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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 3: Flower District]

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap relationship, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, medical stuff, a creepy dude, a special surprise is found in Aegon's office!!!

Word count: 6.2k

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You sleep in late and wake to the sound of excited voices out in the kitchen. When you follow them, you find Baela using a pink Click ‘n Flame utility lighter to ignite the candles on a sloppily but lovingly homemade cake, Pillsbury Funfetti according to the blue box left upturned on the countertop, lumpy white icing dotted with multicolored sprinkles. Jace must be responsible. You panic, thinking that you have forgotten a birthday, but no: you quickly recall that Baela is a Sagittarius and Jace is—somewhat improbably—a Capricorn.

“What are we celebrating?” you ask.

Baela looks up from the cake, the candlelight luminescence radiant on her face. She is beaming, she is glowing, she is definitely meant to be an actress. She shines too brightly to belong anywhere but among the stars. “I got the part.”

“Which part?”

“The one in the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie!”

“No way!” you shout, and you rush over to hug her; but already there is a sinking feeling that you are dimly aware of through the rush, and when the revelry is over you will lie in bed alone with these thoughts, treasonous yet true: When will it be my turn? Why can’t this happen to me? “That’s so exciting! I’m so happy for you!”

“It’s about the French Revolution,” Baela says when you pull away, still grinning hugely. “I’m getting third billing, my name will be on the promo posters! I’m flying to Paris for filming next month!”

“Wow.” Your smile is frozen on your face. “Wow, wow, wow, I can’t believe it. This is so awesome!”

Then Baela realizes how it must feel for you, and she is sympathetic, rubbing your shoulder as her expression twists into something soft and bashful. “But hey, your luck is turning around too!”

“Yeah,” Jace says. “You got to be in Episode 5,000 of Grey’s Anatomy.” Baela gives him a reproachful glare. “What?” he asks, clueless.

“No, it’s totally cool,” you insist. “I’m really, really thrilled for you, Baela. You have to take a million pictures in Paris so I can see all the architecture and desserts and hot French dudes!”

Jace snorts. “Are French dudes even hot?” He sounds skeptical.

“You can be my date to the premiere,” Baela tells you. Jace gapes at her, incredulous. “We can pose together on the red carpet and you can do some networking! Maybe Yorgos will even like you and cast you in his next project!”

But something about the way she says it makes the prospect sound ludicrous, fantastical, fictional. Baela’s breakthrough is reality, yours is unicorns and mermaids and the Loch Ness Monster. “You are so wonderful, but you should take Jace.”

“Yeah, you should take Jace,” Jace says.

Baela pulls a knife out of the bamboo block on the kitchen counter. Her parents bought it, like they bought almost everything else in the apartment; they believe in her, lots of people do. “Do you want some cake? When’s your appointment?” The appointment you didn’t cancel, contrary to Aegon’s explicit instructions. Technically, you never agreed to, so you haven’t lied to him. That makes you feel better. Baela glances at the calendar and reads the time written there in red ink. “Oh good, not until noon. You definitely have time for cake!”

“Babe, you gotta blow out your candles first,” Jace says. Baela closes her eyes, becomes still and serene, extinguishes the tiny golden flickers of light with one delicate puff. Then she begins cutting the Funfetti cake. You get three forks from the silverware drawer. Jace hands you a plate from the cabinet as he complains about having to go to class today: Music Aesthetics, Analysis, and Philosophy.

“Just a little one, please,” you tell Baela. A moment later, she plops a skinny slice of cake onto your plate. “Thanks, Becca! Wait, no, I mean Baela. Sorry.”

She laughs, still wielding a knife covered in white frosting. “Who’s Becca?”

“Aegon’s fiancée.”

“Oh, your agent’s future wife? The agent that you are definitely not into at all?”

“Yeah, that one, you got it.” You give her a wink and take a bite of cake: frosting so sweet it hurts your teeth, tiny kaleidoscopic flecks of candy like gold in a stream.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So, which one are you liking the feel of?” Dr. Cunningham asks, smiling in a way that is effervescent and yet impersonal, vaguely impatient, a real estate agent type of charisma. He must be in his mid-fifties, and yet his face is nearly entirely purged of wrinkles, smooth and shiny and evenly tanned. His teeth are too perfect to not be veneers. People keep suggesting those to you too; you need more time to wrap your mind around the idea of having your canines and incisors shaved down to helpless nubs.

“Um…” You go down the line again, squeezing all three samples that are arranged on the stainless steel utility table that Dr. Cunningham wheeled over to you. “I walked in wanting the gummy bear implants, and I think I feel the same way now.”

“Excellent!” he says, wearing that same smile. His eyes, very blue, never change; they are alert yet vacuous, like the fatal error screen on a Windows computer.

“And they’re safer, aren’t they? The gummy bear ones?”

“Statistically, yes,” Dr. Cunningham agrees, somewhat briskly, as if he is eager to change the subject. “But I wouldn’t worry about that. I hardly ever see ruptures in any of my patients.”

Hardly ever, not never. “That’s good!” you say spiritedly, like a star pupil.

“As I mentioned earlier, they are a bit more expensive than the other options, but we have several financing options available.”

“My parents are paying, so no worries there.”

“Fantastic.” He’s still smiling. You kind of wish he would stop. “You want to be an actress, I assume?”

“I do, yeah! How’d you know?”

He chuckles as he rolls the small metal table away. “That’s what all the girls are doing out here, right? And if it’s not acting, it’s singing, or modelling, or…what do you call that, when you make money on TikTok or wherever?”

“Being an influencer.”

“Right,” Dr. Cunningham says. “Well, I wish you the very best of luck.” It’s chivalrous but hollow, an echo of the encouragement he’s given to thousands of women just like you, except probably more beautiful and more talented and actually getting some of the parts they audition for.

I got a part, you think, and your mood lifts a bit. Aegon finally found me one. And he believes I’ll get more.

“Is it okay if I take a look?” the ever-smiling Dr. Cunningham says, and your heart begins to pound beneath the gown you’re wearing, scratchy white polyester-blend fabric that opens in the front. But this is all standard procedure, and you knew to expect an exam, and you should not feel like you’re lining up for the firing squad.

“Of course!” you exclaim too enthusiastically; your voice cracks. You undo the tie down by your waist and the fabric across your chest and belly goes slack. Your tan TOMS wedges are scattered on the linoleum floor that’s supposed to look like wood. The sundress you wore to the appointment, patterned with large sunlit palm leaves, is folded on a chair. Your eyeshadow matches: matte green Thorns by Anastasia Beverly Hills, sparkly gold Whisper by Natasha Denona.

As Dr. Cunningham opens your gown and begins the exam, you stare at a framed print of Venice Beach on the wall, and you pretend you are there under the hot glaring daylight instead of here in a frigidly air-conditioned office being prodded and manipulated, measured not to be admired or understood but only to be improved upon.

Dr. Cunningham is saying: “Just so you’re aware, due to how firm a gummy bear implant is, we typically have to make a slightly larger incision in order to insert it. Saline and traditional silicone implants, being more flexible, can be squeezed in through a smaller opening, for example using a transaxillary incision in the underarm. But they’re also more prone to wrinkling and rippling, and they must be replaced more frequently, so that pliability comes at a cost. I think gummy bear implants are a very good choice for you.”

