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[0cta9on]

Train Ride to Heaven

length: +3k words

Genre: Smut

NewJeans Hanni x Male Reader

(Author's Note: The winner of the first smut poll! I wrote this entire thing in 1.5 sittings, so it's very rough and unedited. Nevertheless, hope you horny sickos enjoy it <3)

【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★

A weary sigh leaves your lips as you rest the back of your head against the trembling glass of the subway. Eight years of college, even more years of brown-nosing just for a sliver of a chance at a promotion, hours of sleep lost from nights working overtime, and where did it land you? A thankless office job that considers you more of a number than a living, breathing human being. After all that, you get to go home to a loveless marriage with a woman you know for a fact is cheating on you with her personal trainer, but you’re too tired to do anything about it. Hooray for you.

You feel the subway slowly creep to a stop. A few more of those and you’ll finally be able to sleep and pretend like you're dead for a couple hours before doing it all over again. A lone girl, at least 18, walks into the car and takes a seat directly across from you - an odd move considering the entire car is completely empty aside from you. You try to ignore her, opting to get some shut-eye before you get to your stop, but you can’t deny the shift in the atmosphere from her presence. She’s a pretty young girl, all alone at this time of night. You could do anything to her and no one would even know. You shake your head at the thought. No good can come from a perverted old man like yourself.

“Psst…”

Although, there’s no fault in thinking like that if it stays in your mind. A cute girl like her could easily be taken advantage of. In fact, she’s lucky that you’re here instead of an actual sicko that would try to put their hands all over her.

“Psst… Ahjussi…”

This shitty marriage has got you all pent up. Not like you would have any energy left in you, especially after a day like this. Lucky you. Maybe if you pray hard enough, whatever god is up there will pity you and summon a woman that’ll throw themselves at you. If only life were that easy.

“Ahjussi!”

Your eyes shoot open from the sudden noise. The girl sitting across from you giggles to herself as she smiles at you. It isn’t immediately obvious due to her innocent features, but you can tell that she’s hiding something behind that smile. Something sinister, even. How exciting.

“What?” You ask. Her sly smile only grows as she subtly raises her skirt. Little by little, she reveals the supple flesh of her thighs, firm and plump. You know in the back of your mind that this is wrong, that she shouldn’t be exposing herself to an old man like this, but the second you see that little bit of white cotton in between her legs, all common sense flies out the window. Suddenly, she lowers her skirt, much to your disappointment. Your emotions must have been obvious as she cackles sweetly, pointing at your face. Embarrassed, you lean back and shut your eyes, hoping she’ll leave you alone for the duration of the ride.

“Ahjussi~” she teases in a sing-songy voice. “Open your eyes~” Like a fool, you follow her orders without a second thought. This time, however, the reward is greater than you could have ever imagined. Her white cotton panties are there in full view for no one else but yourself, drawing you in like a siren. The girl bites her lip as she traces circles around her crotch, more for you rather than herself. Your cock begins to strain in your pants, begging to be set free.

“Come here,” she says, beckoning you with a single finger. You quickly do as she says and sit next to her. Up close, you can see just how deceivingly innocent she is with her big, round eyes and her thick, pouty lips. Anyone would walk by her and assume she’s a classy and upstanding student, not a little slut teasing random old men in a subway (Not that you mind).

“My name is Hanni, what’s your name?” She asks, gripping the sleeve of your blazer while she plays with herself under her skirt.

“I-I, u-um, m-my name is-”

She brings a finger to your lips, silencing you. “Actually, I don’t really care, I’m just gonna call you daddy,” Hanni giggles. You force yourself to take a deep breath in an attempt to remain composed, but inside, you’re cheering like an addicted gambler finally hitting that sweet, sweet jackpot.

“So Daddy, what are you doing riding the train home this late at night?” The lilt she puts on that word is enough to drive you insane, but you try to hold back, not wanting to scare her off if you appear too eager.

“Uh, y’know, just getting home after a long day of work. Boring office job and all that. Nothing you would find any interest in,’ you sigh. Hanni pouts, looking at you with a sympathetic expression.

“Awww poor daddy, you must be so stressed.” She holds onto your arm, pushing her perky breasts into you. Your wife has never given you so much as a glance in your direction whenever you showed up exhausted from work. She’s probably too busy texting her personal trainer. Hell, she’s probably fucking him right at this very moment. It’s only fair if you get to have some fun for yourself, right?

“Yeah, I suppose I am pretty stressed. On top of that, my wife has been cheating on me with this personal trainer guy she met a couple months ago.” As soon as you mention your wife’s adultery, a hint of a smirk appears on Hanni’s lips.

“Oh no~,” she says, feigning pity. “Maybe I can help you… feel better?” She puts your hand on your chest and inches it downwards, all while maintaining eye contact with you. Her face is close enough for you to feel her breath on your chin, but just far enough for her to escape if you try to kiss her. All you can do is wait as you feel her hand getting closer and closer closer to your raging erection. Everything fades away but the pumping of your heart and the gentle brown of her eyes. Finally, a guttural groan escapes your mouth as she grasps onto your cock, stroking it through your pants.

Hanni giggles at your expression. “Does that feel good, Daddy? Do you like it when I play with Daddy’s cock?” All you can do is nod as she continues to toy with you, rubbing and squeezing along your shaft. It’s been so long since another person has touched your penis that you almost finish right then and there, but you continue to hold it in with steely determination.

“Daddy’s cock is so big and thick, I don’t know if it’ll fit in my tiny, little mouth.” Hanni leans into your ear, tickling your skin with her breath as she whispers, “Maybe we should find out.”

“Y-yes, god yes,” you practically beg.

“Then tell me what to do,” she says. “I’m your little whore for the night. Treat me like one.” Those filthy words coming out of her pretty mouth is a memory that you will never forget until the day you die.

“Fucking suck my cock, you slut,” you command her, a little too enthusiastically. Even in the prime of your relationship, your wife would never let you talk to her like this. To have your commands followed by this cute girl is heart-poundingly exhilarating. You feel like a whole new man.

Hanni fiddles with your belt buckle at a snail’s pace. You try to do it yourself to get the ball rolling, but she swats your hand away.

“Let me do it by myself, Daddy~” she pouts. With a nod, you lean back and let her have her way, succumbing to the desires of her cuteness. If she wanted to, she could easily take over the world with her looks alone.

After unbuckling your belt and unzipping your pants, all that’s left is the fabric of your underwear separating your dick from her glossy lips. Hanni places a few gentle kisses on your bulge, drawing a moan from your belly. Giggling, her fingers hook around the waistband and pull it down at a tantalizingly slow pace, leaving you to wait as your heart threatens to burst from your chest. Finally, your member swings up, almost hitting Hanni in the face. Her jaw drops as she gazes at your length, a look of surprise and a little bit of fear in her eyes.

“Oh shit…” she whispers to herself before shaking her head and putting back the sultry appearance she had before. “I can’t wait to choke on your big, fat cock, Daddy,” she smirks as she begins to stroke your shaft. Hanni’s hands are much softer than your wife’s, and even more skilled as she cups your balls, applying just enough pressure so that it doesn’t hurt. You watch with bated breath as she leans forward, eyeing the tip of your cock for a moment before it disappears into her open mouth. The sound of your moan echoes throughout the subway car as Hanni sucks on your tip, slowly taking in more of your length with each bob of her head. Even your wife’s cocksucking skills pale in comparison to hers, you almost feel bad for the guy that she’s fucking.

“Yes, good girl, Hanni. Suck that dick, you fucking slut,” you encourage. You notice her ass sticking up in the air, and thanks to the rumbling of the train and her bobbing motions, her skirt rides up just enough for you to peek at the white panties covering her ass, giving you the bright idea to reel back and give her a good, hard spank. She moans into your cock, heightening the sensation. 

“I bet you like that, you little whore.” You yank her up by the hair, forcing her to look at you, saliva covering her mouth and chin. All the inhibitions and common sense you had before are completely gone, leaving nothing behind but animalistic desire.  “Say it. Say that your daddy’s little fucktoy.”

“I’m daddy’s little fucktoy,” she repeats, giggling at you. Satisfied, you release her hair and sit back, watching as she alternates between deepthroating your shaft and sucking on your balls while she strokes your entire length with her spit. You would happily quit your job and live at the subway instead if it meant you get to have this petite sex doll all to yourself every night.

Suddenly, the train comes to a stop at one of the stations and a man stumbles inside. The two of you scramble to cover up, hiding any semblance that the two of you were doing anything indecent. Much to your dismay, the man sits nearby, making it difficult for even small gestures to go unnoticed. He’s clearly not a student nor is he an office worker, so why the hell would he be riding the subway this late at night!?

“Wait,” Hanni whispers, pointing at the man. “Look.”

Confused, you watch as his body begins to sway with the movements of the train. Upon closer inspection, you notice that his eyes are struggling to stay open and his clothes are disheveled. Clearly, he’s either drunk, faded, or both. Finally, BAM - he knocks out on the seat, completely unconscious.

Hanni stifles as she gives you a knowing look. “He’ll be out for a little while so…” She bends over the seat, shaking her butt at you. “Fuck my little pussy with that cock, Daddy~,” she teases, winking back at you.

Pounding with excitement, you release your cock and stroke it back to life, while your other hand pulls down her white cotton panties, finally revealing her pinky honeypot to you. With Hanni’s saliva as lube, you line up your tip with her cunt, teasing her moist folds.

“Are you ready, baby?” you ask

“I’m so fucking rea- MMPH!” She struggles to stifle a moan as you completely bottom out inside of her, all in one thrust. So slick and so tight, you don't even care about comparing her to your wife anymore. All you want to do is ruin her little pussy and use it as your personal cocksleeve. You sink your fingers into her hips, pulling her into you with each thrust and watching her cute ass jiggle against you.

Fuck that stupid company. Fuck your stupid bitch of a wife. Your entire life you were told what to do, how to act, and what you should look like in order to succeed in life. You followed everyone’s orders to a T, even going above and beyond to obtain that success that was oh so coveted. But look where you are now - eight inches deep into some girl you just met tonight. Fuck the “high-paying job” and fuck the “hot wife”. If this isn’t success, then you don’t know what is.

“O-oh my g-god… Y-you’re so f-fucking h-huge…” Hanni squeaks in between thrusts, desperately trying to control her volume. You’re unsure how much longer you can manage, but it doesn’t matter. Whether she likes it or not, this slut is gonna leave with a gallon of your cum deep inside of her.

Hanni’s body begins to shake violently. “I-I… I’m cumming!” She shrieks wildly. You pull out of her, watching in astonishment as she squirts all over the seats. And your wife said you could never dream of satisfying a woman - if only she could see this now. 

“H-holy shit…” she says, leaning her head on your shoulder as she gasps for air. “That was… fucking insane.” Both of you laugh as you wait for her to get down from her high. Miraculously, the man didn’t notice her ear-splitting orgasm, still completely out cold.

Suddenly, Hanni straddles your lap, wrapping her arms around your head. “I noticed that you didn’t cum yet, Daddy.” She gyrates your hips, rubbing her wet slit against your tip. You figure she would still be sensitive after the first round, but it’s clear she was built purely to fuck. “Maybe we should change that,” she says, biting her lips.

“Maybe we should,” you smirk. Hanni kisses you as she drops her hips onto your cock, causing her to moan into your mouth. Not wanting to give up dominance completely, you shove your tongue down her throat, filling two of her holes at once. The wet slapping of her bouncing on your cock echoes throughout the car, and at this point, you don’t care if that man wakes up or not. He could be completely conscious and recording you right now, but you still wouldn’t stop plowing this little minx. In fact, you secretly hope that he is recording right now - the whole world should know that this fucktoy named Hanni is yours and yours alone.

You rip open her top, exposing her perky tits. They are on the smaller side, but they’re big enough to jiggle with each bounce and that’s good enough for you. Hanni grabs your head as you latch onto her tits, licking and sucking every inch of her chest. The pressure begins to build in your loins and you know the end is coming soon. Wanting to milk every drop of this experience, you stand up, supporting Hanni by the ass, and begin ramming into her with every ounce of energy you have left. Rather than a 40-something-year-old man, you feel like you’re reborn again into your 20-year-old body. You feel the familiar tightening of Hanni’spussy around your member, and with one final thrust, your body is elevated to Heaven. Shooting rope after rope into her deep cunt, the high is nothing like you’ve ever experienced in your lifetime. Not even your wife- Ah, who cares about her. She’s nothing but dirt under your foot, while Hanni is an angel sent from above.

You gently place her down on the seat before collapsing next to her, shutting your eyes so you can replay this entire experience in your head. Never in your life did you think you would ever get this lucky. The train comes to a halt, and a hand pats your shoulder.

