and hers still around his waist. 

“Thank you,” the woman says, withdrawing her arm. 

Mulder follows suit reluctantly, stepping away from her and into the space vacated by Red Leather Jacket. 

“Happy to help,” he says lightly. “Didn’t seem like he was going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“No, it didn’t,” the woman says sadly, her eyes on the bartop. 

“I’m Fox, by the way,” he says, offering his hand. 

She lifts her eyes, which are incredibly blue, and looks him over dubiously before slipping her slender hand into his. Her palm is smooth and cold from her glass, and a little shiver runs up his spine. 

“Dana,” she says.

“Dana,” he repeats, testing out the weight of it on his tongue. Under the flashing lights he can see freckles on the bridge of her nose, and there’s something both incredibly youthful and incredibly sage about her. “I hope you don’t take offense to this, but are you…allowed to be in here?” he asks with a little cringe. 

She blinks at him, her expression unreadable. 

“I’m in here, aren’t I?” she finally says, quite haughtily, and he’s immediately smitten. 

“That you are,” he agrees. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Dana pivots her body away from the bar and towards him, which his behaviorist’s mind picks up on as a good sign. She tilts her face up and considers him openly, not at all disguising her skepticism. 

“That depends,” she says. “Does the drink come with strings attached? Explicit or otherwise?”

Mulder feels his cheeks warm. 

“No, not at all,” he says emphatically. “I mean, I was hoping for a conversation, but it’s not requisite. You can take the drink to go if you want.”

A tiny sliver of a smile teases one corner of her mouth, and she looks away. 

“Okay then,” she says. “Gin and tonic.”

-

“I have something to confess,” she shouts loudly in his ear to be heard over the music. Her tongue is thick in her mouth, adding emphasis to her already sibilant S’s. 

“I won’t tell anybody,” Mulder shouts back, equally inebriated. 

They’ve migrated to a table and she’s sitting so close to him she’s practically in his lap, which he keeps telling himself it’s just because the music is so loud and not because she’s interested in him. He also keeps reminding himself that she lives over 3,000 miles away and he’ll likely never see her again. Dana. Navy brat. Pre-med. Five feet and three inches of sass and intellect. He’s known her for a little over an hour and it feels like a year. He even met her sister, for Christ’s sake.

“I’m not actually allowed to be in here,” she tells him, her lips grazing the shell of his ear and her hot breath sending shockwaves straight to his groin. 

His stomach drops out a little. Not that he’s done anything untoward beyond buying her alcohol, but he’s certainly had a series of indecent thoughts about her that he wouldn’t have indulged in had he known she was underage. 

She leans away and, seeing the look on his face, grabs his forearm and smiles a megawatt, dazzling smile. 

“My twenty-first birthday is in less than two months,” she explains, and he blows out a stream of air through pursed lips. 

“You scared me for a second there,” he says, noting that her hand is still on his arm. 

“Why, were you hoping to take me home?” she asks.

He slowly lifts his eyes to hers. She’s smiling, though not in a way that makes him think the question was meant to be taken as a joke. Perhaps she was testing the waters to see how he’d react. 

“No,” he says, and a flash of embarrassment crosses her face. “But only because I’m crashing on my buddy’s couch, so I don’t really have a home to take you to.”

She laughs loudly, and his heart clutches. 

TEN! NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN! SIX!

They both startle and look around as the entire room begins to shout in unison. 

FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!

They’ve been so engrossed in conversation he hadn’t even realized it was almost midnight. 

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Her mouth is a hot, wet surprise. Her tongue, her teeth, the evergreen bite of gin on her breath, her hands possessively cupping his jaw. He’s startled, and then delighted, and then enamored because she kisses like it’s the main event. They keep kissing long after the rest of the room has moved on, long enough that his hands are drifting up her pantyhose-covered thighs and under the hem of her dress, and he’s no longer trying to hide the erection tenting the front of his slacks. 

Dana pulls away from him abruptly and his mouth hangs open, stupefied. Her lipstick is smeared all around her mouth and her pupils are wide and dark. 

“My apartment is a five minute walk from here and my roommate went home for break,” she says breathlessly, and Mulder nods. 

The walk is actually only three minutes if you’re drunk, horny, and highly motivated. By the fifth minute he’s already inside her living room, scraping his arms to shit on her sequined dress as he wrestles it off her. Pantyhose, bra, some seriously sexy little black panties that he might take more time to appreciate were his balls not about to explode. All are tossed to the floor en route to her bedroom, and his cock is in her mouth shortly thereafter. 

Thank god he’s drunk. Thank god, because her mouth is like a siphon and she keeps looking up at him, those brilliant blue eyes so full of lust he wishes he could come twice. She doesn’t seem inclined to stop, so he finally begs for mercy and asks if he can return the favor. She’s reluctant, bashful all of a sudden, and he doesn’t push. Instead he slips his hand between her thighs and audibly groans at how wet she is. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, teasing the pad of his middle finger around her opening. He feels her flutter against him and she lets out a ragged sigh. 

“Okay,” she says breathily, momentarily confusing him. “You can if you want. But you don’t have to.”