“And…where exactly would the incision be?” Your heartbeat is still thunderous; you can hear the scorching red blood flow throbbing in your ears. Dr. Cunningham either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mention it.

“We’d go in right here,” he says, skimming his gloved fingers just beneath your left breast, your raw heart just two inches away. Goosebumps prickle on your arms. “It’s what we call an inframammary incision, and it gives us more room to work with to ensure the implant is placed properly, and…”

He loses his train of thought, interrupted by a commotion out in the lobby. Through the closed exam room door, you can hear people arguing and then something being spilled—the jar of pens on the receptionist’s desk? the glass bowl of mints?—and heavy sprinting footsteps. Dr. Cunningham pulls his hands away and you snatch your gown shut just as the door bursts open, and Aegon stands there breathing heavily from the exertion, hair in disarray, white Nike Killshots with a red slash of a Swoosh, dark jeans, salmon-colored t-shirt that’s too big for him, tan sport coat jacket yanked off of his shoulders. His attacker, the elderly receptionist, has chased him to the doorway.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she’s shrieking. She smacks him with a massive leather purse. “You can’t just go barging in on patients! What are you, some kind of druggie? We don’t keep any opioids in this office!”

Dr. Cunningham yells: “Will you call the police, Barbara?!”

“No wait, I know him,” you say, and both Dr. Cunningham and the receptionist stare hostilely at you. You ignore them and look at Aegon instead, stunned. “Hi.”

He straightens his jacket. His eyes, that dark and turbulent blue, are fixed on your face as you hastily retie your gown so it stays shut. “Hi. What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s just a consultation.”

“For a surgery you’re not going to have?”

You shake your head in disbelief. “How did you know I was here?”

“I just had this feeling you weren’t going to cancel,” Aegon says. “So I went to your apartment and you weren’t home, but your roommate told me where you were and gave me the address that you wrote on the calendar.”

“Oh.”

“She’s very nice. Your roommate, I mean.”

“Yeah, Baela’s cool.”

“She offered me a piece of Funfetti cake.”

“Did you take it?”

“No. I was in a hurry to get here.”

“Right.” You remain seated on the edge of the exam table with your hands clasped together in your lap. The receptionist and Dr. Cunningham’s bewildered gazes fly between you and the intruder.

Aegon sighs and nods towards the hallway that leads out to the lobby and the front door of the office. “Come on,” he says gently. “Get dressed. Let’s go.”

“I can’t,” you reply.

“Why not?”

You don’t answer; your eyes dart to the print of Venice Beach on the wall and stay there as they begin to water. Aegon crosses the room—the receptionist and Dr. Cunningham shuffle around the cramped space to keep away from him—and stops when he is standing right in front of you, his hands in the pockets of his rumpled tan jacket.

“Why not?” Aegon asks again, very softly now.

You look at him. Your voice is a quivering whisper. “I don’t want to have to give this up.” The city, the potential, the dream.

“Hey,” Aegon murmurs, leaning in close. You can smell the ocean and sunlight and Juicy Fruit gum. Strands of blonde hair, ripped from the sheen of gel, shag over his forehead. “You’re bright as hell just the way you are. You don’t need surgery to be an actress. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

And immediately, you are ready to leave. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” You wriggle down off of the exam table, check your gown to make sure you’re still covered, and turn to Dr. Cunningham. “I guess I’m not interested anymore.”

“Please never set foot in my office again,” he says.

“No problem,” Aegon snaps. And then to you: “I’ll meet you outside. We’ll get lunch.”

“Sure,” you reply, still a little dazed.

Aegon hurries out of the exam room before the police are summoned. Dr. Cunningham and the receptionist leave too, muttering to each other and casting you appalled glares. When you are alone, you throw off the gown and put on your bra, wedges, and sundress…and as you are smoothing the creases from the soft cotton patterned with palm leaves, you smile to yourself, kind pink heat swirling in your cheeks.

Aegon is in the parking lot and leaning against his white Chrysler Sebring convertible. He has put on his black aviator sunglasses to blot out the intense afternoon sun. Dr. Cunningham’s office is on a busy street in Beverly Hills; you can hear car horns, pedestrians shouting into their cellphones, toy dogs yapping, Shape Of You chiming from a passing Mercedes. Across the street is a series of shops in a row, Starbucks and Neiman Marcus and Gucci. Aegon says, pointing to your 2003 Honda Accord: “I’ll drive you back to get your car later.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“Chinatown,” he says, opening the passenger’s door of his Sebring. “And from now on, you listen when I tell you to do something, just like you said you would.”

“I’ll be your best client ever,” you promise, climbing into the car. The top is down, the wind blowing in from the Pacific Ocean to the west.

“I’m here for a reason. It’s not to be ignored. I can be your advocate, but you have to be honest with me.”

“I completely understand. I won’t mislead you again.”

“The Grey’s Anatomy people really liked you, by the way.”

The hope unfurls across your face like dawn over the earth. “Really?”

Aegon gives you a teasing, crooked grin. “Don’t pretend you’re shocked.” He shuts the car door, jogs over to the driver’s side, drives east through thick midday traffic.

At the same restaurant you went to the day you met, seated beside the same large fish tank, you and Aegon place the same orders: moo goo gai pan, boneless spare ribs. The waitress, Lanying, asks Aegon about how his siblings are doing before she speeds off to tend to her other customers.

Aegon watches the malevolent ember-colored oscars for a while, then taps his paper Chinese zodiac calendar, rimmed in red and gold. “Which one are you?”

You laugh, thinking he’s joking. “You already know.”

But Aegon doesn’t smile; he only stares at you blankly. “What?”

“I told you about my zodiac sign. The first time we had lunch here.”

And he looks at you as if his skull is as clear as the transluscent blue-tinged water of the fish tank, all the lights on but nobody home, and for a split second you almost feel as if you don’t recognize him, as if he is a stranger wearing Aegon’s windswept blonde hair and ill-fitting clothes and the crow’s feet around his eyes. Then Aegon repossesses himself and he is flippant, casual. “Oh yeah, right. Totally. I remember now.”

But you have the sense that he doesn’t. You try to hide how much this wounds you. It must not have been memorable. It must not have meant anything to him. “I’m a dragon!” you say brightly, and hold up your hands as if they are claws, opening and closing your hooked fingers.

Now he does smile, a little preoccupied, a little forced. “Of course you are.”

You scan the calendar. “What year was Becca born?”

“Uh…1994, I think.”