“Sorry Daddy, but this is my stop,” she giggles as she skips towards the open doors. Despite the rough pounding you just gave her, she somehow managed to look presentable in the short time that your eyes were closed. “I’ll see you around, Daddy~”

The last thing you see is her wink before hopping off the train and disappearing into the night. You’re disappointed that you didn’t ask for her contact information before she left, but you’re confident that you’ll cross paths with her again in the future. Surely, whatever god that heard your prayers isn’t that cruel, right?

As you approach your stop, you quickly get yourself sorted, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention from passersby. If your wife asks about any mysterious “stains” on you, you could easily attribute it to being clumsy while drinking. Not that she would care enough to ask anyway. 

Upon exiting the car, a police officer stops you as you approach the stairs.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says. You try to ignore him, hoping that there’s someone behind you that he’s referring to, but unfortunately, nobody else is around. “Sir, I need to talk to you for just a moment.”

“What’s the problem, officer?” You ask, hiding your panic behind a nervous smile. A whirlwind of questions swarm your mind. Is this about Hanni? Did you get caught? Was it that drunk guy that sold you out? Beads of sweat begin to form on your head as the police officer questions you.

“There has been an increase in robberies in the subway recently and I just want to ask if you saw any suspicious individuals lurking around the subway.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, grateful that the heat isn’t on you. “Well, no officer, I haven’t seen any suspicious individuals around,” you reply.

“Are you sure?” He asks. “All the victims have described the suspect as being a short Asian girl, about 18 years of age, with big brown eyes and black hair. Does that ring any bells for you?

An alarm blares throughout your head. Surely he’s lying, right? Maybe he’s talking about a different Asian girl. There are probably thousands, no, MILLIONS of people that fit that criteria. Besides, you and Hanni shared a special connection tonight. She’s the answer to everything that ever went wrong in your life, an angel sent from Heaven to cure you of your miseries. Hanni wouldn’t lie to you, right?

You dig through your pockets, frantically scrambling for your wallet and your phone. You feel something in your pocket and pull it out, only to be filled with dread at the sight of it - white cotton panties.

[kitashinsukehoney]

Inside Out (JJK men)

Character: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Higuruma, Choso Kamo, Toji Fushiguro.

POV: You're having sex with them and they ask you where would you like them to cum.

TW: SEX, cunnilingus, creampie, breeding kink, somnophilia, bonding kink, rough sex.

GOJO SATORU

He was fuckin you lazily from behind while whispering some explicit words into your ears. Each time he thrusts into you, you can feel his dick getting harder and bigger. You can feel his dick is stretching your gummy wall as he's picking up his pace. He then lifts up your thigh so he can have easy access to fuck. Once he feels he's about to cum, he whimpers to you,

"Can I come inside you? Please, please?",, he whined. You who are now dumb fucked just say yes, while gasping and moaning nonstop. After few seconds, he finally cummed inside you and you can feel your lower abdomen is now full to brim.

Geto Suguru.

He was teasing you a lot knowing that you're in ovulation period. He keeps 'accidentally' brushes his fingers at your ass, breasts and clothed cunt. when you finally can't stand it anymore, you demanded him to fuck you.

"Really? Once you get it, we must do it for at least 3 rounds", he said while grinning stupidly. You didn't say anything but to agree. He pushed you to the bed and stripped you off in a minute. Then he fingered you for half an hour, as a tease. once he feels you're ready to be fuck, he slips himself inside you without warning and thrust quickly. You who gasping for air, bury your nails at his back while reaching high sex drive.

"T-too fast! Slow down", you begged him. But he won't stopped. You cummed and squirted for 4 times but he still doesn't cum yet. It took him 20 minutes to cum.

"CUM INSIDE ME SUGURU! PLEASE~", you didn't give him any options at all. He was happy to know you wanted his cum buried deep inside your womb so he cummed and won't get out until he satisfied.

Nanami Kento.

Man. This man has a breeding kink. You two can have sex almost everyday after he arrives home from work to relieve stress. When youre busy cooking, he would go behind you, slips his finger inside your wet hole, watching you becoming horny while cutting the vegetable.

"My dinner is ready, why do you need to cook more? Your pussy is savory and sweet enough for me", he said. After he said this, you finally give in and now he's eating you out on the luxurious black leather couch. He laps your sweet pussy juice like a hungry man. When you squirted, he let out his erected cock and fuck you in a missionary. He believes this position ease the reproduction process. He is big and of course he cums a lot.

But today, he wants to try something else. What if he cums at the entrance of your pussy and watch his cum seep into your hole? He did the exact thing he imagined and he was mesmerized at how beautiful his cum looked together with your pussy.

"Nanami, i want to suck you ..", you said with hoarse voice after moaning for an hour straight. He let you suck his dick while massaging his full of cums balls. You loved how his dick feels on your tongue while his cum taste so sweet. You know Nanami is a healthy masculine man and you are not disgusted at the thought of swallowing his cums. As you're sucking him, he watches you squirts, leaving a poodle of your cunt juice on the floor.

Higuruma

GOSH. okay, this man is a tired lawyer who busy working. So whenever he arrives home you would be on bed, sleeping soundly. Until one day, he feels like he's on heat and he needs something to relieve him. When he arrived home, he quickly take off his tie, blazer, leaving him with his long sleeve and pants on. He went to your shared room and saw you wearing black lingerie that he bought.

He slowly creeped onto bed, went to kiss you on the forehead before getting inbetween your thighs. He then eats you out for a few minutes until you actually woke up and greeted him. You didn't mind at all as you gave him consent before.

After you cum, he finally stripped off the lingerie and ties both your hands using his tie. He then fucks you mercilessly, not letting you to touch him. As his cock slipped in and out, his thumb naughtily rub on your clit, making you feels hornier.

When Higuruma about to cum, he pulls out and went to jerk himself on your bare breasts. He likes the view of his cum on your breasts because it looks as if you're lactating. After that rough session, he would sucks your nipples but his hip still busily thrusting you.

Choso Kamo.

This man will begs you to ride him because you can take him with full length. He also can suck your breasts better in this position. The reason why you're being fucked right now is because you're wearing the mini skirt Nobara gave you. You didn't know your fiance would lose his sanity but you loved it. He now gropped your ass and spank you to fasten your riding pace. When you feel you're reaching orgasm, you leaned forward and rides his dick faster. You keep on moaning his name while he's whining like a bitch.

You pinched his pretty pink perked up nipples and kissing him deeply with you two tongues entangled. When he's about to cum, he quickly changed position to full nelson. You gasped at the sudden change and trapped in his embrace. Suddenly you feel warm loads inside your cunt and he groaned.

"One more...One more time", he said. As he slipped out his dick, you can feel his cum seeped out from your abused hole so he quickly stuffed two of his fingers inside.

"Don't waste it, I need you to carry lots of babies for me", he said, while preparing for the next round.

Toji Fushiguro.

Simple. First, 69. Second, cowgirl reversed. Third, mating press. Fourth, standing up.

After an hour of fuckin and edging you, he finally cums inside you.

"aggh~, need another siblings for tsumiki and megumi", he said while gripped your hips. He then stuffed his dick inside your ass. "I need both these holes used by me, see how pretty you are as my cumslut", he said. You can't say anything as you're dumbfucked but happy inside to finally fuck this hot daddyable beggar. He gropes your breasts and say how pretty your breasts would be to full with milk.

P/S: Geto is the hottest

[starkraivennemad]

Convince Me Tomorrow

By all accounts it had been vicious for the past weeks in Mycroft Holmes’ life. It genuinely felt as though the classic Mr. Murphy and ALL his laws were out to get him.

Completely wiped out, he ordered an equally exhausted Anthea home. That she only gave trace argument against leaving until he was also ready to leave spoke volumes. Too drained to make it to his vehicle, he decided to kip for a moment on the sofa.

Mycroft removed his suit blazer and rolled up his cuffs.

But first, a much-needed snifter of brandy.

“Mr. Holmes. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is on the premises.”

Ah, Gregory. Always the perfect elixir to what ails me!

“Thank you, please send him up.”

He chuckled to himself remembering time early days of knowing Gregory when he loathed the man. Stubborn, but respectful in a sneering way that showed how he felt, Gregory simply did not kowtow to him. Highly intelligent and intuitive, Lestrade a rare thing in Mycroft’s world - an honest man. The fact that all of it came in a very pleasing to the eye package that was unfortunately married then. Even as he slowly grew to respect and admire the man, he spent years being the cold unapproachable man. Being Iceman. Antarctica. The above such trite things as sentiment. The one who regularly touted ‘caring is not an advantage’.  

But that was then.

Now respect and admiration had grown to full on love. And though Greg was now divorced - alas, only Mycroft himself knew of that love. After years of holding himself away, he had no idea how to get close to the man.

Thus, it was a Mycroft Holmes who was more than a snifter or two of brandy in, that cheered when Gregory entered.

“Greetings! It’s been a minute as the youth say. Join me a drink?” Mycroft stilled his snifter in time to keep it contents from sloshing over the rim – barely. 

Oh, he’s wearing one of his better suits! It does not look he’s worn it all day. He must have gone home and changed. He looks good. Why does he look so good?

He frowned as Gregory quickly closed his gaped mouth. “What?”

“I um…” Greg scratched at his head. “…In all the years we’ve known each other – I cannot claim to have ever seen you this… relaxed… in appearance or temperament.”

Mycroft looked at himself.

Granted on any other man, being jacketless, waist-coated, with perfectly folded sleeves would be an elegant casual look. But for the normally, impeccably dressed, three-piece bespoke suited Mycroft? -it was down-right slovenly in his mind, and he was horrified!

“Oh! Do I offend? I - I – I did not mean to -” Mycroft immediately stood and put down the glass to unfold his sleeves.

“No don’t!” Gregory practically yelled as he darted to his side, placing his hand atop Mycroft’s to stop him. “It was not censure, Mycroft! Please relax. I am happy to see you—this much of you… I – I mean see that you can sit back and relax a moment.”

Both men were transfixed by Gregory’s fingers that gently grazed along the fine hairs above his wrist…

He’s… He’s touching me! He’s TOUCHING me! He’s touching ME!

…but then Gregory he realized what he was doing and quickly moved his hand.

Mycroft was admittedly inebriated, but the shock of Gregory’s warm touch fired off several cranial pistons into action.

Oh, stopped, but he did not apologize. What does that mean?  

Greg lifted the near empty decanter. “Uh, are we having a celebration of sorts?”

“Oh dear, wasn’t that full an hour ago?” Mycroft said sheepishly. “Wait. What brings you here?”

“And on that note – I think we need to get you to your driver.” Gregory put down the brandy decanter.

“What? Why? You’ve just arrived!”

Too upset at the thought of being parted from Greg so soon, he be more horrified to know he whined.

“I’m here because you invited me. And perhaps to ensure a pod person has not taken you over?”

“What are you talking about?”

Greg showed Mycroft his phone.

TEXT–1744: It’s sad but true. How I think about you. It rhymed! Ooh! – MH

TEXT��1745: Drinks. You and Me. Now. Diogenes. It rhymed again, see? – MH

Mycroft looked at his pocket watch and then checked his own phone in horror.

Yes, I sent those over an hour ago. Oh, I was, and am, well into my cups.

“Oh…” Mycroft blushed deep to his roots.

I texted – in rhyme dear god – and he got dressed and came. But he’s in A SUIT - for me?

“Oh…” Gregory echoed, and promptly lost his battle to remain stoic.  “You look so incredibly gobsmacked right know, Mycroft, were you not drunk, I could kiss you.”

“That implies you could kiss me when I’m sober.” Mycroft said carefully. “I may be drunk and thus emboldened -that is true, but you know I remember everything. If I ask to see you tomorrow - would you?”

“See you tomorrow? Or… kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“If you ask to see me tomorrow?” Gregory gave a shy, but burgeoning smile of hope. “Tomorrow… I’ll kiss your whole face—don’t try me.”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps…” Mycroft mixed quotes as he began to roll his sleeves down, then retrieved his jacket and briefcase. “Good night till it be morrow…”

Gregory reached for his hand when they reached Mycroft’s sedan.

“I know you’ve noticed I dressed in this suit for you.”

“I… have…”

“Then remember this: I was hoping to convince you to get me out of it.” Gregory took Mycroft’s hand in his and kissed it. “It is a hope that I have had for quite a while now.”

“I hope you can convince me then.” Mycroft returned the gesture and climbed in the sedan.

----    ----

TEXT–2359: Will you see me tomorrow? – MH

TEXT–0000: It is tomorrow. – GL

TEXT–0001: I know. – MH

A grinning Greg, who clearly had been expecting this, opened the door to his flat to see Mycroft standing there. “A promise is a promise, Gregory.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still in your suit.”

“I still hope to be convincing, Mycroft.”

Gregory kept his promise.

And was very convincing indeed.