Approximately three minutes later she’s coming in his mouth, her fingers twisted up so tightly in his hair it actually hurts. 

“Oh god, oh god,” she keeps saying over and over, and he’s so pleased with himself he smiles right against her cunt. 

He isn’t expecting to get laid. This is partly because he doesn’t get the sense that she has a lot of casual sex, and partly because of the way her eyes widened when she pulled his cock out of his slacks—not impressed, but intimidated. He can’t blame her; she’s probably ninety-five pounds soaking wet and he’s aware that he’s well above average. If she’s courteous enough to finish him off with a handjob, he’ll consider himself one lucky S.O.B.

His chin is still wet from her slippery cunt when she pushes his shoulder back and climbs on top of him. She’s surprisingly strong, as small as she is, and there’s a condom in her hand that he doesn’t remember her retrieving. She sits proudly in his lap, his cock standing at attention in front of the patch of ginger curls between her legs, and casts him a drunkenly nervous glance. 

“I’ve never—” she starts, and he feels a flash of adrenaline. 

“We don’t have to,” he interjects, and she quirks her head at him. 

“I’m not a virgin,” she corrects him, clearly mildly offended, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “But I’ve never…I’m honestly not sure it’s gonna fit,” she finally says, deadpan, and he laughs. 

“Valid concern,” he says. He reaches up to push her hair behind her ear and she briefly closes her eyes. “Whatever you wanna do, I’m game. You’re the boss.”

She nods, considering him for a moment, and then unwraps the condom. 

Even through his drunken haze, he’s touched by how much she seems to trust him. He lies perfectly still, feasting with his eyes as she lifts her hips and reaches between her legs to line him up. Slowly, slowly, slowly she sinks down on him, inch by delicious inch, pausing now and then to kiss him while her body adjusts. Finally, he feels the slight weight of her settle fully against his pelvis, and she sighs contentedly. 

“Ta da,” she says in a singsong voice, and he looks up at her sweetly smiling face. 

“Congratulations,” he says tightly. 

She laughs and her cunt laughs too, quivering around him and making him moan. She leans forward and her entire demeanor shifts, her girlish smile giving way to a decidedly naughty smirk as she draws her hips up a little and then sinks back down. 

“Jesus Christ,” Mulder hisses, his hands on her hips and his fingers digging desperately into the flesh there. 

“I don’t think he’d approve of this,” Dana says, her voice high and syrupy. 

They don’t speak any more after that. The slow rise and fall of her hips steadily increases in pace until she’s slipping haphazardly forward and back, eyes closed, mouth open, eyebrows drawn together in an expression of pure bliss. Mulder tries to think about absolutely anything but the strangling grip she has on him, how wet she is, how tight, how beautiful. He’s not sure if she can come again, not sure if she even wants to, he just knows he doesn’t want this to end. 

“Oh, I’m coming,” she says suddenly, seeming surprised, and he is gone before he has a split second to consider otherwise. His shoulders lurch up off the mattress, every muscle in his body contracts, and feeling her coming around him while he is also coming is one of the most intense sexual experiences of his life to date. 

She collapses against him, their hammering hearts pounding at each other through their respective rib cages, and he rubs one hand over her back as he fights to stay awake in his drunken, post-orgasmic state. 

“That was incredible,” he remembers hearing her mumble, and then nothing. 

-

He wakes up disoriented and with a pounding headache. It’s not that he doesn’t remember it—thankfully, he remembers everything—but that it feels like a dream. 

He’s naked, which is to be expected, and the mattress beside him is empty and cold. When he throws back the covers to begin the search for his underwear, he finds that the condom is still snugly wrapped around his flaccid cock, the tip of it heavy with congealing semen. This he finds borderline disgusting, and immediately he wonders if Dana woke to the image of him splayed out naked on her bed with a spent condom hanging off his dick, which makes his cheeks warm with embarrassment. He finds a tissue and removes the offending item, then slowly gets dressed as nausea begins to creep in. 

When he opens the bedroom door he finds the apartment quiet, though if he strains his ears he can hear the ruffle of a newspaper. He darts into the bathroom to splash water on his face and use some of her toothpaste as makeshift mouthwash before he finds her in the kitchen. 

She’s seated on a stool at the counter, her posture ramrod straight and a pair of gold rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She looks up when she hears his footsteps and he’s struck by how different she looks. There isn’t a stitch of makeup on her face, which is much more freckled than he realized last night at the bar, and her mouth devoid of lipstick is still tantalizingly pink and plump. She has a decidedly “girl next door” quality about her, and a wide grin breaks out over his face. 

“Hi,” he says, and she folds up the newspaper and removes her glasses before she replies.

“Good morning,” she says, meeting his eye in short bursts. “There’s coffee, if you’d like some. Mugs are in the cabinet above the pot.”

“Thanks,” he says with a bob of his head, but makes no move to take her up on the offer.

There’s an awkward silence wherein he tries to make eye contact and she diligently avoids it. Eventually she clears her throat and forces herself to look at him. 

“I…” she starts, then pauses and runs her tongue across her bottom lip. “I know this sounds cliche, but I feel like I should tell you that I really don’t do…that. Or at least I never have before.”