“She’s a dog,” you say. You read the description silently to yourself as the tea and wonton soups are brought to the table: Loyal and honest, you work well with others. Generous yet stubborn and often selfish. Look to the horse or tiger. Watch out for dragons.

~~~~~~~~~~

You arrive at Aegon’s office twenty minutes early, mostly because you miss him. It’s Wednesday, June 25th, and you park your Honda on the narrow sloping street and step out into 80-degree sunlight, ambient dog barking, powerlines crossing overhead. A lady walking her chihuahua waves at you and adjusts her sunglasses. Window air conditioning units whir. The trees, ginkgos and pink trumpets and Victorian boxes and palms, are still in the bright breezeless afternoon. The skyline of Downtown is a mirage on the horizon. From the barber shop across the street, you can hear a radio playing Bailamos by Enrique Iglesias.

When you clop into the lobby in your TOMS wedges, you see that Aegon’s door is closed. At his desk, Brandon is on the landline phone and jotting notes down in his planner, his flower pen scribbling rapidly across pink paper. When he spots you, he covers the phone speaker with his hand. “Hey girl!”

“Sorry, I know I’m early. Is he busy with another client?”

“No, go on in!” Brandon reaches down to dig around in the minifridge and sets a Perrier on the ledge of his desk. You take it, thank him, and go to Aegon’s door. You are puzzled to hear people talking on the other side, muffled indistinct voices. You wear an ocean blue sundress and cool metallic shades on your eyelids: Shellshock by Urban Decay, Strike by Natasha Denona. You open the door.

Aegon has his Nike Killshots up on his untidy desk and is playing the Nintendo 64. Mario is running through what appears to be some sort of underground maze, foggy and strewn with gold coins. The greenish haze must be toxic. Mario’s Power Meter is slowly ticking down; each time Mario snags a coin, it is partially restored. Aegon is watching the screen as he talks to a woman whose back is turned to you: tall, willowy, long dark hair. They don’t realize you’re here.

Aegon is saying as he clicks the transluscent orange Nintendo 64 controller: “That’s great, babe.”

“And the charity thing is on July 19th. I got a custom suit from Tom Ford, it’s powder blue, all you have to do is show up to the fitting.”

He sighs euphorically. “You’re the best.”

She giggles. “I know.”

Then Aegon notices you, and for a moment he seems shaken—not in a good way—and for some reason you feel like you’ve made some horrible mistake. The woman spins around to see what he’s looking at. She is stunning and ethereal and wearing a plain sack dress that hangs perfectly on her, a young Cher, and she smiles at you, kind and dazzling.

“Hi!” you say. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m a little early, I mixed up my appointment time because I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re fine,” Aegon replies, but he’s still distracted. Mario suffocates in the maze and drops over dead. Aegon turns off the game. He clears his throat. “Uh, this is Becca.”

You shake her hand when she offers it. Gold bangle bracelets jangle on her wrist. “It’s so nice to meet you, Becca!”

“And you must be the new client!” she says warmly. “The one from…where was it, Michigan?”

“Minnesota,” you reply.

“Oh, brr!” Becca says, pretending to shiver, and you laugh.

“Yeah, I’m really happy to be here. And you’re getting married soon, I hear!”

Becca beams, clapping her hands together. “Yes! I’m so excited but so stressed. The planning is endless.”

“Are you going to do it here in the city somewhere?”

“Aegon didn’t tell you?” Becca is perhaps a tad disappointed. “It’s a destination wedding.”

Aegon says from his desk, somewhat recovered: “Turk…something.”

“Turkey?” you say doubtfully. An interesting choice.

“Turks and Caicos,” Becca clarifies.

“No way! My sister just got engaged there, she said it was gorgeous.”

Aegon asks you from his desk: “Have you ever been?”

“I wish. Not yet, maybe one day.”

“You’ll have to come to the wedding!” Becca says cheerfully.

“Me?!” It’s ridiculous; you’re a nobody, you barely know her, you have a crush on her future husband.

“Yeah, all of Aegon’s clients are invited. Aren’t they, babe?” Becca glances at him, and then her eyes catch there and they stare at each other, Aegon slumped in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, Becca standing next to you, and there are several slow awkward seconds of silence. Aegon gets a piece of Juicy Fruit gum from a pack on his desk and shoves it into his mouth. Becca looks at you and then back to Aegon, who is pretending to organize the clutter on his desk. You notice for the first time that there is a ceramic bowl of Honeycrisp apples there.

“I thought you didn’t like those,” you say to alleviate the tension that you don’t understand.

“Well, Brando eats them,” Aegon explains.

“That makes sense.”

“And I guess they’re growing on me.”

“They’re really good for you,” you say. “Helps to balance out all the boneless spare ribs.”

Now Becca is studying you, and instead of being warm she is now cold and rigid and perplexed. After a while she asks stiffly: “What are you two up to today?”

“We’re going to the Flower District,” Aegon tells her as he rolls his gum wrapper into a ball between his palms. “I’ll be done in a few hours, I just have to get some current pics of her to send to people. So we’re going to do a quick impromptu photoshoot.”

Becca nods, still scrutinizing you. You open your Perrier and start gulping it so you have an excuse not to talk.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Aegon asks Becca, and she perks up a bit.

“Beef bourguignon. It’s a new recipe, I’m really excited to try it.”

Aegon pretends to drool. “Amazing. I can’t wait.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Becca says, and goes to leave.

“It was so nice to meet you!” you call after her.

Becca replies curtly without stopping: “Yup. You too.” You hear the two-inch heels of her gold sandals tapping on the scuffed wood floor and then the rough opening and closing of the front door of the half-duplex.

“What just happened?” you ask Aegon.

“Nothing,” he says, standing from his desk. His shoes match his shirt, a green plaid Ralph Lauren button-up that isn’t tucked into his jeans. His hair is slicked back and shiny with gel.

“I’m sorry, did I…did I do something wrong…?”

He sighs. “No.”

You toy anxiously with your Perrier bottle. You don’t want Aegon to fire you; you don’t want to lose him. He’s the only person who understands. “You should have told me we were going to be taking pictures. I would have done my hair and worn normal eyeshadow.”

He smiles. “I wanted you to look like you.” Then he heads off to his Chrysler Sebring, and you follow him.

The Flower District is on the other side of Chinatown in Downtown Los Angeles. It’s the largest wholesale flower market in the country, six blocks of vendors selling every plant imaginable, from ordinary daisies and tulips to bamboo shoots, ferns, herbs, cactuses, succulents, baby trees, house plants like monstera and ivy. The aroma is overwhelming; when you breathe deeply, you imagine prismatic blossoms bursting up through the alveoli of your lungs, roses and irises and calla lilies and orchids. Aegon weaves through the aisles and frowns at the magnificent flowers, none of them right for some reason. You are endlessly pausing to sniff petals and gingerly graze your fingerprints over leaves. Aegon has to backtrack to find you when you stop to watch a demonstration of a Venus flytrap being fed.

“Here we go!” Aegon announces triumphantly when at last he is satisfied, and he lifts the large bouquet from a plastic bucket for you to see: massive sunflowers, water dripping off the cut stems. “They’re sunny, just like you. You like them?”

“I love them,” you say, taking the bouquet and beaming. Aegon pays in cash.

Outside under the harsh cloudless sunlight, he poses you in front of one of the flower shops, pedestrians walking behind you and a rainbow myriad of blooms out of focus. He uses his phone to take a series of photos, some up-close and some full-body shots, and you had assumed it would be awkward but it’s not, Aegon is making jokes and you are laughing and trying weird angles and spinning around so the skirt of your sundress swishes despite the lack of a breeze.