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@mystradepromptsandscenarios

Mystrade Monday Prompt #99

[hilarychuff]

Chrissy hesitates while getting dressed Thursday morning. She’s got her uniform on, her cheer cardigan too, but when she looks at herself in the mirror, she half wants to shrug the sweater off. Hang it back up in her closet. She won’t be swapping it out for Jason’s letterman after first period today. What would happen if she just… left it at home. Maybe, if she gets cold, someone else will let her borrow their jacket for the day. She wonders if Jason would offer. Would he insist? Can’t have my girl looking cold, Chris, she imagines in his voice. I know it’s game day, but here, you should take it. Maybe it wouldn’t be like that, though. Maybe it would be the opposite. Baby, how am I supposed to feel you cheering me on all day long if I don’t have my jacket? Plus, you know all the guys are wearing theirs. It’s good for team unity, and I have to set the right example as captain. I thought you girls were wearing your sweaters today. She half entertains the idea of sneaking into her father’s room to borrow one of his sport coats. What would Robin think if she showed up in a blazer of her own? Or could Chrissy maybe not pull it off the same as Robin does? Robin always looks so cool and effortless in her outfits, like putting them together comes as naturally to her as breathing. Her style is so — her own compared to most of the other girls at Hawkins High. Maybe if Chrissy tried to copy it, she’d just look exactly like she would be: a little girl playing dress up in her father’s closet. Maybe she could squeeze into one of PJ’s. His size probably isn’t so different from hers. As long as he has something that fits over her shoulders, it wouldn’t matter too much if the arms were a little short. She could roll the sleeves to her elbows the same way Robin usually does. Chrissy doesn’t typically wear anything tight, though. Her own sense of style tends to favor a looser fit, her closet full of long cardigans and pleated pants, structured jumpsuits and billowy dresses that can be belted in at the waist. Her mom would call those sorts of items forgiving. Things that can change with or hide her fluctuating weight. It also tends to mean it’s less noticeable when her mother buys her clothes a size too large or decides she’s gained another few pounds and takes it upon herself to let out all the seams. Oh. Her mother. Her mother would never let her leave the house in something like that. Not ladylike enough. Of course, it’s one thing to wear her boyfriend’s jacket at school, but it’s another to include men’s clothing as part of her regular wardrobe. And it’s not like she’d be able to hide it from her parents. Even if she managed to sneak into someone else’s closet without being discovered, she couldn’t just stuff a blazer into her backpack and pull it out later. Not if she also wanted to fit any of her books in there. She’s pretty sure there isn’t a world where her mother would be swayed by any claims that it’s some sort of new trend either. Laura Cunningham always insists that truly well-dressed women always look timeless. Classic. They don’t chase trends that will look silly in pictures they’ll be showing their children one day. There’s no use, really, in trying to prepare for a conversation she’ll just lose. She keeps the cardigan on.

all the best people see you (all the best people know), chapter 8, a season 4 buckingham au

[bullet-prooflove]

4500 Follower Celebration Bingo: Key To Her Heart: JD Dempsey x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @burningpeachpuppy @luckyladycreator2 @toheavenwmydrms @gatefleet

Companion piece to:

One Night - You and JD spend the night together.

Peppermint (NSFW) - JD isn't ready to let you go just yet.

Stormy Night - You turn up at JD's door in the middle of the night.

There is nothing worse than pretending to be JD’s whore, than having to sit on his lap in a room full of men that want to buy you as he stakes his claim by running his fingertips across the hem of a dress that rides just that little bit too high.

“This one is a little rich for your blood.” He tells the man who has just tried to barter a night with you. You’re seated on his lap, his lips ghosting over the curve of your throat as he smiles. “She has me spending millions on her don’t you sweetheart?”

The man sitting across from you sighs, his eyes locked on the platinum padlock necklace cinched around your throat.

“She’s that good of a fuck?” Gregor Chadski asks JD as he swirls around the ice cubes in his whiskey glass.

“Better than anything you could ever imagine.” JD tells the trafficker, his thumb chasing along your jaw as he tilts your head to look at him. “Every single part of her is perfect.”

You can hear the sincerity in his voice and it wounds you. It’s been over a month since the two of you were last together, since you ended things because he still hasn’t divorced his wife and you still crave him. You spend your nights alone in your sheets, with your favourite toy fantasising about all the ways this man has made you come.

“How much then?” Gregor prompts, taking out his phone and bringing up his banking app. “For the key to her heart? One million? Two? Three?”

JD’s jaw tightens, you can tell he hates the thought of another man’s hands on your, especially this ones but it’s part of the game. To make the arrest he has to sell you, no matter how revolting he finds it.

“Just make the damn sale.” Mackey’s voice sounds through both of your earpieces and you see JD’s flash with indignation.

“Five.” He says finally. “You can own her for five.”

There’s a moment of indecision, you think JD’s overshot his mark but then Gregor asks for his routing number and you watch as the money is transferred into his account.

“Come to me.” Gregor says patting his own lap as he slips his phone back into his pocket.

You raise to your feet despite JD’s grasp tightening on your hand before you slip away from him.

“Oh Gregor.” You whisper as you place your palms on his spread knees and lean in close so you can look into his eyes. “You’re under arrest baby.”

The expression on this asshole’s face makes the past few hours of emotional torture worth the prize. You step out of the way as JD cuffs him, snatching up the suit jacket he’s left hanging on the back of his chair and slipping it on over the mini dress you’re wearing. The scent of his aftershave clings to the collar, flooding your scenes with his masculinity. His eyes flicker up to meet yours as he hands Gregor off to Mackey and you know you’re going home with him tonight, that you're going to spend the night being ruined in his sheets.

“I’ll keep the dress on.” You tell him as you stride past him and he shakes his head, his fingers catching on the sleeve of the suit jacket.

“Just the blazer.” He tells you before his gaze drops lower. “The boots too.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[jyou-no-sonoko19]

Taster for a Laura/Shelley zine-fic I'm working on...

"Is this really good enough for you? For the rest of your life?"

Shelley froze -- though not before her slender hand completed the motion from the fallen man's pocket to her own, now another bill-fold richer.

People didn't sneak up on her; she snuck up on them. That was her Knack (as the other, younger kids called it), it was what had kept her alive this long, and able to provide for the rest of them; allowed her to have nice things, despite how many people would prefer she have nothing but dirt in her mouth.

"What's it to you?" she asked cautiously. Her knife was in her boot, if this had to turn brutish, but words were always better. You could get a stranger to fall in love with you, instead of rat you out, with the right words.

"Not very much," the woman replied, unmoving as Shelley slowly turned and appraised her. "And if you'd like to tell me that I'm wrong, and that being a petty, backstreet thief is the peak of your personal ambitions, then so be it. I'll take the next train out of London and mark on my little form that this was a wild goose chase. That there is no Ghost of Bromley who makes men hallucinate themselves into a stupor, before having their pockets pillaged and their finer clothes removed."

The woman's Scots accent was as neatly tailored and effortlessly elegant as her outfit: gigot sleeves and slight puffs at the shoulders of her midnight-blue blazer made a stern silhouette even sterner, the nipped waist and fitted hips of her bell-shaped skirt indicating a being of intense self-control.

Pale, piercing eyes tracked Shelley as she stood, arched brows set in neutrality, strict lips set in a polite smile that kept her teeth concealed.

"The Ghost of Bromley is a fantasy toffs came up with, to cover up for gambling away the household's savings," Shelley retorted. With cat-like fluidity, she stepped to put the stupefied-but-breathing man's body between them. "But say that it wasn't… which of its jolly chuckaboos sold it out?" The question stung to ask, but it had to be done; friends who spoke to strangers -- especially charming, out-of-town strangers -- were Judases to the Code and must be amputated.

The severe woman's lips twitched at that: a brief smile of sympathy. "Worry not, my girl. Your compatriots didn't sell you up the river. The people I work for don't need to parley with street urchins; we've got our own ears, far closer to the ground." Ever so slightly, she indicated to the pavestones with her jaw. "Some of them, beneath it."

"I take it we're not talking mutton shunters, then," Shelley nodded, finding no comfort in it.

"The darling wee bobbies?" She gave a single trill of amusement. "They don't even know we exist. And if you'd like," she held out a hand wrapped in fine, dark suede, "they won't know you do either. You'll be scrubbed from every log-book, past and present. In all practical terms, you will be a ghost, free to live however you'd like."

Shelley stared into her palm, tempted but sceptical. "I might not be a day over nineteen, but I know a catch when I smell one."

"Oh, of course there's a catch," the woman chuckled, and Shelley felt herself charmed by the laugh lines that sprung up by her eyes, the genuine warmth that momentarily revealed a sharp canine tooth. "This is reality, I'm not whisking you away to the Elysian Fields."

"Appreciate the honesty."

"It wouldn't serve us to mislead you. After all, wouldn't do much good if we should train you to grasp the full potential of your powers, only for you to turn them against us, now would it?"

"Then that's the sort of place it is? You pull strays off the streets and train them to be show-dogs?"

The woman's brows raised meaningfully. "Not just any strays. Strays with hidden pedigrees."

"And the show-dogs part?"

"Not quite accurate either."

Shelley hmphed. "Why do I get the feeling that it's more likely 'guard-dogs'?"

"Because you're smart. And my superiors might not like smart little whippets around, but I do. And if you stick close to me, you'll find I can offer you something you'll never really have on these streets. Where everyone's too afraid to be truly honest with each other." Through her civility, earnestness was slipping through, extending another hand, right into Shelley's heart...

[josephquinnstyle]

Joseph Quinn is wearing Tom Ford's Single-Breasted Corduroy Blazer in White for A Quiet Place: Day One's Premiere

PRICE: £5,227/$6,975

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

•Cotton-silk blend

•Corduroy

•Peak lapels

•Front button fastening

•Long sleeves

•Chest welt pocket

•Two side flap pockets

•Central rear vent

•Full lining

(The Blazer is only available for purchase in Black. The white blazer was made for Joseph Quinn)

https://www.farfetch.com/uk/shopping/men/tom-ford-single-breasted-corduroy-blazer-item-22262957.aspx

[professorpski]

Fashion Patternmaking Techniques: Jackets, Coats and Cloaks

This is another volume by Antonio Donnanno which uses the block or sloper method to create a whole variety of garments. This one covers jackets from the ubiquitous blazer to the motorcycle jacket to the more interesting cuts that women only tend to wear. It defines types of jackets and coats as you see here with the raglan sleeve, the redingote, and what he calls the Montgomery and we call the duffle coat. The redingote, by the way is a reworking by the French of the word riding-coat, then reworked back into the English language. How is that for fun?

Along the way, he explains the basic terminology for different kinds of collars, sleeves, and garment lines for both women’s and men’s coats and jackets. Each one comes with a full sketch of how to draft the pattern pieces by altering the basic block: see the “Collarless Lapel” for part of an example of such a sketch. 

Capes and hoods in variety show up under the cloaks section, although I think they only work well for evening wear. I really like sleeves for daywear as you can remain warm and use your arms fully. But a striking cape is something most of us would be willing to cope with for an evening out. A last section explains how to cope with fitting problems for those garments that fall close to the body.

This is a technical manual and if you studied it closely, you would gain an almost encyclopedic knowledge of drafting and outer wear garment design. You can find it here at PromoPress: https://www.promopress.es/en/

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Costume Meta 6x08

Sorry everyone that this is super late - I had to set up Christmas at my place of work and it literally ate up all of my time so I’ve only just ben able to get this finished and posted! Thankfully Christmas is now up and running so I have my life back!

In other news I also hit a follower milestone just before 6x08 aired - I’m not really someone who celebrates these things and I can’t offer anything to you all in thanks as I’m not really creative in that way, but Thank you to all of you following me I love you all and I cannot tell you how much joy I’ve got from being in this fandom with you all. It truly means a lot to me that so many of you have embraced my costume ramblings, and that you seem to enjoy them! lets get on with the meta shall we!

You know I said in my 6x07 meta how 6x08 was probably going to be a fairly heavy costume episode because 6x07 was fairly lightweight - well sometimes  i don’t like being right - especially when its insanely busy at work and I therefore have less time to write! 

There were a lot of costumes for our mains this week, and some interesting developments - choices have been made my friends - choices have been made!

Chimney

Oh hello there Chimney wearing Red!!! its not a colour we see on Chim very often at all - he is far more of a - blacks, greys, dark greens and blues kind of guy, but this red basket weave shirt is a fun choice for him. We could apply the red flag theory her and say that the house hunting isn’t going to go well based on this shirt alone. I also love that he’s got a bit dressed up to go house hunting. I also love that this shirt is made up of both red and white - the passion (red and representing his love for Maddie) and purity (white - essentially Jee) - something we get to see further played out in the next shirt choice

the next shirt being this white tee which I really loved to see in this scene - white is a colour of purity and its perfect for this moment - Chim is full of naïve hope that turning the dining room into a bedroom for Jee will work out for them as a solution until they can find a suitable 2 bed house

Then we have Chim in a navy/black v necked long sleeve tee and a knit hoodie in the same colour. I think they’re both black (in the blue black spectrum rather than the brown black spectrum) but I can’t be 100% as the lighting in both scenes makes it tricky to be sure. Either way to go from white to black is emblematic of how the change isn’t working - its the whole going from light to dark - hope to despair!!

the final Buckley-Han scene shows Chim in maroon - still a colour we see the men of 911 in fairly often when they are in a parental role (and generally speaking - happy in this role), its not a completely accurate theme for this colour, as we see it used at other points as well, but in this scene it fits the theme perfectly.