He understands what she means, but can’t resist the urge to try and get a laugh out of her. 

“So you were a virgin, then?” he asks, and she snaps her head up to look at him, her expression of alarm fading into one of feigned irritation when she sees the smile on his face. She rolls her eyes and it feels like a victory. 

“I’ve never slept with someone I just met,” she clarifies.

Mulder shrugs. 

“Neither have I,” he says. 

She narrows her eyes at him skeptically. 

“Why do I find that hard to believe?” she asks. 

Mulder crosses the rest of the room and perches on the stool beside her. 

“I don’t know, why do you?” he asks. 

She gives him a long look with her blonde eyelashes and the bluest irises he’s ever seen up close. 

“I guess…” she begins, then looks at her lap. “I guess I figured if it was that easy for you to get me into bed, it must be something you do often,” she admits. 

For a fraction of a second he worries that he pressured her into something she didn’t want, but his memory is sharp enough to quickly correct him. 

“I know I was pretty hammered last night, but I could have sworn it was you who got me into bed,” he chides her gently, being careful to keep any judgment out of his voice. 

She peeks up at him from beneath those blonde lashes, and he honestly can’t tell whether she’s proud or ashamed. Maybe both. 

“I can only imagine what you must think of me,” she says, her tone unreadable.

She’s so fascinating to him, though he can’t quite pin down why. He wants to know her, but suspects that knowing her isn’t easy to do.  

“I think you’re smart, and beautiful, and I wish I didn’t live on the other side of the Atlantic,” he says, quite plainly, and while she does not look at him he can see that she’s smiling. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. 

He doesn’t stay long, not wanting to put her in the position of having to ask him to go. Before he leaves, he writes his mother’s address on the back cover of a Glamour magazine and tells her he’ll likely be moving back to The States after he graduates this spring. He doesn’t ask her to contact him, and she doesn’t make any empty promises that she will. 

She walks him to the door and she’s even shorter than she’d been the night before without her heels on. He lingers at the threshold, not feeling quite ready to say goodbye. 

“Would it be okay if I kissed you?” he asks, and her mouth quirks with an almost-smile. 

She nods, and they share a chaste but lingering kiss before he walks back to the club where his car is parked, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face every step of the way. 

[wishcamper]

Nessian Week Day 3 - Symphony

For the third day of @nessianweek, here's a sweet lil snip of post-canon domestic Nessian.

Photo is of Old Town in Dubrovnik, Croatia, which is how I always picture Velaris.

Read here or on ao3!

Five More Minutes

Post-ACOSF slice of life of Nesta enjoying the sounds of the morning (and avoiding getting up).

’T is you that are the music, not your song. The song is but a door which, opening wide, Lets forth the pent-up melody inside, Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong Sing but of you. 

- 'Listening', Amy Lowell

—-

Dawn breaks, cresting the mountains, light spilling over the world. Velaris comes alive in fits and starts, and the harbor bell clangs as sailors bring in their first catch of the day, gulls crying out their envy overhead. The world is waking around her, but Nesta keeps her eyes closed beneath the heavy coverlet. Her stubbornness refuses to entertain the day, not yet.

Cassian seems to agree, though he’ll never admit it. A groan rumbles somewhere behind her, incoherent mumblings of her mate rousing, emerging from the depths of sleep into the day. Nesta hears the slide of sheets, a rustle of wings, then a muffling as he drapes one over her, cocooned for a moment while he presses closer and noises of lazy contentment fill her ear.

He’s warm, always, a furnace in their bed. They both remember the cold too well to sleep any way but right up next to each other, especially on mornings like this, when the air inside carries the chill of late autumn.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, his deep voice thick and fuzzy.

She pretends to be asleep, partly because she wishes she still was, but mostly to draw this out as long as possible. To hear the sweet murmurings Cassian pours over her when he believes her most unguarded, when he tries to reach her dreams.

A broad hand strokes up her side, coming to rest across her stomach. Careful, so as not to wake her. “Fuck, you smell good. And you're so soft. I’m so lucky to wake up next to you.”

Words she’d roll her eyes at in the day, especially if someone else were to overhear, pretty declarations easy enough to toss like flower petals. But in seclusion they manage to travel the distance between his lips and her ear without losing their potency, and Nesta feels them sink in, loosening a muscle in her shoulder.

“Beautiful Nes. You’re so precious to me.”

Cassian holds her for a bit longer, and she listens to the steady tide of his breath so slow and even. It’s punctuated every now and then by his sighs of pleasure, evidence of the way she softens him too in this quiet, liminal place that’s only theirs. 

After a time he rises, the bed’s creaking followed by a thump of the House producing his training leathers. Water runs in the bathing chamber, a splash in the sink, then the scrape of a comb through unruly hair before the endless series of clasps and buckles. Nesta can picture in her mind where each one sits, the high ping of the clip at his shoulder, hard snaps at his sides where the back panel secures to accommodate his wings. Cassian hums under his breath as he dresses, some tune she can’t place, though it might’ve drifted from her symphonia sometime the evening before. The well-worn sofa groans when he sits to don his boots.