“Cool, got some good ones,” Aegon says, scanning through his phone. “We’re done.”

“What should I do with these?” you ask about the sunflowers. “Do you want them back?”

“Why would I want them back?”

“I don’t know. You paid for them, it feels weird for me to keep them.”

“They’re yours. Enjoy.”

You inhale the faint floral scent that emanates from the yellow petals. “I’m going to put them in a vase on the kitchen counter and buy them flower food so they live as long as possible. And I’m going to talk to them, because that’s supposed to be good for plants.”

Aegon chuckles. “You are ridiculous.” He slides his phone into the pocket of his jeans and sees an ice cream vendor up the street, then gestures for you to come with him. The ice cream is allegedly homemade and only comes in five flavors. Aegon orders for you both. “Hi, one vanilla and one strawberry.”

The vendor scoops the ice cream into two waffle cones. Again, as he always does, Aegon pays in cash. You locate an available bench and you and Aegon sit together with the sunflower bouquet lying between you, watching the pedestrians stroll by with their friends and partners and children and dogs.

“Tastes better when you make it,” Aegon says, licking melting strawberry ice cream from his waffle cone. “I might have another job for you.”

“Really?! Yay!”

“It’s a little unorthodox, but you said you’d take anything.”

“I definitely will.”

“It’s a music video for Maroon 5,” Aegon cautions. “It’s honestly pretty uninspiring and stupid, but it’s work. It’s another last-minute thing, at first the girlfriend of one of the band dudes was supposed to be in the video but I guess now they’re fighting all the time and the guy doesn’t like the idea of having a permanent reminder of her if they break up, which seems likely.’”

“I want to do it,” you say immediately. “When?”

“They’re planning to film the first week in July at a mansion in Beverly Hills. They already have a male actor cast. And you don’t even have to kiss him or anything, you get to argue with him in the first scene and then the rest of it is mostly you just moping around the mansion in designer outfits. Again, it’s super unoriginal. Boy and girl have a miscommunication and split, boy regrets it afterwards, they both secretly and photogenically yearn for each other. It’s very Edward leaving Bella in New Moon.”

“Sounds fantastic! Do I get to meet Maroon 5?”

Aegon is disappointed. “Are you a fan?”

“Well…not really.” You both laugh. “But I feel like it’s always cool to meet celebrities in real life.”

“Yes, you get to meet them.”

You cheer. “You are the most talented agent ever!” You take a lick of your ice cream; it’s almost gone now. You look over at Aegon, serious now. “You’re the only person who doesn’t think I’m absolutely insane for trying to do this.”

He crunches his waffle cone with his teeth. “Your roommate’s an actress, right? She must get it.”

You shrug. “Baela is confident, and magnetic, and she wants to be famous. She’s very obviously meant to be in this industry, and agents and directors respond to her. But I’m not like that. Most people don’t notice me. And that’s okay, I don’t really want to be famous. I just want to be able to be a working actor and get to stay here. If I’m not making significant progress by the end of the year, I have to choose between going back to Minnesota or being disowned and impoverished.”

Aegon watches you, thoughtful, maybe a little sad. “I like you the way you are, sunshine.”

You smile shyly at him. “Thanks. I like you too.”

“And I don’t want you to change. It’s horrible to watch someone disappear.” He devours the rest of his waffle cone. “You know…I think helping you get to where you’re going, and making sure it’s done the right way…that will be the last good thing I ever do here.”

“You don’t have to retire.”

He shakes his head. “Circumstances change. Priorities change.”

“Do you want kids?” If Becca is in her thirties, perhaps now is the time to start planning for that.

“No,” Aegon says, flinching. “Definitely no kids. You’re anti-horse, I’m anti-kid.”

“Then what’s the rush to leave L.A.?”

“It’s the right time.”

“Not for me.” You grin. “I just got here. You can’t abandon me yet.”

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of before I go. I’ll get someone I trust to sign you.”

“But I don’t want another agent.”

“The music video director asked to meet you before filming,” Aegon says, deflecting. “It’ll be quick, just ten or fifteen minutes. We’ll swing by his office on the way back to Elysian Park.”

“Okay,” you agree. You take a makeup compact out of your Patricia Nash purse and use the mirror to make sure you don’t have any ice cream on your nose or chin.

“I haven’t worked with him before,” Aegon says. “But I’ve heard very good things and obviously I’ll be there at the shoot.”

You snap your compact shut. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

In a spacious, glass-walled office in Downtown, the director introduces himself as Dan Sacco. He is tall and broad through the shoulders and extremely welcoming, offering you drinks and snacks and asking about your hometown as Aegon stands in the corner of the room, his hands in his pockets and his eyes watchful. Two jobs in two weeks; Aegon is a miracle worker.

When you get home to your apartment, it’s empty. Baela and Jace must have gone out somewhere for dinner. You put the sunflowers in a vase and then scroll through Instagram. Aegon has posted a new story: a photo of you standing with your bouquet and smiling, not sexy or alluring or arrogant but simply happy, and he must be very knowledgeable about filters because you think you look great.

Future Hollywood Walk of Fame star recipient, Aegon has added as a caption. If you want to book her, you know where to find me. He finished with a sunflower emoji. You press the heart button in the bottom right corner of the screen to like the story. Your own heart is racing now in the best way possible, feverish and loud, intoxicated, needful, seams ready to rupture.

You look up Becca’s Instagram, but her account is private. You send her a follow request. She doesn’t accept it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The night before the shoot, there is a knock at your door. It’s 8:30 p.m., a strange hour, not early enough for Amazon deliveries or a visit from one of Jace’s eccentric PhD program friends, not late enough for a drunk tenant to have mistaken your apartment for their own. When you open the door, you are at first so shocked you can’t place him. Then you remember where you know the hulking man in the tan suit from. It’s Dan, the director of the music video.

“Oh my God, hi!” you welcome him. You have just gotten home from Cold Stone Creamery and are still in your drab grey uniform. You always drive to and from work now, per Aegon’s insistence. You promised you’d listen, and you’re trying your best. Jace is in Baela’s bedroom banging on his Yamaha keyboard. From the velvet orange couch in the living room where she is watching The Vampire Diaries, Baela peeks curiously over at where your visitor fills up the doorway.

Dan seems pleased by your enthusiasm. “Hello again.”

“Can I help you with something? I know the shoot is tomorrow, I’m really excited. I was about to get ready for bed so I can go to sleep early and be well-rested. There’s not a problem with the music video, is there? Please don’t say it’s cancelled or that I’m fired or something.”

Dan chuckles, a deep slow rumble. “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to give you a heads up that we added a scene to the script.” He holds up a thin packet of papers held together by a single staple. “I’m not allowed to leave it in an unsecured location, so I have to take it with me when I go. But I thought you should be aware so you’re prepared when you show up to set.”

“Aw, that’s so thoughtful of you!” You take the packet and flip through it, skimming for an unfamiliar scene. “Did you get my address from Aegon? Or Brandon, his receptionist?”