Maddie

Maddie in the same blazer we saw in 6x04 when Maddie visits the little girl she was on the phone with when her abusive father almost killed her mother. Its an interesting choice for a repeat item of costume - the two scenes don’t seem to connect in any obvious way on the surface, except the little girl and her mother are free and moving on/forward with their lives - they no longer have to hide in a small apartment, they can now move on to something better - thats what is happening with Maddie, Chim and Jee - they are looking to move on and forward and into a new apartment. Of course the plaid shirt is very much telling us that this i not going to end well and I even think it might be foreshadowing what ever is going to go down with the house Chimney finds in 6x09!

We’re sticking with Maddie’s outfit theme of tee, blazer and false front hoodie as well as her Jee-Jun heart necklace (which I’ve started calling that as she only started wearing it after Jee was born) very much enjoying Maddie wearing a tee with a keyhole and a slogan that says ‘love dreamers’ on it in an episode called whats your fantasy! I think its a very interesting choice for this scene - where Maddie and Chim have had to compromise on their dream (for the time being) and the new arrangement quickly goes wrong. 

Green plaid I see you!!! I can’t decide at this point if they’re trying to make it look like Maddie is wearing Chim’s shirts or not. its plaid which is fitting with the check theory, and we see Maddie (and Chim) struggling with Jee and their tiny apartment. While the theory fits in with what we see in this episode, its also part of the wider foreshadowing for their apartment search - this is the second plaid item we see Maddie in this episode - not something we tend to see her in often, so we should definitely keep an eye on things realting to the house hunt going forward (especially with the synopsis for 6x09!)  The other thing is the green getting brighter and darker as Maddie settles back into her life as a Mother and partner - hence the darker jewel green hoodie in the final scene - when the three of them are together as a family.

Athena & Bobby

I’m combining them this week because Bobby didn’t have a lot going on costume wise this week - as has been the case for a few episodes now and to be honest its making me a bit queasy - because I’m becoming increasingly convinced they’re doing it deliberately to hide something from us - we’re getting nothing form his clothes - like at all. And I know they are very much in keeping with Bobbys style and colour ways, but I’m suspicious by nature and the change from 5b bobby costumes to 6a bobby costumes in their complete lack of anything interesting beyond his cruise Hawaiian shirt is telling.

(ok so I typed the above and then the 6x09 synopsis dropped and now I feel like my suspicions were founded - I think we might see some more interesting shirt choices on Bobby in 6x09)

Athena’s outfits are very much typical Athena outfits - we get her in a dark plum cardigan with some sparkle. The most notable thing though is that necklace -  this is a new one for Athena - it looks to me to be a guardian angel -  continuing the foreshadowing of the mama bear necklace from the last episode.

Then we have this very typical Athena in army green trousers and black top combo - with another new necklace

I can’t get a good enough close up to figure out what it is at the moment - I’m sure one of you out there might have more luck than I - if you do drop me an ask 😎 

Athenas final outfit - is this fab yellow ochre cardigan (I really love this colour on Athena) and the pelican necklace has returned!

The thing with this shade of yellow ochre, is that we’ve only seen Athena and Buck wearing it with any regularity (Hen has worn the same shade a couple of times but nowhere near as much as Athena and Buck), and interestingly enough it tends to be connected with the idea of communicating a change in family dynamic for both of them (and Hen as well - the most obvious example being when she talks to her mom about having to give Nia back to her biological mother) I find it very intriguing that they are choosing to parallel the two (three if we include Hen) of them in this way, on top of all the other parallels we’ve seen between Athena and Buck in the past.

4x12 - Treasure hunt (she has a yellow ochre top on underneath the jacket as well). This one is a slightly brighter shade of yellow, and we see more of a shift in the firefam dynamic than the Grant-Nash family dynamic, but actually thats just as relevant - its a build in to the shooting (both Eddie and Bobby), and ties most closely with the two shirts Buck wears in 4x11 & 14. 

Its also building into all of the happenings for the Grant-Nash family in season 5 - its very telling that this is the moment they chose to put Athena in yellow ochre for the first time because the storyline from this episode chimes back in with the conversation Athena and Hen have - about money and winning the lottery in this episode, which directly connects to 2x17 - the episode where Shanon dies - wearing the same yellow ochre!! All 3 episodes are similarly titled in that they are playing on the theme of fantasy - ‘Careful what you wish for’, ‘Treasure hunt’ and ‘Whats your fantasy’ and the interconnection of them the use of this colour is something I need to think on a bit more because what the costumes are doing here is interconnecting seemingly unconnected story arcs and I can’t be coherent about it right now!

5x05 - when Athena smacks Harry - for running away and acting out

5x07 - a conversation with Bobby about Harry and his acting out in the aftermath of being kidnaped by Jeffery Hudson

5x08 - Defend in pace - when Michael announces he’s leaving to support David in Haiti.

5x14 - conversation with Bobby about Harry having the same shoes as the boy hit by a car

As you can see all of the subsequent times Athena is in yellow ochre we see the Grant-Nash dynamics shift in some way, so the colour is indicating to our (the viewer) subconcious that things are about to shift or change.

I ran out of images so you’ll have to go look these up yourself, but as I mentioned in my mini Buck bts meta we see Buck in the shade in 3x06 and then the same top in 4x04/5. 

In season 4 we also see him wearing ochre in episodes 2, 3, 11 and then at the end of 14 - during the will reveal and Eddie’s welcome home party and Like I said above, this is a slightly brighter shade, than the other others. 

4x02

4x03

4x11 (this is the one that most closely ties in with the Athena jacket from 4x12 in terms of shade, and interestingly they are both about the wider firefam - in this case Sue Blevins and her hit and run)

4x14 This isn’t the best picture to see that the colour is brighter than the other yellow ochres we see Buck wear, but it is I promise!

5x03 

5x04

In season 5 episodes 3 and 4 - both in scenes connected to Maddie and her departure from LA because of her PPD. As you can see all of Bucks wearing Yellow ochre also connects in with changing family dynamics - from 3x06 where Buck is getting back with his firefam in the post lawsuit world (interesting that both Athena and Buck wear it for the first time in a firefam moment rather than a scene connected to their actual family), to Maddie’s pregnancy and the change in family dynamics that brings, all the way through to her needing to leave to get herself well again and the elephant in the room that is the Will and Buck becoming a part of another family - his own family.

May

I want to talk about these two costumes in parallel, because they are two sides of the same coin. Here we have May dressed in a youthful way - a way of connecting the scene to her past - the fact she is bringing home the boy she dated in high school - a time when she was ‘innocent’ but then we revert to the more mature May - one who is more sophisticated and wiser - hence the black fitted dress. the connecting thing is the trainers - she wears the same pair of trainers with all 3 of her main outfits (we don’t see her shoes in the dark green Tennis jumper from the last scene, but she’s probably wearing them then as well) its a thread that connects all the different versions of May we get in this episode. 

Conversely, Darius dresses in the opposite direction - he’s more formally dressed when he’s at the Grant-Nash house, and more comfortably dressed when at his frat house - an interesting choice considering May is very dressed up by comparrison, but it shows how they are in two different places at this point - Darius is dressed in keeping with all his housemates and Mays outfit places her on the outside of them - she has more life experience (and it therefore more mature). 

In many ways neither of these outfits really represent the May we’ve seen on our screens for the last 5+ years, unlike the two later outfits we see her in, which are far more typically May.

I am in love with this outfit and Corrine looks incredible in it - its glorious, but it also plays into a couple of different themes for May - it is far more in keeping with May’s wardrobe than the previous outfits, blocked and bright jewel colours in modern and stylishly youthful designs, then we have the red/blue theme of the emergency services (a colour theme that 911 have been playing with since season 1 just not overly often in clothing its been more set and lighting!), but the blue cardigan/jacket is also the same colour as May’s dispatcher shirts, and that is very much intentional - its a call back to her past as a dispatcher, but the choice to use it in a jacket rather than the tee (because they could have had her in a blue tee which would’ve more closely resembled the dispatcher top) is symbolic of her putting that persona back on - how many times have we seen it done in film and tv (especially in superhero based stories) where a character either steps into or steps back into something and we see them putting on a jacket as a visual symbol of that change in mentality? this outfit is a visual support to the script - it shows us just how good of a dispatcher May is, and that what she learnt from working there is going to stand her in good stead for her life going forward.

Hen

There is a whole lot going on with this outfit!! The leopard print is becoming a bit of a theme for Hen - we’re seeing her wearing clothes incorporating it an increasing amount, and both her outfits for this episode make use of it. This is especially pertinent as the use of leopard print on woman's clothing is considered to be a symbol of independence, confidence, non conformity and sexuality! It’s all tied to Hen being in a place of happiness - we saw her in it at her vow renewal, at the end of s5, but then we don’t see it again until after she has decided to give up on being a doctor. 

The other outfit we have Hen in is this brown and black plaid shirt with leopard print pockets with violet trousers. We have to have a conversation about this jacket and this scene because its a super important and a doozy - Hen’s jacket is pretty similar to bucks at equestrian centre, and in many ways the scene pays out in a not dis-similar fashion. 

It’s an interesting choice because it directly parallels their positions in those story arcs - buck being there and being supportive of Eddie and now Hen filling the same role for Buck. 

I think it’s actually an important direction the show is taking this. Yes of course we all desperately want Eddie to be there for Buck - and I’m sure he will be down the line, but, actually someone other than Eddie being there for Buck - especially if we start to get buck exploring his sexuality and his feelings for Eddie as a part of the sperm donor arc, is really important. Hen is the perfect person here for Buck to confide in - she can be supportive in all aspects of his journey, a position Eddie cannot fill at this moment because neither of them are ready (in the same way that the shooting was brought up at the equestrian centre by Buck, but then not talked about because they weren’t ready then) and Eddie is too close to the centre of everything Buck is going through a especially when you consider that there is a fairly large part of bucks saying yes to being a sperm donor that stems from being a guardian not a father - a reaffirmation if you will of bucks internal monologue that says he’s always the back up plan (which stems from the Daniel of it all not from the will of it all) and so being asked to be a donor just solidifies his thinking there.

It’s really clever writing and costuming from the show and in fact just adds further proof to the Buddie is going canon arguement. Because that scene more generally was a parallel to the equestrian centre scene from s5, even bucks green shirt places him in the same position as Eddie in their respective scenes. It’s starting to make me wonder if we’ve actually in the middle of bucks ‘breakdown’ rather than waiting for it to happen and his is going to unfold in more of a gentle but bumpy descent rather than Eddie’s more explosive one 

Christopher

Christophers suit - a really interesting one for me - the implication being that they did in fact buy a suit for and attend the christening of Ana’s niece (or whoever it was) but that things have changed - the addition of the subtle check patterning (I mean I’m sure Gavin has also grown a fair amount in the last year) so a new suit would have been needed anyway, but they could have got a plain one - meaning the addition of the check is important. It fits in with my check theory and is suggestive of Chris being in danger in the future, but it could also serve as a form of reminder that Eddie’s previously chosen path (Ana) was the dangerous one (hence there being the reference to ‘the last time you wore it’) if we take that concept then it’s yet another subtle hint that for Eddie the heteronormative lifestyle that he tried to create was nothing more than a fantasy that was dangerous in reality (ending up in hospital having a panic attack and then later having a breakdown)

I’m also very interested in the fact that we’ve only really seen Chris wearing blue and grey so far this season (with the green and blue pj ‘s being the only exception to the rule and even they had blue in them!). We do see Chris in a fairly large amount of grey, but there is usually an even balance of other brighter colours along side the grey.  I’ve been looking at his costumes more widely and its actually kind of interesting - the grey tends to be worn in scenes where Christopher isn’t the one we should be focusing on in the scene - when whomever he’s with is actually the focus (think equestrian centre or suit shopping or the slippery slope pyjamas from 5x10) 

Eddie

Blue shirted Eddie my beloved!! I adore this shirt - because of the way its been designed to look a bit worn around the edges - it says so so much about Eddie and where he’s at.

Its of course easy to draw a comparison with the dream sequence in 5x14 when Eddie is in a lighter blue shirt, which has longer sleeves and a pocket - this was a fantasy turned nightmare, it wasn’t really Eddie at all.