The sequence is the same most mornings, but memories still haunt Nesta in these moments of ease, phantoms skulking about in her periphery. It’s hard to forget how she used to wake all at once, like an arrow shot through the morning air, to the cacophony of her mother screeching at a house servant. Or else the horrible quiet that followed, the dense void of her absence.

She woke mustily in the summer in the hovel they called home, the drone of insects and the rank, still air, Elain’s trowel piercing the earth under the windowsill. In colder months there was nothing but the roar of the wind, whistles through the chinks, the grind of her own teeth from trying not to shiver.

All of it was better than waking in the dead of night to Feyre’s pleading, heavy thuds of the clubs and bone crunching, their father’s wretched silence. Then years later the door splintering, the growling of a great beast.

At the funeral for her old life she woke to the rip of curtains around her bed, shouts and taunts as they yanked her drowsy and disoriented from the sheets, from the manor, from her body. Then the fatal press of water in her ears, poison boiling, her own choked snarls of rage.

After that came a long series of mornings that were not actually mornings at all, afternoons when she rose sticky with sweat, a pounding headache like war drums rattling her skull. Days she prayed to stop hearing the snap of her father’s neck in the fire, the ghosts of the past wailing for retribution. Nights when solace lived only in the shuffle of cards, the glug of wine into a waiting glass. The moans of another faceless male.

Yet even in the darkness there was music. Ever since she was a girl, a tune plays at the edge of her dreams that she can’t quite catch, can never quite remember. Always the same, always soft and close, as if someone lays beside her, filling her with safety and peace.

Now the world is quiet, within and without. Nesta barely notices she’s drifted back into sleep, so she’s surprised when heavy footsteps approach her side of the bed. There’s a clink when the House places a cup and saucer on the bedside table, tea she knows will stay perfectly warm until she’s ready to rise herself. Her legs shift, whispering against the sheets as they search for the heated spot Cassian always leaves behind.

“You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, brushing stray hairs from her forehead. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

She hears the smile in his voice, the tenderness he saves just for her. The kisses he drops on her face are like the patter of spring rain, his rumbling laugh the answering thunder when she presses her cheek against his lips so she can really feel them.

Her fae ears pick up conversation in the hallway, Azriel and Gwyn either coming or going, though it’s impossible to tell which. Cassian’s leathers creak as he sits up but she feels him linger there, the rasp of a calloused hand stroking up and down her back. 

“I hope you have a good day. I love you.”

He traces the point of her ear, tugging lightly at the lobe before he stands and his footsteps retreat. Then the snick of the door, their friends greeting him on the landing, Emerie’s voice now joining the chorus.

She doesn’t ever want to stop listening to this, Nesta thinks, these sounds of home. Dawn chases away the phantoms and no one screeches or pleads or drowns in silence. All is in harmony, now the music of her life feels worth waking to hear.

In the moment before her eyes open, a tune floats by from the edge of her dreams, the same one Cassian was humming. It sounds as if someone is beside her in bed, soft, and close.

[areyoudreaminof]

ACOTAR GIFT EXCHANGE

Beyond: a Helion x LoA fic for @spell-cleavers

For the @acotargiftexchange I was thrilled to write this fic for @spell-cleavers who just so happens to be one of my very favorite people. Getting to know her over the course of this year has been such a joy, so I wanted to writer her something special. And by special, I mean I wrote my first ever smut scene. Can you believe?? Special thanks to @iambutmortal and @rosanna-writer for the beta help, and @separatist-apologist for allowing me to have a fun little cameo.

The Lady of Autumn has agreed to come live at the Autumn Court, though seems hesitant. Can Helion convince her that she belongs at his side?

And here's a little playlist!

She shines me up like gold on my arm I wanna take it slow but it's so hard I love to see her face in daylight It's more than just our bodies at night

Do you think I'm being foolish if I don't rush in?

Beyond-Leon Bridges

MORNING: 

Helion Spell-Cleaver was feeling a bit unhinged. It wasn’t a surprise, since he had been looking forward to this for centuries. But still, he was teetering on the edge of his sanity. 

It couldn’t have been a more perfect day, though. The sun rose over the Day Court, cloudless skies stretching from the far valleys and hills in the east to the rocky coast and the city of Naxopolis. Groves of orange and fig trees surrounded the sandstone palace, brushing up against its white pillars and walls. The smells of citrus and trees were deepened by the warmth from the sun and a cool breeze from the turquoise sea. From the balcony, Helion watched the early morning sunlight reflect off the waves like small golden flecks. The room was peacefully quiet and open. Helion was certain when he had chosen the large and spacious suite, she would love it. 

Now, he wasn’t so sure. 

She had never seen the sea, she had told him once, many, many years ago, when they had only met under cover of darkness in the far corners of the Autumn lands. He chose the large wing of rooms as soon as she had agreed to move to the Day Court. Helion wanted a fresh start for them both. 

They had each other again. They had their son, Lucien, who had agreed to stay too. Though, Helion would admit only to himself that he wasn’t letting his son and his mate out of his sight again. Never again would Thérèse be stuck in Autumn, never again would she be under anyone’s control. The members of his court were thrilled when he had found Lucien, and they were equally as thrilled when Helion announced his mate would finally come home. 