“It was in your file that they sent over,” Dan says, perhaps a bit guardedly, and before you can ask anything else you stumble upon the scene, and your stomach drops. The actress—me, you think, that’s not some other woman, that’s me—will be lying in a vast empty bathtub, soaked hair, dripping skin, black lingerie, writhing and whimpering as she mourns the loss of her lover.

“Um…the bathtub scene?” you squeak.

“It’s going to be so cinematic,” Dan says, his large hands painting a picture with dramatic gestures. “Sunlight streaming in through a window, your skin glowing, you’ve drained the tub but you’re too heartbroken to get up so you’re just sprawled there, still drenched from the bathwater. Obviously it would make more sense if you were naked, but…we can’t do that in a music video.” He laughs. “But the aesthetic will be divine, like sexy mourning widow. And we’ll get all kinds of shots, you crying, you angry, you pining, you flirting and beckoning the camera closer, and we can get creative, you can just kind of crawl around all over the tub and we’ll see what you come up with.”

You gaze at the script until all the words vanish, imaging a room full of men watching you roll around in underwear, black lace wet and clinging to your skin, no secrets, nowhere to disappear. I can’t do that. But you can’t say no. “Is there going to be a woman on set to…you know, to…like…supervise, or, or something…?”

“You mean an intimacy coordinator?”

“Yes, thank you, that’s the term I was looking for.” Does Aegon know about this? He has to, right?

“Well, it’s not a sex scene,” Dan says rationally. “It’s not even a kissing scene. So we would never pay to have an intimacy coordinator around for this, it’s completely unnecessary.”

“Oh.” I can’t do that. I can’t do that. You feel nauseous; you feel dizzy, like you might stagger if you try to move.

“Look, if you’re uncomfortable, that’s totally cool,” Dan says. “I get it, a job like this isn’t for everyone. I have a list of backups I can call, and I can find somebody else—”

“No!” you cry out, then give the script back to Dan and manage a smile. “No, sorry, I was just a little confused, but I understand now. Thank you for letting me know about the new scene, and I can absolutely handle it.”

“Great.” He grins proudly. “I knew I could count on you. See you tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

Dan lumbers down the hallway, and you close the door when he’s out of sight. Baela asks from the couch: “What do they want you to do?”

You swallow noisily. “Roll around essentially naked in a bathtub.”

Baela nods; she doesn’t seem alarmed. Is this normal? Are you unreasonable? “Bikini?”

“Lingerie.”

“Want to know a trick?” she says. “After you shave, run a Stridex pad over your skin. I have a container of them in the bathroom cabinet, use as many as you want. It’ll burn at first, but it kills any bacteria and prevent razor burn. No bumps or ingrown hairs!”

“Thanks,” you reply weakly.

Baela squints at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A lie.

“It’s not that bad,” she says reassuringly. “I know it seems like the end of the world, but once you do a nude scene or a sex scene once, the nerves go away and it’s just another day at work. You’ll get through it. You’ll do an incredible job.”

I don’t want to give up the dream. I don’t want to leave Los Angeles. I don’t want to leave Aegon.

“You’re probably right,” you tell Baela, and you pretend to be fine so she won’t worry, or pity you, or be further convinced that you don’t belong here.

You shower, shave, scrub your skin with stinging Stridex pads, and long after you were supposed to be asleep you’re still staring up at your bedroom ceiling, a deep blue shadowscape with no stars.

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Eight: Surprise. Tommy's had a really, really bad shift (off-screen), and he shows up to the greatest surprise ever: his boyfriend, pasta, and comfort. Edit: I just realized Tumblr somehow lost my tag for @bucktommyfluffebruary and my AO3 link. Why, Tumblr. Why.

It’s been a terrible shift, and Tommy is ready for it to be over. He’s going to plaster a million posters around the Hollywood sign that say: “If you fall/slip trying to climb on or around this, LAFD will no longer rescue your dumb ass and you’ll have to live with the fucking consequences.”

Lucy, Braun, and Melton agree with him, Cap thinks it’s a bad idea. They’re spitballing less extreme alternatives to keep their minds off the calls that came before the Hollywood sign incident, because if Tommy thinks about a couple of them for too long he’ll probably start crying.

When he pours himself into his truck, he drives home on autopilot and parks in the driveway, because he has the Chevelle on the car lift at the moment. He blinks at his front door, because the three small square windows at the top have light filtering through. There’s no way he left the lights on when he left for work two days earlier, but he also might have. He can’t tell anymore.

He unlocks the door and goes inside, and the house smells like food. He can hear a podcast or something in the kitchen and follows the sound just in time to see Evan close the oven door.

“Oh!” Evan says when Tommy sets his bag down on the island. He whirls around and grins, tapping his phone on the counter and cutting off the man who was talking about something related to the Manhattan Project. “Hey, baby. I wanted to surprise you with dinner.”

And the sight of Evan in his kitchen making him what smells like something with sauce and cheese and herbs and who knew what else after one of the worst shifts Tommy’s had in years is what breaks him. He covers his hand with his mouth to muffle a sob, and Evan’s arms are around him so fast it’s like he teleported across the room.

“Hey,” Evan murmurs in his ear, rubbing his back. “Hey, I know. C’mere, you’re okay, you’re home, everything’s okay here.”

He’s kissing the side of Tommy’s head and his hair and his forehead and whispering reassurances that Tommy actually believes, because Evan knows. Even if he doesn’t know exactly what happened, he knows, and it’s worth everything.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but after a while they’re just hugging each other and Tommy has his cheek on Evan’s shoulder and his nose against the side of his neck. When he straightens up, Evan’s hands come up to his face and wipe away tears and brush over the scratch on his cheek. His eyes are so blue and clear and full of concern and love, and Tommy fights down everything inside him that wants to tell him he doesn’t deserve this.

“Are you hungry or do you want to go lay down?” Evan asks, pressing their foreheads together.

“I can eat,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds thick and nasally. He needs to blow his nose. “I should eat.”

“I’m making stuffed shells, and there’s some sprouts and stuff,” he says, massaging the back of Tommy’s neck with gentle squeezes of his hand. “And there’s cheesecake after. Or we can have it now.”

Tommy melts under Evan’s touch and smiles. “I can wait.”

He kisses the corner of Evan’s mouth and then gives him a soft kiss before stepping away. He really needs to blow his nose, but he’s back at Evan’s side as soon as he’s done. Evan’s putting a salad together, so Tommy doesn’t feel so bad about draping himself over him while he does it.

“Did you know?” he asks, his voice muffled against his stolen flannel that Evan’s wearing.

“I had a feeling,” Evan replies, pausing to reach up and hold Tommy’s hand where it’s resting over his heart. “You didn’t text back much, and I heard about last night before I left the station.”

Tommy shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, and Evan’s other hand comes up to also squeeze his forearm, and lips press against the inside of his bicep when Evan turns his head. Tommy will talk about some of it, probably, but it’ll be later. He needs to just not be immersed in horror for a little bit. He needs carbs and cheese and his boyfriend.

“This is ready, you wanna eat?” Evan asks, and Tommy nods. “Okay, let’s go, I’ll get your plate.”

They end up eating curled up on the couch so Tommy can turn on a movie. He’s been showing Evan some queer movies, because Evan’s actually been interested in those, and they watch Big Eden. Tommy needs something warm and fluffy, and it’s like the cinematic equivalent of a warm hug.

They pause about two thirds of the way through so Evan can grab them dessert, and he comes out with the entire cheesecake and two forks.