By comparison, the tee from 6x08 being darker and blending in very nicely with the bed spread and the carpet stripes. but the main thing is the difference in fit to the two tees - the one from 5x14 is much looser in fit on Eddie - whereas the one from 6x08 fits him like a glove. The ‘designer’ wearing along the seams and edges in this instance just adds to the idea that Eddie is comfortable in himself - Eddie is in a good place - the shade of blue tells us this - its a brighter navy - a colour of confidence and security and the conversation with Carla about keeping fantasies to oneself because talking about them makes them true is only further emphasised by the use of this colour for this.

I’m starting to think I’m going to have to name this jacket the Dad mode jacket - we’ve only seen him wear it when in a scene with Carla, and when something happens that is significant for both Eddie and Christopher equally - the parents evening when Eddie meets Ana for the first time, 5x10 when Chris has a nightmare that pushes Eddie into deciding that he needs to leave active firefighting and the 118 and now this scene - where Chris goes to his first school dance, but Eddie is contemplating the fact that reality can be better than fantasy. Its a real full circle moment as well - from beginning an arc where Eddie tries to force himself to move on (in a school related environment no less), to a mid-point where he starts his breakdown and finally to a moment where he is in a good place and actually ready to move forward - its in someways a moment where this arc is tied up for Eddie (to the point where I wouldn’t be surprised if we actually didn’t see this jacket again) because we actively see him letting Christopher go - he’s no longer hiding behind being a father and we now get to essentially begin a new one with him - exploring who he is (without Chris) anyone??  The olive green top is also a nice touch - because not only does it play into army Eddie and carry on his costume theme, its darker - theres more growth and it gives us a brown/green combination - growth and stability essentially. Eddie is happy and its a glorious thing to see 😍

Buck

More vertical stripes on Buck!!! they really are going all in on this theme this season! the fun thing is that this shirt ties in with the one from the end of 6x01 - yes this has grey rather than blue stripes, but the idea that I mentioned in my 6x01 meta about Buck beginning to figure things out and understand himself better holds true here. The 6x01 scene was about Buck moving forward - the moving of the arm chair a symbol of that, but one that is also not really all its cracked up to be (its hopeful, but also lonely and representative of how buck has closed himself off even to his family), this scene is, again, showing us a Buck moving forward - this time we see him move on from donating sperm by being Uncle Buck (the very thing he will essentially be reduced to if the donation is successful) so its key here that we see him being run ragged by his niece - that babysitting her isn’t actually as fun as the fantasy Buck probably envisioned it being in his head - the narrowing of the stripes are giant red flag on how the sperm donor story is going to go because the 6x01 shirt is before he’s asked to be a donor - this one comes after the donation has been made. I think we need to keep an eye out for Buck wearing cream and vertical stripes in the coming episodes because I think it will give us a good few clues about where Buck is at - if the stripes stay narrow or if we see them beginning to widen out again!

I found Bucks maroon hoodie an interesting choice for this scene (although not sure tucking it into ones jeans is necessarily a vilid fashion choice!). As we know, Buck has an interesting relationship with wearing maroon specifically t-shirts and hoodies and its very much connected with his family - in season 2 we see him wearing it in connection to big talks with Maddie - about Maddie staying and about Abby, before we see him wearing it in connection with Eddie and Chris in episode 10 for the first time. 

After that the - tees become about the Diaz boys while the hoodies connect in with Maddie (and more widely the Buckley-Hans) Buck wearing a maroon hoodie in this scene only further confirms the theory. 

Then there is the watch still there on his wrist. I’m brining it up for this costume because its a pointed choice to have it on the outside of a longer sleeve. This season we haven’t seen buck without his watch once (other than where he’s wearing turnouts and you can’t see) which is unusual for Buck - up to this point he’s always worn his watch while in uniform, but in civvies, its been about 50:50 on if he’s been wearing it or not and when he’s in long sleeves we see him wearing it less. this makes Bucks watch wearing super important - and we’ve seen it focused on several times this season so far - this is just the latest moment (because that watch is reflecting light of the face even when Buck is in the darkness and moving towards the light!)

The white high tops are back and looking a little less than their usual pristine which is interesting - because its suggestive that Bucks journey towards happiness and building a family is less pure than before - this to me is very much a good thing - Buck has a tendency to be idealistic and the shoes have reflected this in the fact they’ve been so clean, the fact we’re now seeing them looking a bit more lived in (and in this episode) suggests that Bucks learning that dreams don’t have to be perfect, and actually the ones that are a little lived in are better than the shiny idealistic ones! 

Why his trousers are so short I will never know - its not something we’ve seen to quite this extreme on him before - I’m working with the theory it was something he did while moving the cute little pink bed! 

Firstly - I am living for the fact that this shirt is so see-through you can fully see the vest he has on underneath it 😂 but in all seriousness - I made a mini meta about the bts we got of Buck in his preppy outfit and spoke about how I thought we might see Buck progressing through increasingly darker green shades as the sperm donor storyline unfolds - now he’s made his donation. this shirt is so far proving the theory (only 1 shirt in, so it could all go wrong from here, but right now I’m winning!), its one I really like because its a double whammy of showing growth - both through the use of green , but also through it becoming increasingly dark - think about how the leaves on trees are always a much more bright and lighter green in spring and they darken up over the course of summer. same thing with these shirts. I also love the transparency of the shirt - it ties back into the whole arc of Buck hiding his feelings from others - and that he’s a bit more transparent than he perhaps thinks he is.

How I managed to sneak 40 pictures into this post I’ll never know, but I did it!!! 

If you’ve made it to the end then I thank you - have a cookie on me 🍪🍪🍪

I hope you’ve enjoyed my deep dive ramblings on costume for 6x08 - drop me a reblog or a comment to let me see your thoughts - I love reading them!!

As always tagged people below

@mistmarauder @theladyyavilee @loveyourownsmiilee @leothil @girldadbuddie @kitkatpancakestack  @buckscurls @lemotmo @trashendence @elishareads  @clipboardsandstethoscopes @comfortbuddie @fiona-fififi  @name-code-black-widow @callanee @calyssmarviss @pbandjeremiah @batgrldes @piningpettyeddie @bi-moonlight @spotsandsocks  @livingwherethesidewalkends  @idontshitpostbuttheolympicpark @diazboysbuckley @sweettsubaki @jordxnhennessy @shortsighted-owl @sherlocking-out-loud @dickley-buddie  @favouritealias @hearteyesdiaz @gossamerglob @ktinastrikesback @adamrparrrish @princesschez75 @bucksbuddie @oneawkwardcookie  @leatherat @moniquekatie @wanderingwomanwondering  @trickster-archangel @outrunningthedark @asharadaine @ajunerose  @talespinner230 @pop-kam @swiftiebuckleys @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx​

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[bloomingweddingdecor]

From Casual to Formal: Engagement Party Outfit Ideas for Guests

An engagement party is one of the first big milestones on the road to the wedding, and as a guest, it’s essential to find the perfect outfit that strikes the right balance between celebration and sophistication. Whether you’re attending a chic city soirée or a laid-back backyard bash, your outfit should reflect the occasion while still allowing you to feel comfortable and stylish.

In this blog, we’ll explore what to wear to an engagement party, whether you should bring a gift, and how you can match your style to the theme of the event. Additionally, we’ll touch on popular themes and decorations for engagement parties, ensuring that you not only look great but also feel immersed in the ambiance of the celebration.

Understanding the Dress Code

The first step to selecting the perfect outfit for an engagement party is understanding the dress code. Invitations will often provide clues—such as "cocktail attire," "smart casual," or "semi-formal"—so take these suggestions into account when planning your look.

Casual Engagement Party

For a more casual celebration, you can opt for a smart yet relaxed outfit. A stylish sundress, jumpsuit, or a chic blouse with tailored pants would work perfectly. For men, think along the lines of chinos and a button-down shirt.

Semi-Formal or Cocktail Attire

If the engagement party is semi-formal, consider elevating your look. Women can wear cocktail dresses or stylish separates, while men should choose trousers paired with a blazer. Keep accessories elegant, and avoid anything too over-the-top.

Formal Engagement Party

A formal engagement party may call for a more polished outfit. This is the time to bring out a full-length dress or an elegant suit. For men, a suit and tie are standard, while women can go for sophisticated gowns or tailored evening dresses.

What to Wear to an Engagement Party in Different Seasons

Spring and Summer Engagement Parties

Spring and summer engagement parties often take place outdoors, meaning you can incorporate light, airy fabrics and soft colors into your look. Floral prints, pastel tones, and light fabrics like cotton and linen are perfect for these warm-weather events.

For men, lighter suits in shades like grey or beige, paired with a crisp shirt, work well. Women can embrace sundresses, flowy maxi dresses, or stylish jumpsuits. Remember to consider the venue—if the party is outdoors, you might want to opt for comfortable footwear like wedges or flats.

Fall and Winter Engagement Parties

For colder seasons, choose richer fabrics like velvet, wool, or cashmere to stay warm while still looking chic. Darker colors such as burgundy, navy, or emerald are perfect for a cozy, autumnal feel. A well-fitted coat or elegant scarf can add a stylish touch without compromising comfort.

Men can lean toward darker suits or blazers with warm accessories like a scarf or tie in seasonal hues. Women should consider long-sleeved dresses, structured blazers, or chic ankle boots.

What Not to Wear to an Engagement Party

Regardless of the dress code, some general rules apply to engagement party attire. Steer clear of white (unless explicitly encouraged) as this color is traditionally reserved for the bride. Additionally, avoid anything too casual or revealing, as engagement parties, though fun, are still formal occasions.

Should You Bring a Gift to an Engagement Party?

One common question that guests often have is whether they should bring a gift to an engagement party. While it isn’t always expected, it can be a thoughtful gesture to bring something small and meaningful.

Consider asking the couple’s family or the party host if gifts are appropriate. If you do decide to bring something, keep it simple: a bottle of wine, a decorative item for their home, or even a heartfelt card. In many cases, the engagement party is about celebrating the couple’s love, so extravagant gifts aren’t necessary.

If the invitation mentions a "no gifts" policy, be sure to respect the couple's wishes.

Matching Your Outfit to the Party’s Theme and Decorations

To really impress, coordinate your outfit with the overall theme or color scheme of the engagement party. This shows that you’ve paid attention to the details and want to align your style with the couple’s vision for the event.

If the party has a specific theme—like rustic chic, vintage, or modern glam—use that to inspire your clothing choices. For example:

Rustic Engagement Party: A floral maxi dress for women or a linen shirt for men would be a great fit.

Vintage Engagement Party: Channel old-world glamour with a lace dress or suspenders.

Modern Glam Engagement Party: Opt for sleek silhouettes and metallic accents to complement the party’s contemporary decor.

Decorations for Engagement Party: Coordinating Style with Event Vibe

The engagement party is not only about what you wear but also how the decorations set the stage for the celebration. The event decor often reflects the couple's personality and the vibe they want to create for the entire wedding journey.

Outdoor Garden Engagement Party

If the engagement party is hosted in an outdoor garden setting, expect decorations to highlight natural beauty. Twinkling fairy lights, floral centerpieces, and rustic tablescapes create a romantic atmosphere. To complement the theme, choose soft, flowy outfits and neutral tones to align with the serene ambiance.

Indoor Glam Engagement Party

For indoor venues with elegant decor—think chandeliers, lavish floral arrangements, and gold accents—go for a more glamorous look. Velvet fabrics, statement jewelry, and classic heels will ensure you fit right in with the upscale vibe.

Best Rental Wedding Decoration Services for Engagement Parties

To enhance the aesthetic of any engagement party, couples often turn to the best rental wedding decoration services. These companies provide everything from seating arrangements to floral installations, transforming any space into a breathtaking venue. By opting for rental services, you can achieve an elegant look without overspending. If you're attending a party organized by a rental decor company, your attire can reflect the elevated, curated style of the event.

Party Decorations in Montreal and Vancouver

Guests attending engagement parties in larger cities like Montreal or Vancouver may encounter different decor trends. In Montreal, a blend of European charm and modern style often influences engagement party decor. Sophisticated and chic, you might see minimalist floral arrangements, soft lighting, and sleek furniture.

In Vancouver, nature-inspired elements dominate. Outdoor engagement parties are popular, with event decor featuring greenery, wooden accents, and sustainable touches. Reflect these natural themes by choosing outfits that are stylish yet understated, with subtle accessories and organic fabrics.

Event Decorations That Wow: How To Match Your Outfit

Take cues from event decorations when planning your look. If the party features bold and vibrant decorations—such as bright florals, colorful linens, or statement tableware—feel free to be a bit more daring with your color choices. On the other hand, if the decor is more muted and minimal, opt for elegant, neutral tones that mirror the ambiance.

Decor Company Toronto

Toronto offers numerous high-end decor companies that specialize in creating engagement parties with unique themes and luxurious touches. If you're attending a party designed by a professional decor company Toronto, lean toward classic, polished attire. Think tailored dresses or suits that reflect the sophistication of the decor.