But as he heard the soft cries of morning gulls, and the city coming to life below him, Helion’s doubts slithered back into his mind. 

Will she even like it here? Will she ask Eris to take her back? She left once. 

Yes, but that was to save us, and to save our son.  Helion reminded himself as he took steadying breaths to calm his speeding heart. And I am not that monster. I will never force her. I am at her service. 

A soft knock at the door brought him back to the morning. Costis, his butler, entered with a soft robe of linen in his arms. The satyr’s hooves clicked sharply on the tile, as he draped the ivory fabric chiton across a chair. 

“Good Morning, my Lord. We’ve received word from Velaris, and the Lady Thérèse will be arriving with your son and his mate promptly at eleven o’clock.” Costis announced, crossing the room to bow. “Her personal items will be sent here. 

Helion nodded once, quickly attempting to clear his mind. “Is everything else in order?” 

“Yes, your Grace. The food is being prepared as well as the smaller dining balcony in the northwest wing. Nothing much is happening in the city, and The Magus has predicted fine weather for today. Perfect to show Lady Thérèse her new home,” the satyr said as he removed the sleeping robe from Helion’s shoulders. “I can send up for breakfast, unless you prefer to wait.” 

“I’ll wait, thank you,” Helion said. He hardly had an appetite anyway. 

Costis began to dress Helion, expertly wrapping the toga around him. The soft mix of linen and cotton promised a warmer day, the fabric hitting just above his knees. Enough to tempt, but not enough to scandalize. As Costis fetched his sandals, Helion removed the silk wrap from his head, satisfied that his hair still looked perfect. He had removed the ornaments from his locs for the occasion, instead opting for a small golden thread woven throughout his hair, tying it back with a leather strap. Helion placed a golden sun band on each bicep, cuffs on his wrists, and the small bronze ring Thérèse had given him five centuries ago. Striding to the mirror, Helion took in his reflection. He wore no crown, his toga was simple, and he was unadorned. He looked like the same male that went to the Equinox ball all those centuries ago. 

The sharp clang of steel and bronze bells from the Magus’s tower rang, indicating it was half past ten. Helion straightened and took a deep breath. He had been planning this day for weeks, no, centuries. He was ready. “Costis, remind me of the possible itinerary I had drawn up.” 

READ THE REST ON AO3

[basicallyjaywalker]

Trying To Make Something Out of Clay

It only took me getting back at school to finish editing this! I am not kidding good grief

Anyways! At long last @cboffshore I deliver you: JAY! my specialty

Prompt: Jay, Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham, eagle, fastidious, pardon, clay, separation, earthquake, and protest

AO3 Link

Fic also under the cut!

Pottery classes wouldn’t have been Jay’s first idea for a birthday gift to himself, but he could never dodge his mother’s chipper voice in his head. 

Coupons! They’re like an excuse to do things. Always keep your eyes out for the real deals… From there, she’d go into a spiel about good versus bad deals, ones designed to make you spend money rather than save it, and eventually that would develop into discussions of unit prices and store brands and what-have-you about “mother’s know-how.” 

All that to say, when the coupon came in for “Free Pottery Lessons!” with the purchase of a starter pack, Jay knew how to calculate the value. Cost was the starter pack, lessons would cover all of the basics of pottery, he would be able to make more cool gifts for his friends and family… worth it. Plus, the studio said once he finished his lessons, he was still welcome to come back and use their equipment to mold and fire the clay. Plus plus, if he decided he didn’t like it, he could always use the clay and tools in the starter kit for another project. No matter what, there wasn’t a way to lose! His mom would be so proud. 

And that was how he ended up sitting in front of a clay-stained table, almost a month after his birthday, sculpting. Now Nya’s birthday was coming up and he was making her a seagull figurine. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten to the “figurine” part in his basics classes, so Jay was having to wing it with what he knew. However, what he knew seemed to be very lumpy and not very gull-like. 

He frowned, examining the vaguely bird-shaped lump of clay on the table. Its legs were short and thick, holding the uneven, bulbous body up off the table. Jay had thought he made wings, but they seemed to be lost within the sinking mass. The head was little more than a drooping oval, the end of which molded into the torso much too high up (or maybe this gull's neck was just in the middle of its spine). 

… Yeah, he couldn’t pass this off as a seagull. He could barely pass it off as a bird. Maybe he should just make Nya something else.

 Just as he reached to put his tools up, the studio door opened behind him and he spun around to see his teacher, Kat, in her clay stained apron.

“Ah, pardon me,” She smiled at him and raised her hand in a wave, it was stained reddish orange, “just grabbin’ somethin’ for my next group. Whatcha makin’?”

“Something for Nya,” Jay said, trying to shield the misshapen heap from her view. The light-up grin on Kat’s face told him he failed. 

“What a lovely turtle! I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“It’s supposed to be a seagull.”

“Oh.” 

Jay sighed. “Yeah, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Well,” she clapped her hands together, sending a few splatters of rust-colored clay flying, ”trust the process! It’ll turn out swell, I’m sure. Do you need a reference?”