“We’re adults,” he says to Tommy’s raised eyebrows. “We could’ve had frosting for dinner if we wanted.”

He eats almost a quarter of the cheesecake—it’s a small cheesecake—and ends up stretched out on the couch with Evan on top of him until the movie’s over.

“I liked that one,” Evan says, rubbing his cheek against Tommy’s chest. “Tired?”

“No,” Tommy says, because he’s really not. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t know when he’ll sleep next.

Evan looks up at him and reaches up to stroke his knuckles over Tommy’s jaw. “Want to watch another one?”

He leans into the touch and sighs. “Yeah.”

They make it through The Birdcage and halfway through Love, Simon before Tommy falls asleep. When he wakes up, Evan’s drooling on his chest and the Roku screensaver is on.

“Baby,” he whispers, kissing Evan’s curls and inhaling the smell of his shampoo.

Evan inhales sharply and slow blinks at him like a cat. “Mm. ‘Zit?”

Tommy looks at his watch. “It’s 3:30. We should go to bed.”

His boyfriend nods and sits up. They strip down to their underwear and crawl into bed, and Tommy pulls Evan’s sleep-warm body against his under the cool duvet.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“Love you so-o much,” Evan mumbles back, stroking Tommy’s side.

“Thank you. For everything.”

He can see Evan’s smile in the dim light filtering in through the window. “Anytime.”

[calchexxis]

Hey, I don't recommend fics very often, but this is a STRONG recommend.

Now, let me preface this by saying read the tags because this fic confronts a lot of really sensitive topics like self-harm. It is definitely not for everyone, but by that same token I think it's something that anyone who reads it can get something real out of it.

Next, you don't need to have watched the second Inside Out movie to be able to enjoy this fic. If you have, awesome, but if not, it's not that big of a deal. Go look up a picture of Valentina Ortiz & Riley Andersen, and you'll get the gist. You should probably have watched the first movie, though, but then, I think everyone should watch Inside Out at least once in their life.

Anyway, short synopsis, this takes place 5 years after the end of the second movie, Valentina 'Val' Ortiz has gone pro with hockey but an injury benched her for a few months, and she's spending her off time in Minnesota, hoping to reconnect with her high school crush, Riley. They meet, but it's almost immediately clear that Riley has not been doing well since they parted ways. Regardless, they do reconnect and finally start dating the way both of them had wanted to when they were younger. Still, throughout the story, there is a constant dread that follows Riley around, suggesting without saying aloud that something is very wrong.

I cannot praise the characterization of this story enough. Val is this over-achieving perfectionist who tries her best to be perfect for Riley. Riley, on the other hand, constantly feels as though she's undeserving of that effort and love. I don't know if I've ever seen a more perfect depiction of deep depression than here, with Riley.

Important note, it does have a happy ending, but I won't spoil anything for you. Please read this, because it's a powerful story and it deserves to be read.

[nightlyrequiem]

Be Still My Heart

Chapter 22- Briefing

Masterlist AO3 Next Previous

New Chapter Every Saturday

You're the best in the meth industry but a new product suddenly pops up. You and your boss, Valeria, must figure out who is making it so you can take back the market. All the while tension is building between the two of you.

A/N: I haven't been posting a lot recently but I swear I have more projects!!! A few oneshots, Canary Cage, DIGEST. There will be more.

Tags/Warnings: Illegal Substances, Boss Employee Relationship, Angst, Some Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Manipulation, Suggestive Themes, Smut (But Only in CH19.), Dual POV

Valeria leans over the splintering, lopsided wooden table in the basement. The singular lightbulb off to the side casting a dim, dull light. Making the shadows on everyone's faces seem denser and malicious.

"I have twelve men coming from Las Almas." She speaks. "I'm assuming Doug will have more but twelve will be sufficient enough for us." She turns to Rick and gestures for him to step forward. He steps in between Valeria and Alain, planting down a piece of looseleaf. There's a crude sketch of what the compound looks like from above. A rough estimate.

There's a rectangular line around the other structures. Labeled as 'the fence.' Dots indicating guards where the front entrance is labeled. Within the perimeter is a house and a barn. Though it's clearly not being used as a barn. As said by Rick. No animals except for dogs, heard by the barking but he's not sure if they're big or not. He assumes so, saying they 'barked big.'

Valeria points to each side of the fence except for the entrance.

"I'll have two men on each side, waiting for the signal to cut their way in." She tells them. "There's two cliffs either side of the compound, yes?" She looks at Rick for confirmation. He nods. "I'll have someone on the higher cliff to be our eyes and sniper. He'll take out the two guards at the front." There's many uncontrolled variables and it makes Valeria feel a little discomforted, but she's not going to back down or risk waiting.

Valeria does her best to avoid looking at you. Instead choosing to pretend you aren't there anyway. You're not even a part of her plans. You have no combat training, she's not even sure if you've even ever held a firearm let alone shot one. Something knocks a box over, startling everyone. A large rat runs out from the dark. It's long pink hairless tail trailing out from behind it. Even the least squeamish among the group take a step away from it with disgust, giving it wide berth. It's either sick or stupid, as it runs towards Valeria. Without thinking she lifts her foot and crushes it. Feeling it pop beneath her feet.

Out of the corner of her eye she notices the somber look of disapproval on your face.

"Hey... what the hell man." Mark says weakly. He's not so appalled by her killing of a rat but by the mess it left behind. Gray and pink insides leaking outside. Valeria kicks the rest of the rat away and scrapes away the residue left behind on her shoe.

"This is kill on sight." She continues pointedly. "Don't just kill who you see, seek out people to kill. I don't want any of them remaining but Doug. I'll deal with him myself."

"When are the others getting here?" Alain pipes up, scratching his stubbly chin. 

"They'll be here in a couple of days." Valeria tells him. "I'll relay the plan to them again when they arrive. You're going to be our sniper." She decides. 

Alain has always had amazing aim. He and Valeria used to serve together in the Special Forces. He was a loyalist who saw Valeria's potential before any others and followed her commands without protest, he was one of the few who helped her in double crossing La Araña. Second to Diego, and formally you, he's one of the few people she could almost consider to be a friend.  She looks at Rick.

"I want you to be with me for the main raiding party." She says to him. He's not as stealthy or as smooth with combat, but he's decently sized and at the very least will make for a very decent meat shield. "Our goal is to capture Doug, destroy the compound, and go home."

Valeria sighs tiredly. Feeling the weariness in her very bones. 

"We'll go over everything again when the others arrive." She says. turning and walking upstairs. Trailing traces of rat around with her.

"So, I'll get a little something extra for housing all these extra people, right?" Mark asks from behind her, following her up the stairs.

"No." Valeria says flatly. annoyed by him. She finds herself excited by the prospect of leaving this place. She's missing the familiar culture of Las Almas.

Mark tries to argue but very quickly gives up. The smart choice, since arguing won't change her mind, only piss her off. Valeria walks into the kitchen, in need of a drink. She digs through the cupboards, sniffing the dubiously smelling glasses. It takes her awhile to find a clean one but she finally does and finally gets her water.