Conclusion: Style with Confidence

Ultimately, when attending an engagement party, your style should be a mix of comfort, elegance, and personalization. Whether you're dressing for a casual backyard gathering or a formal city celebration, make sure to match your outfit to the tone of the event. Don't forget to consider the couple's personalities and party decor, as these elements will guide your choices for Toronto's top event decor companies.

And remember: while your outfit is important, the most vital part of attending an engagement party is to share in the love and excitement of the couple’s journey. So, wear something you feel fabulous in, bring a small token of appreciation if appropriate, and get ready to celebrate!To read more about Cost of Wedding Shower Party Decorations

[thatbanditqueen]

Against the Wall Chapter 1

An Austin Butler 1980s Hollywood Christmas Story

This is Chapter One of a 3-part story I plan to post between now and NYE. It’s my first AB fic, my third fic ever... so be kind. I’m convinced, as always, that its... well.... not great... but whatever. I’m committed to seeing how many bars and alley ways my characters can f*&k in.... Please share/reblog if you enjoy, and let me know your thoughts!

Summary: It’s Christmas Eve 1987, and Austin finds himself at a Silverlake dive bar, where he meets the voluptuous and insecure Hannah. Both struggling to make it in the movie biz, they embark on a tumultuous relationship....

Rating: Explicit

Warning: smut, so 18+ only please, vaginal, oral, drugs, alcohol, references to toxic relationships, infidelity.

Words: 13.8 K.... the next one won’t be as long, exposition....

Playlist to keep you company as you read....

Chapter One: Bruised Bananas

 1:16 a.m. Thursday, December 24, Technically Friday morning, December 25, 1987

The Black Cat Lounge, Silver Lake

“You sure its ok for me to go, Han Han?”

Hannah leaned in, struggling to talk over the sound of Depeche Mode reverberating through the small, dark club.

“Course! I know you don’t get any in Iowa, so go have fun with Rod.”

“I think his name is Todd! OK….   maybe you’ll meet someone before closing? You’ve been working your brains out, you deserve a good Christmas fuck,” Sara looked into her friend’s eyes, and kissed her  cheek. “Call me tomorrow? I live near Abe’s, maybe I’ll stop by and say hi…”

“Yes, please, Sloan’s back from New York and she’s bringing her latest victim, I’ll need you…”

Sara nodded as she followed Rod or Todd or whatever to the door.  Hannah sipped her vodka tonic, relaxing, she felt warm and happy. The air was full of cigarette smoke, chatter and excitement. New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” started and she hummed along, enjoying how the loud synth boomed through her body as she basked in the glow of the Christmas lights around the bar, the only bright spot in an otherwise almost pitch black room.  Christmas Eve girl’s night was their tradition, usually there were five or six high school friends but tonight it was the two of them. Sara was home from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop for a week, so when Rod or Tod or whatever his name had started buying them drinks, Hannah was happy for her. Sara paused and look back, eye brow arched silently confirming one last time that it was really ok to leave Hannah on her own. Hannah hoisted her thumbs up in the air and smiled broadly. Lopsidedly. Drunkenly. She rubbed her eyes, forgetting she had make up on. A fuzziness grew at the top of her head. You should go too… go pee… then leave.

There was a long line at the bathroom. This is going to take forever…..  Hannah pushed up the sleeves of her black, sequined blazer, wondering if she could make it home first. Even the thought of peeing made her want to burst.  Don’t risk pissing yourself in the cab, just be patient, get in line.  Her stomach dropped a bit when making eye contact with some of the girls leaning against the wall, looking her up and down. She suddenly felt self conscious, fat, ugly….. New year’s goal, get down to a size twelve you stupid cow. Smoothing down her tight leather mini-skirt as she shifted in place, she argued with herself, that’s just your mom talking, shut up and love your self, stupid. Then a genius idea struck, and she walked towards the men’s restroom and swung through the door, making eye contact with the solitary man washing his hands.

“Of course there’s no line, s’totally unfair, isn’t it?” She said, winking, he smiled as he left.

The relief was immediate. Hannah sat there in the stall, she had never been so happy to sit and pee quietly in a bathroom. She pulled up her fishnets, arranging herself to leave when she heard the door followed by trousers zipping open. Oh well. Boobs first, Hannah made her way to the sink, grateful for masculine bathroom etiquette, the blonde white guy at the urinal kept his eyes forward while she washed up. She dried her hands, slowly, enjoying the voyeurism of watching him shake, zip up and turn around in the mirror, unaware of her. He stopped and grinned when he noticed her, blue eyes alight with surprise.

“Whooo, hey, what’s a bathroom like you doing in a girl like this?” His voice was gravelly and his eyes laughed, drawing Hannah in, she turned toward him as he twisted the faucet. Hair combed back in a high, messy, casual quiff, his square cheekbones were an invitation. He continued talking, washing his hands, laughter in his voice.

“Either you’re the most convincing drag queen I’ve ever met, or you’re lost….”

Hannah shifted, drawn in by his warm voice, the challenge of his droll banter… she ran her hand through her curly auburn hair.

“I’m just starting the bathroom revolution, baby, if you don’t have to wait in line, neither should we.”

“Ok, Gloria Steinem,” he said slowly, extending the last “nummmm” with a flick of his tongue, mouth open, looking her up and down. A bemused smile curving in his lips. It sent a shiver up her belly and through her chest as she felt the impish tenor of his voice roll over her.  

“Ya know, you actually strike me as the sort of girl who probably spends a lot of time hanging out in men’s restrooms…. checking out the goods…. picking up dates…” 

“Ha!” Hannah’s head flew back, she weaved and steadied herself, leaning further into the counter. “You got me! That’s my plan here.” Emboldened by his smile, she leaned closer and whispered, “Tell me, is it working?” 

He brushed one of her errant curls behind her ear, looking into her eyes, and then at her breasts as they heaved up and down in her low cut silk top. Biting his lip, he dropped to her ear.

“Well, you definitely got my attention.”

The air hitched in Hannah’s throat, his breath was on her neck and she shuddered as butterflies danced through the walls of her vagina. What the fuck is happening? Is he really flirting with you? Ughhh, why are you turned on? He isn’t even your type, he looks like a stock broker…  hot, country club, beautiful yuppie scum… oh fuck it. Maybe it was the warm comfort of being drunk in a low lit room, maybe it was the thrill of being in the men’s bathroom, or maybe it was the way she could still feel the heat of his finger behind her ear. Whatever it was, Hannah broke her rule to never make the first move and drew his head down to her lips. He tasted like beer and smelled like a mix of Jasmine and amber earthiness. 

“Hey there… you’re pretty friendly for a bathroom occupying revolutionary…” he muttered, softly returning her kiss. 

Hannah’s wound her arms around him, pulling him closer.

“Don’t tell anyone but we’re all pretty easy, sex is a….” she smushed her lips against his, tugging him further down as his hands grabbed her ass, lifting her onto the sink.  “… an important part of our militant agenda… ahhh,” she moaned as he sucked at the nape of her neck, hands on top of her fishnets. 

His attention became more intense, returning to her mouth with savage, sloppy kisses, nudging his tongue in and pushing hers down before flicking the tip 

“God… you taste like strawberries…” he whispered, earnest, eager.

“That’s my …ughh… lip smackers…”

Hannah widening her legs as he pushed between them, her skirt riding up as his thumbs traced her inner thigh. She wrapped her legs around him and felt his cock stiffen. He stepped back to catch his breath and her mouth felt swollen, raw, and needy, she longed to feel his strong lips pressing back against her, owning her, compelling her to open up and bring him in. His eyes followed as his left index finger traced down the front of her shirt, slowly, grazing her breast, looking back into her eyes expectantly.

“Hey, let’s slow down….” 

Hannah’s response was dulled by the arousal vibrating between her legs, she bit her lip. 

“Hmmm….wait, what?”

“We should go back out there - dance? ”

“Ummm….”

She took a deep breathe, noting the bulge of his erection as he ran his fingers through his  dirty blonde hair, relishing how his sure hands grabbed her and tenderly lifted her off the counter .

“Unless you want to turn me around and just have your away with me here?”

“Public sex isn’t really my thing.” 

“Ah, you are more of a gentleman than I am, sir, I would have had my way with you right here and now…” Hannah winked, enjoying the blush that spread with his smile as he took her hand. She didn’t recognize herself, talking this way, the words just stumbled out of her mouth

“C’mon.” Something in Hannah’s belly curled as he grabbed her hand, his strong grip pulled her to him and she became an extension of his body, fitting neatly into the curve of his armpit, giddy as he looked down at her with a goofy grin on the way to the dance floor.

The music enveloped them as he unfurled her and moved his shoulders, swaying his hips to the sounds of Siousxie and the The Banshees. She turned and backed into him, moving in rhythm, lifting her arm to pull his mouth to her neck, rubbing her ass into his hips, turning back to wrap her hands around his neck. They moved together, awkwardly at first, then relaxing to meld in synchronicity to the beat. The slow, sad opening chords of Duran Duran’s “The Chauffeur” blared out and Hannah leaned into him.

“This is the last call song, it’s bar time.”

“Oh, cool… I need air anyway….”

Hannah moved towards the front door, then felt his hand on her shoulder,  he was nodding toward to the back exit.  Hannah pulled him into her arms as they stumbled into the alley, now he was walking her back to the brick wall across from the club, behind a set of dumpsters. She leaned into the cold surface, feeling its uneven rough ridges through the back of her thighs. The sharp sensation arousing her even more.

“What’s your name, anyway?” She asked.

“Austin…”

She whimpered as he kissed her, shallow at first and then deeply, slowly, his hands pressed on either side of her.

“I’m…. Hannah….”

“Hannah…..that’s my favorite name….”

“Liar….. “

“It wasn’t before tonight… but right now it’s… “ he kissed her neck, “the only name…” he kissed her clavicle, ”I wanna know….”

He paused, stepping back and taking a joint out. Hannah looked him over, like her, he was dressed head to toe almost entirely in black, punctuated by a metallic dark blue dress shirt that blended in with the rest in the darkness. The contrast made his blonde hair and lightly tannned skin all the more radiant. His bright blue eyes shone with lust as he lit up the joint and inhaled. Hannah reached over, taking it without asking, looking into his eyes intently as she leaning up to shot gun the smoke into his open lips.  Austin’s fingers traced the side of her cheek, down her jaw. 

“You are pretty cute, you know… for a sharp tongued broad who likes to harass men in the john.”

Hannah’s eyes sparkled as she gasped a “ha,” but he could see that his fingers  flustered her. Austin liked the idea that he was making her blush, making her speechless, smirking as her lips hung apart. The look of pure, unadulterated desire on her face made his cock hard, it had been at half mast since they left the bathroom. Her brown eyes looked up at him with awe, not demanding attention, not  expecting anything, she looked genuinely thrilled just to be there, standing in his shadow and fooling around. It had been a long time since he was with a woman who didn’t seem to demand constant flattery and praise. Austin looked back into her eyes, they seemed unsure, playful, innocent, an effect heightened by how hard she was trying to seem confident and experienced, grabbing the joint out of his hand in mock defiance. He lost himself watching her, wondering what it would be like to taste her as he took it back and sucked in another hit, savoring the strawberry lip balm that lingered on the tip of the joint. His left hand moved into the wall as he hovered over her, smiling down at Hannah. He was torn between a primal desire to protect and care for her, and pillage every orifice. The tenor of her voice and the way she seemed almost overwhelmed by their closeness on the dance floor gave him the impression she didn’t do this sort of thing with strangers often.

“So….Hannah…. nice to, uh,  meet you …” 

She smiled, a blush returning to her cheeks as her eyes fell to the ground, her hips falling further against the wall. Austin inhaled and held her chin up so he could now shotgun the smoke into her mouth. Her eyes answering his unspoken question by pressing her hands on his shoulders as she held in the hit for a few seconds, her forehead now grazing his, their noses touching. The sensation was intensely intimate, and Hannah’s expression shifted to a challenging smile as she took the joint back from him once again. Austin felt a bolt of electricity go up his spine and settle at the base of his skull, his whole body buzzed. He was transfixed, unable to break eye contact as his fingers moved up and down the voluptuous, soft curves of her hips. He loved the way her body welcomed his hands, warm, pleasant, comforting, he wanted to submerge himself into her plush bosom. His thought of his last girlfriend, all tight skin and bones, a sharp edged bird. 

Hannah’s dark curls bobbed up and down like her tits, Austin couldn’t help touching them. He pulled on a curl, watching intently as it sprang up and down, then doing the same experiment with her right breast, caressing beneath it and then lifting it up to watch it bounce. He could spend hours just watching the buoyancy of these tits heave above him. He leaned in, now his lips were again on her neck, his hands moving down her thighs, a moan escaping her mouth through the rich, exhale of smoke. She threw the joint on the ground, hands moving under his jacket, as Austin traced up her thighs. His fingers moved up her skirt, almost absentmindedly, seeking out the warmth inside her panties and between her legs. Hannah arched into him as his fingers lightly grazed the public hair at her entrance, looking up she saw uncertainty in his eyes.