“That might help,” was what he said out loud. What he thought was, I know what a seagull looks like. I don’t think looking at another one is going to help. Still, he managed to hold his tongue. As much as he liked Kat, some days, her teaching just bugged him. She always went on about “the process.” Trust the process! Everything looks bad until it’s done! Sometimes, it even looks bad after, it’s just the artist's way. 

As she left the room, Jay continued ruminating on that idea. Trust the process. He stared at the ugly lump on his table. He wasn’t sure “the process” could save this one. Still, he supposed giving it a try was better than giving up. 

Frowning, he tried to fix the head, adding some clay to make it rounder, more… sharp? Less like a turtle. A few globs there, a dab here, some shaping… hey! Now that was a seagull. The legs could use some carving, but they were sleeker now; he could actually make out the shape of wings in the blobby body, and the neck wasn’t coming out of the middle of the spine! Jay could almost envision the thing trying to steal his french fries on the beach, as long as he was squinting really, really hard. Slowly, he drew his hands away.

Immediately, the head drooped and detached from the rest of the body.

“Oh, come on!” Jay exclaimed just as Kat walked back in and interrupted what was about to be a long string of words about the clay, gravity, and the concept of seagulls in general. In her hands she cradled a majestic gull perched on a rock, caught mid-caw.

“This is from one of our old students. She left it here and never came back, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you used it as reference.”

“Thanks.” Jay took the figurine and examined it. It was a simple shape, lots of round circles, and some small details for the wings and feet. It looked easy enough to make. Looked being the keyword. 

Kat looked at the self-decapitated bird and tilted her head. “Fix-it attempt gone horribly, horribly wrong?”

He nodded, pursing his lips. 

“You’ll get it,” she said, spirited as ever, “it just takes some time to master, y’know? New skills and all that.”

He nodded again. She’d told him the same thing during his first few lessons, when the teacup he tried to make for Master Wu ended up looking more like a soup bowl made by an avant-garde artiste. He knew she was right, it was just the way learning went, but it didn’t stop the nagging irritation he felt staring at the pathetic pile of muddy material in front of him. 

“I’ve gotta get my next class started, lemme know if you need anything else.”

One last nod and Kat was gone, leaving him alone again. Jay sat down and continued to stare at the distended body. He placed his new reference next to it and felt the minute bit of confidence that sprouted from his forming gull fly away. 

Maybe he could pass his off as a seagull that went through a tsunami or earthquake. Then again, that felt a little too morbid. Maybe a mutant seagull, left alive to propagate his species after a nuclear apocalypse wiped out the rest, save for him and the perfect specimen sat beside him, a symbol of a simpler time? 

No, that was too far-fetched. 

Sighing, Jay figured his best way out was to start from scratch. He pushed the majestic reference gull out of the blast radius before slamming his fist down on his failure. The wet clay gave easily under the force, body and head merging into one flat, knuckle-imprinted puddle. Jay knew it wasn’t necessary—and rather messy—to do it this way, but it allowed him some sort of catharsis. That alone made it worth the bit of splash onto his apron and face. 

Now, he could start again. 

His hands started to shape the clay, eyes focused on the reference as he tried to imitate the product in front of him. He didn’t need the rock, just the bird. That was enough of a change to keep it from being plagiarism, right? Could you plagiarize a clay sculpture?

As he worked, his mind wandered. Initially, it was just about the concept of plagiarism and if copying the reference counted. He was pretty sure he watched a video recently on that. Could one plagiarize an artstyle the same way they plagiarized research? Then it moved to the feeling of the clay. It squished under his hands like mud, but held like a sand castle. He used to build sand castles in his yard, when he was too young to help his parents build their various projects. His mom would give him a water bottle and tell him his job was to make a palace for the nearby ants to live in. Jay took his job very seriously, working fastidiously far after his parents went inside and even when Edna tried to call him in for dinner. He never truly mastered the art, despite various attempts to mimic the grandiose castles he saw in the storybooks his father used to lull him to sleep. His castles always ended up a solid mound. No doors, no windows, and definitely no rooms where the creatures nearby could rest. 

Well, that little memory didn’t bode well for this project. 

Jay clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on the task at hand, but still his thoughts swirled about his head like a storm. He was good at so many things, how come castles and seagulls outsmarted him? He was an inventor, for First’s sake! Sure, he fell out of practice recently, but he’d done it his whole life! Surely no one loses skills that fast, right? All his years of practice should amount to something, should translate to making a clay bird? But wires and gears and cogs were so much different than clay. They were rigid, fixed. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle and always worked as intended. They were predictable. Clay wasn’t like that. It morphed not only under the weight of its creator’s hands, but under its own. Sometimes, it held its shape perfectly, strong like a tree in a storm. Other times, as Jay experienced over his time learning to sculpt pots and cups, it drooped or flattened or folded itself over like a cloud rolling over the horizon. Capricious, that’s the word he would use to describe it. Clay was capricious.