"Did that make you feel tough?" A voice speaks up from behind her. Valeria turns and looks, brows furrowed with confusion.

"Pardon?" 

"Did stomping that rat make you feel tough?" You clarify. "I know you like throwing your weight around. Especially towards things smaller than yourself."

Valeria sets down her glass. Feeling agitated by you.

She leans back against the counter and grips it tightly.

"It's a pest. Spreads disease." Valeria says warningly. Though that's not the reason she killed it. She's not entirely sure why. It was an impulse she had and one she listened to.

"I can think of another thing that spreads disease." You mutter.

"I'm not diseased." She snaps. Are you accusing her of having an STD? Is that what you think of her? The thought upsets her.

"Not what I meant." You shake your head. Shoulders dropping as you lose that combative attitude. "What am I supposed to do? In the plan, you never mentioned me."

The first droplets of rain begin to hit the window. Gentle for only a few seconds before turning into a violent flurry.

"You're going to stay here. I don't need you." Valeria says. 

"You don't need me." You repeat. Sounding surprised and offended. "You dragged me out here just to cast me aside?"

Valeria scoffs. "You're the one who fought me on coming out here."

You look like you're going to say something but think better of it.

Valeria has a point. She didn't originally plan on bringing you, but you wanted to come, and she wanted you with her. And it was good, for a bit. But even before you found out about the lie, you were never included in her plans. Simply because you'd be a liability, and because she wanted to keep you safe.

"I'm not useless." You say quietly.

"I didn't say you are." She replies. Rubbing a hand over her face. That nicotine craving is starting to flare up. She needs a smoke. Needs to get away from you.

"You've said it before." You press, stepping forward. "And I know you still think I'm not as important or impressive because I don't fight, or because I've never killed anyone. But I'm not some meek little wallflower, I'm not a child. I can take care of myself, and I can follow orders." You tell her sternly.

Your words make her uncomfortable. She wants to deny that she thought that way about you... but it's partially true. You mean something to her, but a part of her can't help but look down on you. To her, you're not someone capable of defending herself. 

"You want to help?" Valeria relents. "Fine. I'll get Alain to teach you as much as he can about guns and I'll set you up on the other cliff. You'll be additional support." Valeria doesn't like giving into people who argue with her. And she especially doesn't want to jeopardize you or the mission.

But little harm could come to you or the mission if you're posted up out of the way. You seem appeased at the moment. Content now that you're included. 

"Thank you." You say civilly. Valeria relaxes. Perhaps you're starting to forgive her.

"Hey." She calls out as you turn to leave. You stop and look at her. "When we get back to Las Almas I'll take you out for dinner. As an apology." The words feel awkward and out of place in her mouth. She wishes she just kept quiet. You don't respond right away.

"I'm still upset with you." You say. Then walk off without another word. Leaving Valeria in the company of the rain and your rejection.

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[smile-files]

NO ONE ELSE CAN HELP YOU

NO ONE ELSE CAN HELP YOU

(objectober 2024 day 20: dream)

[insertsona]

a new project approaches .. but is this really the side of the universe you want to be on?

[every-sanji]

[icewindandboringhorror]

a quite simple outfit, trying to use the little blue and white apron thing (which is actually a dress I think, that I just leave un-buttoned in the back and added an apron-like tie to lol)

[kn11ves]

my comic is live right now!

kyle and rex is an absurdist drama set in a stagnant afterlife where everyone lies, cheats, manipulates, and hurts each other in order to gain political power and admiration from the public.

with characters constantly haunted by ghosts of the past, trying to stay on top of the food chain despite constant betrayals and having their secrets held up above their heads, comes back kyle, from his long stay back as a guiding spirit on earth, to take back reigns of the throne in the inbetween. though much like everyone else, hes got a long list of dirty laundry that many are aching to reveal. there are no real friends here.

⸻

updates every 2 weeks, at 6:30 pm central US time! (SP & ENG)

WEBTOON: english link + spanish link

TAPAS: english link + spanish link

FANEO: spanish link

[epersonae]

The Cooking Project: an introduction

So I've posted quite a bit about my issues with executive dysfunction around cooking, which started the summer before Ryn died and have lingered since then. I've tried a few things to break through it, with limited success.

Then: I was talking to some friends recently and we got talking about "grandma recipes". (See also: @triflesandparsnips' work with soaps and lip balms etc.) In that conversation, I realized again both that I have a lot of cooking knowledge, actually, and that I have my own little collection of that sort of recipes.

I've watched food tv since long before food network existed, and I love figuring out and understanding how cooking works. And I have both a stack of index cards accrued over the years, and an actual binder of print-outs and magazine clippings etc etc, some of which date back almost 30 years at this point.

And then I looked at those cards, and OMG, there's so many that aren't quite complete recipes, including a few that don't even say what they are, plus a few that I've never made. The binder, too, is a mix of things I used to make all the time, and some that were purely aspirational.

wait, what are you doing?

So I'm trying this thing where I make something from my collection, and make some notes about it. (Yeah, I'm doing ye olde food blogging, what of it.) The idea is to get back into regular cooking not as self-care or maintenance or overhauling my daily life or whatever, but by exploring an old special interest, and enjoying the play of it.

the first recipe: key lime pie from tumblr

At the suggestion of one of these friends, I started with a recipe that I found here on Tumblr, at some point I don't remember when, that I've never made: key lime pie. (Apologies for no link, but I literally have no idea what post it was or even when I wrote it down.)

Recipe text, transcribed:

12 oz can sweetened cond. milk 3 egg yolks 1/2 c key lime juice

mix until smooth heat oven to 350F, prebake graham cracker crust for 15 min pour in filling, bake 15 min cool 30 min on counter, then in fridge for 4hrs - overnight

Notes:

sweetened condensed milk only comes in 14oz cans now. I did some math, and increased the lime juice by one tablespoon.

the recipe as I wrote it didn't say what size pie crust. I bought a 9" and I think an 8" would have been a better choice. the ratio of crust to filling was off and the outer edge was frankly silly looking.

I have, in the past, made graham cracker crust from scratch. it's pretty easy, but also premade pie crust, sure why not.

the prebaking was definitely too long, and it ended up tasting a little burnt. I'd do more like 10 minutes max next time.

I started preheating the oven before I mixed the ingredients, because I know how long it takes my oven to preheat.

if I had the experience, I think I would have made a meringue with the egg whites. maybe next time I'll try it.

I added the info about increasing lime juice, the crust size, and baking timing to my card for future reference.

Final thoughts

I would make it again! The filling was tart and creamy, a nice contrast to the crust, and I've always loved key lime pie. Very easy, tasty, and I've added the key parts of my notes to the back of the card.

Update, a couple of weeks later: ended up freezing two slices, will see if they're good unfrozen. (I have a soft spot for terrible frozen key lime pie slices.)

[eclarinet]

same soup... different day

[sforzesco]