“Is this ok?” His voice was low, cracked, his mouth parted. 

She nodded and he kissed along her jaw, moving  into the base of her neck, then her ear, his fingers delving between her and slowly, carefully, yet purposefully, stroking up and down over her clit, finding the moisture and using the slick to rub her in rhythm with her hip as it thrust forward. He joined her, rutting against her leg, gently sliding his index finger lower, into her cunt, gasping as he worked the tight clench, using his thumb to follow her moans, noting how she trembled most when he thumbed a half circle along the left side of her nub. She became slippery and soft, opening for him, her hands around his back, she moaned into the alley, her back rubbing against the rough bricks behind her with abandon. Shiny, black sequins from her blazer spiraled to the ground.  Austin stopped nibbling her ear, shifting above her, looking into her eyes.

“You are….. so beautiful,”  His cheeks flush, his thumb flicking back and forth, Hannah moaned out as he pushed his middle finger into her now.

“Don’t do that.” She said, looking up at him.

“Does that hurt?” He asked, pulling his second finger out, maintaining his slow, rhythmic flex.

“No, I mean what you said. Don’t talk …like that. Don’t lie to me, don’t say cheesy things because you think I need them… I don’t… I… ughh…. I don’t want you to be nice to meEEeee…”

Austin’s smiled as he felt her shudder, unable to stop her voice from trembling under his touch. Then he considered what she had said, his brows furrowing as he stopped fingering her. 

“Hey.” He moved her hand to his cock, hard and protruding through his trousers. His voice was low but firm. “I don’t like it when people tell me how I feel, or what to say…. Feel that? I’m not here saying things to be nice… you turn me on. I think you are beautiful… and I don’t care if you agree, honestly…”

She looked up at him, her large brown eyes serious. “I just can’t take it when men are…  nice to me.” She kissed his chin, her hand slowly rolling over his member. “I want you to be mean, be rough…hurt me…” 

Austin shook his head, his thumbs flicking over her nipples as he glided his hands over her breast.

“What… so you would prefer me to call you like… an ugly slut while I pound you into oblivion?”

Hannah nodded.

“Mmhmmmm.”

Austin’s bit his lip as she moved her hand, continuing to rub the outline of his cock and then pulling on his belt.

His left hand went to the base of her throat, tightening a little, then releasing as she paused.

“Sorry baby, mean and rough ain’t my thing…” he turned her around, slowly, and pressed her against the wall, she felt the cold brick against her cheek as he lips warmed her shoulder, sucking and nibbling as he slowly rolled her skirt up. Hannah gasped, moaning into the bricks, as Austin spoke, his words punctuated by each kiss to her neck. 

 “If you want me to fuck you... you’re going to have to take me….  Nice and slow…”

He arched his eyebrow as Hannah looked over her shoulder at him and nodded in assent.

“Yeah, ok pretty boy…  fuck me then….  Do you, uh, have a condom?”she asked, trembling. Hannah had never had a man treat her this way, it was the most baffling sensation, he asserted his dominance while seeming reverential. She hadn’t been with anyone since Eddie, her last serious boyfriend, and he was punishing in bed, taking pleasure in degrading her as he punched through her like a jack hammer. She felt all the blood go to her core as Austin promised to fuck her slowly, and she throbbed for him even more.

The need in her eyes made Austin momentarily unable to talk, just nod, grabbing his wallet and pulling out a condom, relief washing over him that there was one because he hadn’t planned on having sex tonight. He looked around, briefly brought out of lust’s heady daze of to put his wallet away, condom wrapper in mouth. He glanced down the alley, ensuring they were alone, even somewhat hidden from the back of the club behind the dumpsters. However, he knew anyone walking by would catch them, and the prospect both terrified and excited him. Looking back towards Hannah, he realized she was watching him ardently as he undid his trousers, letting them slide to the ground, shoving his briefs down and rolling the rubber on.

Testes pulled up in the cool night air, Austin leaned into Hannah for warmth, kissing the cushy softness of her ass, lowering her panties, swearing out with a whispered apology as he accidentally ripped her fishnets, he was so eager,  hurriedly sparked on by the arousal building in his stomach at the sight of her plump, heart shaped bottom. His hand cupped the softness and then slapped it gently, the pliant give of her cheeks tightening his erection as he halted at her entrance and slowly nudged forward, finding it still somewhat tight, yet also slick and welcoming. As he hesitated, Hannah pushed back on to him.

“I said fuck me pretty boy…” 

Austin let out a half laugh that turned into a moan as he reveled in her snug, inviting pussy, moving cautiously as he felt her soften and stretch.

“Does this feel ok?”he asked in her ear, and she nodded.

“Harder.” She called out, looking over her shoulder, seeing his mouth open in silent concentration as he surged gently into her again.

“Like I said, don’t…  tell me….” He kissed her shoulder, and grabbed her more firmly at the hips “….what do to….”

He plunged back into her, taking care to remain slow, steady, controlled, savoring how her soft hips moved back to meet him with each forward movement, never fully leaving her warm cunt as he burrowed deeper and deeper, opening her further up to him with every thrust. His right hand moved from her waist to her shoulder, as he pushed her harder against the rough surface of the wall without realizing it, fixated on kissing her neck, then just on breathing as he began to pump into her with slightly more force and speed.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He growled into her ear, she moaned back loudly, then his head fell forward into her back.

“Mmhmmm….. oh god….”

“Hey, let me know when you are close, ok?” He panted.

Hannah gasped, heaving. Just tell him, tell him, you don’t cum during sex… But she couldn’t, she didn’t want to discourage him, ruin the mood, stop him from continuing his steady thrusts that felt so good she planned to think of them later, alone, touching herself. So she nodded, gasping out “Okkkk…”

Austin pushed her further into the wall, increasing his rhythm.

“Ughhh, let me know if I’m hurting you, ok…?”

“No… this is good, I’m umMM… good” she said meaning it, but followed with a lie. “I’m getting close.”

His head fell into her back and he kissed her blazer. Her rough, scratchy, sequined blazer. He kissed it over and over again, as he grabbed at her side, her waist, her neck, his other hand pushing the wall over her shoulder for balance. Hannah felt the pebbly indentation of the bricks gouging into her own hands, too distracted by the pummel of him inside her to notice the pain. Desperate moans escaped her lips, she focused on the crush of Austin’s frame into her, shuddering as she pushed backwards into his insistent lunge. Reveling in the sensation of his hands brushing away the hair at her neck to kiss her, the rhythm of his cock plunging into her, the sounds of his breath, the firm yet considerate lilt of his voice. She moaned out loudly, trying to summon the sound of convincing orgasm, leaning back into him, and crying out. 

He followed a few minutes later with his own exclamation, breathing out a succession of “oh gods” in a low, frantic howl, heaving in and out several more times, then grabbing her hips to stop, extracting himself gently, holding her at her waist, kissing her neck one last time. Hannah leaned forward against the wall, catching her breath as she heard him tie off the condom and throw it over the top of the dumpster, then zip up his pants. His sweet, steady manner was jarring in comparison to her previous lovers. The ache of the rough, sharp bricks against her face and hands suddenly begin to set in, but her legs wobbled slightly and she leaned back to the wall to steady herself, a few after shock twitches as she tried to move. He took off his jacket and used it to wipe between her legs, carefully bringing her underwear and most of her stockings back over her bum as lightly as he could, smoothing her skirt down. Hannah rolled against the wall to turn around, still panting, and took in the satisfied, foolish grin on Austin’s face.

“Hey…” he murmured, his lips pursed together as they curled, his fingers brushing her hair out of her face, taking her hand, kissing the back of her wrist. “This is… crazy…I’ve… I’ve never done anything like this.”

Hannah inhaled deeply, tucking her shirt in.

“What, sex in public?”

“Yeah, s’not really my thing. And with a stranger. A crazy one who tried to make me hate fuck her….”

Hannah’s cheeks reddened.

“Yeah… I usually can’t get it up for nice guys… right? Ugh, gag me with a spoon….  I just don’t go in for the ‘oh baby you’re so beautiful’ routine….”

“Too bad, because baby…. you are so beautiful…”

“Just stop … ”

“What’s your deal?”

“Look, I know I’m ok, maybe cute, but I can’t stand it when guys exaggerate… I’m no super model... I actually have one in my family…. so I know what beautiful is…”

“Well… I’ve dated girls like that… Trust me, they ain’t all they’re cracked up to be. Petty, dramatic, high maintenance, no sex drive because they are STARVing? No…  I actually think I prefer having something soft to hold onto… ” He leaned down to kiss the top of her cleavage.

Despite her best efforts to stay cool and aloof, a genuine smile beamed through Hannah’s face as she swatted him away from her boobs and guffawed.

“Stop.”

Austin paused, leaning above her, blazer slung over his shoulder. Hannah eyed it, thinking how he used it to wipe away her sweat and slick, how much it would cost to dry-clean. Although, something about Austin gave her the impression he didn’t worry about dry-cleaning bills. He probably grew up in a big, expensive house, going to private schools, belonging to a country club. Suddenly self conscious, she wiped under her eyes.

“I must look like a mess…”

“A beautiful mess…”

“Ok, seriously, stop… you’re the beautiful one, pretty boy, really…”

Hannah soaked in the warmth of his breath, and trembled looking up into his eyes. He searched her face, an inquisitive look spreading he glanced down the alley.

“Hey, let’s go back to your place.”

“What? Why? I don’t even know you….”

A “ha!” escaped Austin’s mouth, floating up into the dark Christmas Eve sky. “Are you kidding me ? I was just inside you…”

“Well…”

“Look, I’m staying with a friend who lives down the street… we can’t go back there, I actually came here because he was fighting with his girlfriend… So we’re going back to your place… I’m not finished with you yet.”

“What?”

“You didn’t cum…Tell me I’m wrong?”

She stuttered. “It doesn’t matter, we both had fun…”

“ ‘It doesn’t matter…’ is definitely a no… “

“You don’t owe me anything…. It’s late, and I’m actually" Hannah stopped as a yawn escaped her lips “ quite tired…”

His lips turned into a mischievous smile. “I do owe you, and I always settle my debts… I might be more of a feminist then you are… female orgasms are my favorite…” He raised his fist and pumped it to the sky, laughing at her eye roll.

“OK,” he continued, “This is ridiculous, shut your pretty face and let’s go already.” 

Austin winked as he whisked her next him, putting his arm around her as he walked them down to the end of the alley and into a cab. 

———

A simple framed poster for Some Like it Hot in Italian greeted Austin as he followed Hannah into her small, second story studio apartment awash in film posters, art, dirty coffee cups and empty beer cans.

“It’s a mess, sorry, when I’m not working I’m sleeping…. Can I make you some tea?” She asked, an anxious energy in her voice as she turned around, slipping off her shoes and blazer. Grabbing a hair clip from the kitchen bar that clearly doubled as a filing cabinet, rolodex and table, Hannah pinned up her sweaty, curly hair. 

He shook his head. “So, what do you do? You know… when you aren’t seducing men in alleys?”

“Ha! You are fucking hilarious… that was also my first time doing anything like that…” 

She grabbed his hand as he tried to pull her back into an embrace, turning to the sink, filling a glass with water.

 “I’m an editor….  film editor…. I’m working a few so-so jobs right now but.. I’m working on my networking skills…”

“Oh, so you're in the biz?”

“Yeah… yeah… you?”

“Yeah, actually, I’m an actor..”

“No... no! You seem too nice for an actor… too smart…”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone knows actors are just empty vessels… vain stupid empty vessels…  they are the worst…. I’ve never met one who wasn’t a complete asshole. Think they’re the most important part of a movie… don’t understand the real artistry is the invisible stuff….”

“Like editing?” He grinned.

“Yes! Editing, writing, sound, camera work… everything else! Editing makes the movie… s’what puts the story together, otherwise it would 100s of hours of different takes out of order…. All actors have to do is show up and let other people dress them and do their hair and feed them their lines…. Ugh, I hate actors.”

Austin grabbed Hannah and pulled her onto his lap as he sat on her orange, leather arm chair, the only place he could see to relax, and kissed her with a smile.

“Ok, ok, I give in, you win, actors are slime and editors are unappreciated artistes…”

She put her arms around his neck.

“Hmm, see, you are smart…. For an actor… So, Austin, you been in anything I would have heard of?”

“Not unless you’ve been watching a lot of NYU student films….”

“Oh no, you’re not still in college, are you?”

“No, I graduated last year, just been living in New York, going out on auditions, I’ve had a few bit parts off broadway…”

“Anything promising.” She watched his face light up.

“Yeah, actually…” he looked down coyly, “I just scored a part in Sydney Pollack’s next movie, I’m moving back out here for it. My agent said its already opening up more  auditions… s’really exciting, actually…”

Hannah paused, her hand ran through his hair.