Okay, maybe inventing wasn’t his best comparison. He rifled through his skills toolbox again. An art form would serve better as a comparison. Painting? Paints could be difficult too. When he first started learning, driven by the small pieces his father used to make of the night sky, he hated it. The paints always turned to a muddy mess on his canvases, leading him to ruin more than one still-wet attempt by throwing it into the sand. He only got the hang of it after sitting down with his dad one day, both of them looking to capture a gorgeous eagle that landed in their junkyard. It was rare to see them in the Sea of Sands, as they preferred the shores of Ninjago more, but here this one was, perched on a pile of scrap his dad pulled out for a project the day before. At first, Jay didn’t understand why his dad had a sketchbook and pencil out or why he took a picture of the bird. Instead, Jay went straight to trying to capture its glossy feathers and curved beak, only to be vexed when the browns and whites he was using merged into one murky beige. He tried to fix it, but the problem only worsened until, with a yell, he scribbled over the whole thing in black. The commotion frightened the bird away, which only served to heighten Jay’s frustration. Great. Great! The bird was gone. Now he had to remember what it looked like to try and paint it again. 

That was when his father picked up his painting, examining the mess he made. He commented on how they would have to repurpose the canvas for something else and Jay felt a hot flush of shame hit his cheeks. He apologized for his outburst, but his dad just patted his head and sat with him. He explained how painting wasn’t just about putting paint on the canvas, but how you needed a sketch to start with so you could have an idea of how to make the picture by hand, how to plan your layers so your colors wouldn’t all mix, and how to control your brush so there were no stray bumps in the smooth lines. Jay still didn’t fully get it, but this time he actually finished the painting. It was rough, looking closer to a pigeon than an eagle, but it was dry and not covered in sand. His dad hung it up in their living room. 

Maybe Jay could draw on his painting skills. Paint was finicky, often felt like it had a mind of its own. Surely, there was something within this childhood memory that could help him out now?

Splat.

The noise roused Jay from his thoughts. In his daydreaming, he’d pulled the neck of the gull out too thin and the head—which was just a little bead at the end of the spaghetti string—now drooped on the table. 

Dammit. 

Jay squished the horror noodle back into the body and checked his watch. The place closed in an hour. He’d made no progress. His deadline wasn’t imminent (Nya’s birthday wasn’t for another few weeks) but it still weighed heavy on his mind. He wanted to get something done today, before Kat asked him to clean up. There was no telling when an attack on Ninjago might drag him away from this, swallowing his time and bringing the date closer and closer until he was forced to rush the project to completion.

Change of plans. He wasn’t good at sculpting, but he wasn’t willing to switch to painting. He was going to make the most of this studio and his work so far. He was good at engineering. He stared at the clay. This gull wasn’t a sculpture, it was a… a machine! Like Zane’s Falcon. Yeah, he could work with that.

First step of the process, separate the parts. Separation was easy, since the limbs of this bird seemed intent on breaking apart. There was the head, the wings, the feet, the torso… he could break those down further! The head had eyes, a beak, feathers on top? Little hairs? Whatever. The point was, he could break it down. He could maybe get somewhere with that.

What next? He had the parts, now he had to figure out how they fit together. The bird needed a base, otherwise its feet would be too small for its body (or alternatively, to support itself its feet would need to be comically large, which must’ve been why the original had a rock base). Then, the torso rested on the feet. The wings then melded to the torso, becoming almost part of it. The head was connected by the neck, which needed to be enough to set it apart from the body, but not too long and skinny that it would fall. That’s where his issue was. The first-forsaken neck. Solve that, he solved the whole thing.

Maybe he was a genius. Maybe he’d finally cracked the code! …Okay, maybe he already knew that was the problem, but breaking it down helped! The storm in his brain calmed and he could focus his attention on the task at hand: fixing this stupid bird before Kat—

“Hey, Jay!”

Are you kidding me?

Kat bounded over, her apron, arms, and even parts of her face stained orangish brown with clay. She grinned from ear to ear as she settled back into her spot across from Jay. “How’s it going?”

“Eh, fine. I’m just trying to figure out how to make the neck work.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t figure out how to make it look like a neck, y’know? Like… How do birds even function? I know their necks aren’t super complicated, but it’s like I put the head on and it all goes splat!”

“Have you been using an armature?” 

“...what?” 

Kat burst into giggles. “You’ve not been using an armature this entire time? It’s what helps the clay keep its shape. You’ve been freeballing it?”

“I didn’t know!” Jay protested. This whole time he’d been missing a key part of the body—robotic, flesh, or clay—skeleton! Muscles! That’s why the stupid bird kept self-decapitating! It had no bones! How hadn’t I realized?!

Kat leaned over, examining the bird while Jay’s face cycled through shades of red. “Well, in that case, as an act of freestanding feathered figurine formation, you haven’t done a half bad job.” She held her hand out. “And if you can come back tomorrow, I’ll show you how to make a wire armature. Then, we can get you going on this project, for real this time. Deal?”

“I’ll try to make it.” Jay sighed and held his hand out, still covered in clay. “Deal.”