Cardinal! just popping up randomly in your askbox to say that i'm OBSESSED with your portraying of della Rovere, especially in the latest comic. he looks so menacing, sinister even, yet he traces Ascanio's scar so so tenderly?? jbfbvkjvd i'd give my right arm for a scene like that in the Borgias season 4!

thank you!!

originally, that scene was supposed to be a lot more weird and hostile, but I didn't want to draw. hallways. for it. so I'll be revisiting it again someday when I do feel like drawing hallways lmao

also, they're so weird! every now and then I'll read something, and I'm like. hey, della rovere. did you fuck that vice chancellor.

once, della rovere asked for the absolute humiliation of ascanio sforza, and then jump cut years later and he's re establishing ascanio's wealth and visiting him every day just to talk. okay guys!!!

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Listened to some JRWl stuff and liked the stories / characters they came up with, so I've been listening to all the older campaigns they did over the past few months and. Man. They sure love using the b word every other sentence (especially against women antagonists) huh.

[jeremiahthefroge]

literally obsessed w writing fanfic. So glad I decided to pick it back up. I'm not ready to like, announce it on the actual fic bc I don't want to ACTUALLY get anybody's hopes up, bc I literally can't stick to a project for more than 2 minutes, but I've been slowly going back over my old ATLA fic And You Saved Me, Maybe, in which Zuko joins the Gaang way early in season 1 after the Blue Spirit episode, bc I wrote like 60k words and it blew the hell up on Ao3, like that shit was my Magnum Opus in high school, and I've made a lot of progress as a writer since then. It's always kinda haunted me that I didn't ever finish it, but I just can't work with the fic as it is now, so I'm like, COMPLETELY reworking it. The other day, I reread it, and took 10 pages of notes on the exact plot/character beats that I introduced. That fic is a MESS. I wanna fix it up, finish it, and release it.

I love trying to accurately nail Zuko and Aang's characters as I've come to understand them as an adult. Zuko's sort of prideful defiance in season 1 is something that I totally skipped right over in the fic. I was working with an understanding of Zuko that I had after the entire show was over and it just didn't work for season 1 Zuko, which made his whole arc totally whatever.

And also now I can smoke pot and I know how to write a story outline. So we know this shit will be inherently better. I'm seriously hoping I can actually get this going properly, and I'm encouraged because I've written a bit of it a night for like a week, so we'll see what's up with all that.

[afterglowsainz]

imperfect for you | oscar piastri

pairing: norris!reader x oscar piastri

summary: you’re too focused on being the paddock’s cupid that you fail to notice your perfect match is right there, on your brother’s teammate

fc: madisyn menchaca

a/n: i’m choosing to ignore all the trouble and negativity surrounding oscar’s win and just focus on the fact that oscar piastri is a formula 1 grand prix winner!!!

—

liked by ynnorris, charles_leclerc and others

f1 the ferrari couple arrives in blue classiness 💙

tagged charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

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username omg alex’s first appearance in the paddock !!!

username she’s truly one of the most beautiful women i’ve seen

username let’s all thank yn’s mind for bringing these two together 💕

ynnorris my babies 🥹🫶🏽 (liked by charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux)

username still can’t believe if it wasn’t for yn they wouldn’t be together

username i just love when hot people date each other 😍

username and they’re matching too 🥺

liked by oscarpiastri, francisca.cgomes and others

ynnorris currently in monaco looking for my next project ❤️‍🩹

tagged landonorris, oscarpiastri, logansargeant and alexandrasaintmleux

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username not her saying she’s looking for a “project” after setting up charles and alex 🤣

username the one and only paddock’s cupid 💘

username it’s insane how she sets everyone up and she’s still single

username the prettiest girl❣️

oscarpiastri you literally posted a pic playing padel, there’s you next project

ynnorris padel is for the weak who can’t play tennis

maxverstappen1 hey!

alexandrasaintmleux charge €10 per tarot reading 🫶🏽

ynnorris alexandra malena your mind is immaculate 🤌🏽

liked by logansargeant, friend1 and others

ynnorris the look from the nosebleeds🩸

tagged logansargeant and friend1

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username why on earth wasn’t she at the garage???

username babes your brother is a literal driver what are you doing there

ynnorris he kicked me out :(

lissiemackintosh shame on you landonorris

landonorris that’s literally fake she just wanted to see how it looked from up there

oscarpiastri i can confirm

ynnorris no one asked you‼️ oscarpiastri

username and who’s that with logan 👀

username omg not another one of yn friends 😭

username she took the paddock’s cupid name too seriously

logansargeant send me that last pic

ynnorris ask friend1 🤭

liked by logansargeant, landonorris and others

oscarpiastri exploring more of monaco🇲🇨

tagged logansargeant, ynnorris and friend1

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username can’t believe he’s moving there

username we lost the game of keeping f1 drivers out of monaco

username not oscar hard launching logan’s relationship 😭

username i genuinely think yn hard launched them first in her last post

username hard launch between yn and oscar when

username no because was this a double date orrr???

username logan and his new gf, no lando, oscar and yn next to each other … hmm …

ynnorris you look cute 🥰 friend1

friend1 youuuu 💕

logansargeant 🤨🤨

friend1 you look cute too ig

logansargeant 😊

oscarpiastri no flirting on my instagram please

ynnorris boooo 🍅🍅🍅

liked by oscarpiastri, trentarnold66 and others

ynnorris post-beach clarity 🏝

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username the only woman ever

username 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

lissiemackintosh my girlfriend 🥵 (liked by ynnorris)

username obsessed with you

username face card is insaaaane

username oscar is very slow

trentarnold66 damn😍

landonorris uhm 🤨

charlesleclerc 🤨

maxverstappen1 🤨

pierregasly 🤨

lancestroll 🤨

lewishamilton 🤨

ynnorris all of you leave rn.

ynnorris except you lewishamilton you can stay 🥰

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f1gossip some drivers were seen clubbing at monaco this weekend including oscar piastri with a mysterious brunette. yn norris and lissie mackintosh were also at the party

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username who’s the girl with oscar?

username i believe it’s friend2 but i could be wrong

username omg and look who follows her 🤭

username yn once again playing cupid but this time with the wrong guy 😩

username no because i wanted her and oscar to date so bad i thought they liked each other :(

username but look at the bright side!!! she’s been rumored to be dating trent alexander arnold so is not all bad

username i guess 😔

liked by f1gossip and others

footballwags trent alexander-arnold was seen recently with rumored girlfriend spending some time at the beach

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username excuse me what

username i thought his rumored girlfriend was yn norris? who is this?

username guys i think trent and yn were never really together

username you think?

username trentyn goodbye goodbye goodbye you were bigger than the whole sky

username tbh i can’t be mad at this

username same

liked by oscarpiastri, lissiemackintosh and others

ynnorris took a trip down under 🇦🇺

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username OMG GUYSSS THIS IS NOT A DRILL

username so we weren’t completely delusional huh😭

lissiemackintosh can’t believe you’re cheating on me 😔

ynnorris you’re my number one always! 🫶🏽

username she’s so gorgeous i’m speechless

username yn give me a chance pls pls pls

oscarpiastri you’re too much 😍

ynnorris do you want an australian kiss? 😛

aussiegrit kids please

username last pic is peak boyfriendism 🥵

username FINALLYYYYY