After a messy handshake, Jay washed, put away his tools, gathered his things, and left. The late afternoon sun hung lazily above the horizon, not ready to dip fully out of sight, leaving the sky a brilliant, cloudless azure. The golden light reflected off the lush zelkova trees that lined the sidewalk outside, turning the leaves chartreuse. Crickets chirped quietly at their feet and in their branches, warming up for their song later in the evening. Other than that, the streets were quiet. Warm rays hit his face and he sighed. In the distance, he could smell something cooking, maybe a barbecue in the residential area a few blocks over? His stomach growled. It really was time for him to head home.

Tomorrow, he’d come back and make an armature. Then, that stupid bird would finally come into form. 

All things considered, Jay figured he made good on that coupon. Free figurine lessons! And he didn’t even have to buy a second kit. Plus, something about working, letting his thoughts roam free… Jay wasn’t sure what it was, but he was excited to go back there soon, and there wasn’t much more to say about that.

[slushiepizza]

small giovanni/tricky ricky (escaped audios) drabble rating : t tags : mentions of sexual activity but only implied and hinted, infidelity, implied homophobia & internalized homophobia The day was warm and the sunlight dappled on the sheets as the curtains ebb and flow from the Sicilian breeze. Giovanni stared at Ricky as he snored. The consigliere was hulking muscle around strong bones, sinews around joints. He curled into his hulking self like a child, like a question mark. The nights they share were all-fiery passion and eager hands- but this, this. To Giovanni, this is sacred. The moment, gossamer-soft like a butterfly's wing and just as fleeting. Back in New Jersey, Ricky only dared to love him when nobody's watching. He was a badly kept secret, a hound in the shadows that nipped at the heels of Ricky's fifty-years of marriage. But here-

Here, In this moment, He's free. Like the gulls reaching for the ocean outside of their window. Soon, Annamaria, his lover's beloved will be home with her daughters after the excursion into town. And Ricky will greet her with the same lips that kissed him behind closed doors, the smile reaching to his eyes and his laugh that rattled his ribcage. Giovanni will once again play the role of the dog, the unmoving stone against the currents of grief running through his being. But right now, on the bed with linen sheets, Giovanni is a lover.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Oldsmobile Golden Rocket

The Oldsmobile Golden Rocket was a two-seater show car built by Oldsmobile for the 1956 General Motors Motorama. The radically styled fiberglass concept, designed to resemble a rocket on wheels, was revised several times and displayed at various other auto shows, most notably at the 1957 Paris Motor Show where it generated much fanfare, 18 months after it was first revealed. The car was featured in the promotional short film Design for Dreaming along with the rest of the 1956 General Motors lineup.

Exterior

Similar to other Space Age show cars, the Golden Rocket was heavily influenced by the themes of aviation and space exploration. Its sleek, aerodynamic body was made entirely of lightweight fiberglass and finished in metallic bronze paint. Bullet-shaped chrome pieces resembling Dagmar bumpers were integrated into the front fenders in place of headlights as well as the sweeping rear fenders, giving the car an overall rocket-like appearance. Other notable features include a swept-back wrap-around windshield, which had already become a common design element by the mid-1950s, less prominent tailfins by contemporary standards and a split-window fastback roof design presaging the 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray. It rode on unique "dotted-line" whitewall tires. A later photo taken inside the GM Design Center in Warren, Michigan shows the car sporting a blue paint scheme.

Interior

The leather upholstery was finished in blue and gold. When a door was opened, the two-piece roof panel rose automatically in a similar manner to the Mercedes-Benz 300 SL's gull-wing doors. The seats were raised up by three inches and swiveled outwards by 45 degrees, enabling easier access to the passenger compartment. One of its most pioneering innovations was the button-controlled tilt steering wheel, making it one of the first vehicles with such a feature. The speedometer was placed at the center of the foldable two-spoke steering wheel. The futuristic center console and control levers were inspired by an aircraft cockpit.

Powertrain

The car was powered by an upgraded 324-cubic inch Rocket V8 engine tuned to produce 275 horsepower (205 kW). According to interior photos, the Golden Rocket had an automatic transmission like all other Motorama show cars. Details on other internal components, however, are unavailable.

Design legacy

An early styling mock-up of the 1958 Chevrolet Corvette, built around 1956, depicted a fixed-roof fastback coupe with a rear design taken almost directly from the Golden Rocket show car, right down to the torpedo-shaped rear fenders and subtle tail fins. However, this design proposal never reached beyond the clay model stage and a more conventional design was used on the production model instead.

Seven years later, under the direction of General Motors head of design Bill Mitchell, the split rear window design would reappear on the 1963 Corvette Stingray coupe. It lasted for one model year before being changed to a single-piece rear window due to a problem of poor rear visibility.

Current status

It is unclear if the Golden Rocket still exists today. A common practice of General Motors in the 1950s was to destroy show cars after they fell out of usage in order to avoid liability concerns; however, the Golden Rocket is still unaccounted for with no confirmation it was crushed. There is photographic evidence that the car still existed as late as 1962, while several other show cars were scrapped earlier in 1959. The car was reportedly located somewhere in New Jersey, however the rumor still remains unconfirmed even after extensive investigation. Motorama historian David W. Temple believes that the Golden Rocket, along with other lost show cars, will likely never resurface again.