“Wow, Austin…  Pollack, good for you…. Wait, you said you are moving ‘back’?”

“Yeah, I actually grew up in Anaheim….”

“Oh no, you’re an actor AND you’re from Orange County?” She leaned into his neck all mock agony.

“What? What’s wrong with Orange County?”

“Everything… I know all I need to know…  next you’re gonna tell me you voted for Reagan… wait, don’t….”

“What’s wrong with Ronald Reagan” he laughed, taking her head in his hands and kissing her nose. “You are such a fucking fuss budget, you crack me up….” Drawing her head next to his, mussing her hair, looking up at the art on her wall, absentmindedly kissing her forehead.

Hannah embraced the pleasant comfort of Austin’s arms, looking at his profile, noticing the way his hair seemed to fall into a disheveled coiff yet still seemed effortlessly sexy. I’m lucky I met you before you were in a movie… who knows the next time you’ll have a one night stand with an average girl…. She flicked the bottom of his earlobe, and he turned toward her. 

“Wanna fool around?” He asked her and she gently slapped the side of his cheek with her hand.

“Don’t you get tired? It’s almost 4 … we should set up the bed…. I probably smell amazing,” sarcasm dripped from her tongue. “But honestly I can’t be arsed to shower.”

Austin moved his hands underneath her knees and around her shoulder, lifting her up, smelling her crotch, armpits, hair as she giggled and shrieked.

“Smell fucking amazing… you smell like fun….”

Hannah jumped up, extending her hand to lead him to bed. Which was standing upright on the wall of the living room.

“Wow, a Murphy bed? I’ve never actually seen one of these in-person…”

“Yeah, they don’t have these in Orange County, do they? I’m guessing my apartment could fit into one of your mansion’s bathrooms…” He shoved her shoulder with a ha ha ha as she kept talking. “This apartment was built in the ‘30s. It’s small, but it’s all I can afford and it’s only 15 minute over the hill into Burbank.”

“Oh, are you working at Warner?”

“No, I’m free lancing it, I’m at a little post house, we do a lot of Disney’s stuff…”

“Wow, look at you….” An expression of respect formed on his face as he watched her pull the bed down. He knew a few editors from his program at NYU, they were all dudes. Every editor he’d ever heard of was a dude. His own brief experience learning basic editing in a required class had shown him how much he detested that kind of work, he was not cut out for the grinding, thankless schedule of postproduction and the patient attention to detail it demanded.

“The sheets are dirty —“

“S’all good with me —“

“I guess I should change…”

Austin moved toward her, she froze in silence as his hands slowly untucked her shirt and lifted it over her head as she shifted, a nervous laugh startling out of her throat. She looked up at him, dazzled by his attention, soaking in his reverence as the back of his fingers trailed over her naked belly, turning her around as he kissed her back and unclasped her bra. Throwing it to the side, he turned his attentions to unzipper her skirt, bring her back to face him as he pulled her skirt down with her fishnets and panties to the floor, kissing the smooth skin over her plump belly,settling on his knees to lift her feet one-by-one as he gently took her clothes off. He drew her down to the edge of the bed, looking into her eyes.

“There, I think you’re ready for bed…..”

“Ha….” She said, almost breathless, pushing up on his shoulders. “I need to brush my teeth…” she patted him on the head, ambling to her little bathroom, looking back over her shoulder to see him watching after her naked bottom with a happy, dazed look on his face.

——-

12:05 p.m.  Friday morning, (Technically it had been afternoon for six minutes)  December 25, 1987

It was when Austin tossed into her and began snoring on the top of her head that Hannah woke up, finding his left hand cupping her breast from under her shirt. She lay there for ten minutes, enjoying the cozy warmth of his body as it spooned into her. The hard dagger of his morning wood jabbing in her ass made her sizzle, she hadn’t even really gotten a good look at it in the dark, but she knew it was a girthy bugger from slight soreness that lingered between her legs. His embrace was wonderful, but she couldn’t bear Austin’s snoring, it got increasingly louder and made her cracking hangover unbearable. How the fuck can someone so hot make these unholy sounds? Despite her best efforts to disentangle herself without waking him, she saw his eyes blink open as she held his arm, hesitating to find the best place to put it. His hand grasped hers and kissed the back of her palm, groggy, half asleep, he rubbed his eyes.

“Hey…. beautiful…” a sunny smile greeting her as he gathered her from behind back into his arms, smushing his lips into the curve of her neck.

“Hmm…. beautiful, huh…  forget my name?” She asked, turning inward to look at him with a teasing grin. He planted a strong peck on her lips. 

“Oh Hannah, I wasn’t that drunk… you know athletic activity helps keep the mind alert when drinking…” Austin wiggled his eye brows.

“Oh it does, huh? That is some bullshit…”

He smiled as he kissed her again, now hovering over her, her hips sideways against him. The unmistakable bulge of his cock against her ass. 

“It does…. I remember everything….. so, why are you so feisty this morning?” He said, gazing at her breasts. “Oh, right, now I remember… I still owe you a —"

“Austin ha! No… you don’t owe me anything—“

He put his finger to her mouth.

“Shhhhh….  Trust me, I’ve slept with more women than you, most girls don’t cum during sex… at least at first with me … ” he winked, his lips returning to their home on her neck.

“Oh? And how many women are we talking about here? What’s your sample size?”

Austin sighed, and stopped moving his hand up her thigh, settling back and leaning into her shoulder, his hands snaking around to grasp her tightly.

“Do you really want to know?”

“What do you mean?”

“How many?”

“I was just questioning your research methods,” Hannah turned to kiss his cheek, looking up into his eyes, a nervous laugh escaping “I’m just joking around….  I don’t know anything about you, I don’t know your last name, I don’t know how old you are…  last night was fun but…I’m a big girl, I know how this ends….  I don’t expect you to share your ...” she kissed his chin and flicked hair out of his eyes “... life history with me.” Hannah kissed him on his lips, and rolled over to get up. He pulled her back to him.

“Hey! Where do you think you are going… “

“To make coffee?”

“Oh no you don’t… ” he leaned in to kiss her again, barely detaching his mouth to mutter in-between soft, sloppy pecks to her lips. “My last name is Butler,” smush, “I’m 23,” smish, “I don’t do a lot of one night stands…." smash “I’m kind of a serial monogamist…” smosh “I’ve had … let’s see … three serious girlfriends …” smush, “and a handful of on-again-off-again casual relationships…a few one-time things, ” smash, “but I actually like good sex…” smosh, “and I find sex is just better when you get to….” smush, “know someone’s body…” he finished with a wink, brushing his fingers along her face. Each kiss sent a bolt of electricity down Hannah’s spine, and she sighed when he stopped, running her index finger lazily along his bare shoulder.

“Do you know how many people you have slept with? Like ever?“

“Probably around 25… counting everything… Do you? Do you keep a list or just use a bathroom turnstile or what?” Hannah let out a laugh, and shoved him as he grinned, kissing her neck, and working his way lower, trying to lift off her shirt. Flames ran up through her torso but she swatted him away. Folding his arms on top of her belly, he rested his head and looked up at her.

“Your turn….” He slapped her thigh. “Full name?”

“Hannah… Rosenfeld…. 24… Leo….  two serious boyfriends … I’ve probably slept with about 10 people, total.”

“And how many of them made you cum?”

Hannah looked up at him, blushing, and turned to talk into the pillow.

“I can’t talk about this with someone I only just met…”

She rolled off and went to the kitchen area. Austin pushed up in bed and watched her. 

“Why not? It’s perfectly normal and natural.”

Hannah looked at him over the kitchen counter as she filled her kettle with water. 

“It’s…  it’s complicated …”

Austin got up and walked over, taking the kettle out of her hands, gliding his fingers up and down her sides. Hannah quivered, leaning back into the counter, hands pushed against the hard laminate surface, she breathing louder and louder as his fingers moved to her panties, his muscular abs grazing over her breasts, his mouth hovering over her ear as he spoke softly, deeply.

“S’not complicated…”

He kissed under her ear, his hands worked inside her underwear, brushing over her, before moving down on his haunches to take them off, kissing the soft woolly patch at the apex of her legs. Hannah gasped as he rose and grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her up on the counter as she snorted.

“Austin..” She hit his arm. “What are you doing?”

He shushed her, putting his fingers into her mouth, and then bringing them between her folds. Hannah felt a tension building in her stomach, her chest began to ache and she inhaled deeply as he parted her thighs wide, a serious look on his face as he returned to her eyes.

“Just …relax….”

“But I ——“

His lips were soft as he kissed her, stroking the flame that was growing in her core, feeling the wetness that was developing.

“Please…I fucking love doing this….” 

Hannah gasped and nodded, watching him lower himself onto the floor, the thought that his quads were incredibly strong for someone so skinny passed through her mind. It was quickly gone as she heard him moan approvingly, fingers parting her outer lips.

“Good, you are so damn beautiful…” 

She laughed, vibrating at the way he enunciated each syllable in bee -ut - a - fulll. Playfully slapping the side of his head, they exchanged a lusty glance as he looked up at her with a devious smile, then resumed his attention to her pussy. Hannah’s eyes squeezed shut and she fell back on her elbows as Austin leaned forward kissing her inner thighs, enjoying the whimpers emerging from her mouth as he rubbed her center with his thumb. Making his way in, one soft kiss at time, he put her legs over his shoulders and opened her further with his hands.  

He smiled as her back arched and bit his lip, then leaning in to flick her lightly with his tongue, back and forth. The sensation was almost too intense on her clit, and Hannah called out in-between moans, embracing the tingling feeling growing in her depths as he moved the tip of his tongue in circles around her. Burrowing further, he nudged her clit up and down with his nose as he kissed and laved her entrance, then turned back to her pulsating round nub. Hannah called out indecipherable words as his tongue darted up and down the left side of her clit, long and slow, then shifting to lick across in quick, short staccato movements. She twitched as she felt the warm breath of his mouth on her nub, then thrusting forward as his right index finger slide into her and crooked up, gently swirling until Hannah jolted up with a cry. Austin paused and looked up at her, finger inside her but stilled.

“Uh, yeah… I just ….”

“Hmmm…. I feel like Columbus, did I just discover Hannah’s G spot…?”

“Columbus was a genocidal ….” She breathed out, chest heaving. “maniac….  But…. I do think you are …on to something…”

Austin laughed, and Hannah smiled at his blissed out eyes and goofy smile, his chin covered in her slick.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No…” she whispered.

“What was that?”

“No please god….. don’t stop…. Don’t ever stopppp” Hannah called out, trembling as she felt the hum of his self satisfied laugh against her clit, the feel of his index finger pushing in and out of the spongy, soft bundle of nerves inside her walls caused her to spasm uncontrollably. The more slippery she became, the more acutely she felt each stroke of Austin’s pointed tongue beckoning her into oblivion. The contrast between the light flicks of his tongue and the firm, forceful movements of his fingers drove her over the edge. A heat began to violently develop inside her core and Hannah screamed out as euphoric wave after wave spread through her pussy outward to her thighs and up through her belly button. Austin continued to press her clit gently with his thumb as he fell back on his shins, enraptured by the way her face contorted into a look of painful ecstasy.

“Uhhh. Stop…. Enough… I can’t ….” 

He laughed, gripping her thighs as he stood, wiping her dampness along his wrist, kissing her, stroking the sides of her legs. Hannah faltered trying to push up on her elbows against the counter, her arm hit the faucet, splashing water on them and into the sink. Austin stood between her as she pushed it off, stroking her thighs.

“Oh god…” she wiped her brow, tasting herself on his lips with a soft kiss.

“You ok?”

“Mmmhmmm….”

A soft, sweaty glow radiated across Hannah’s face, she grinned at the stiffness of Austin’s cock against her thigh. She worked his briefs down, glancing up to see the fierce need within his eyes, his lip parted as she brought him to her entrance at the edge of the kitchen counter, inhaling as he sunk into her slowly, feeling the pinch, the soreness from last night all but gone. He stopped, not moving as she thrust up into him. Austin gasped sharply, his length fully within her. His hands at her hips, he moved his right hand up to cup her face.

“Hey… I don’t have any more condoms.” He said, thrusting back slowly, and then forward a little, moaning. “Ahhh god, you feel so amazing…. But … we should stop.” 

Hannah leaned back, arms over his shoulders, uttering a frustrated grunt.

“I definitely don’t have any condoms either… fuck… you could just pull out… “ she offered, bringing him back into her, arching her hips into him, relishing the sound of his “fuckkkkk” as he stretched her open.

“Are you on the pill?”

She shook her head, “No, I just got off in August… dry spell… figured I’d just use condoms and go back on if I started dating someone… fuck…” She didn’t share the real reason, how she thought it would be easier to loose weight off the pill. She didn’t want to break whatever spell made this handsome, too handsome, man think she was fuckable.

“OK, yeah… let’s stop… I gotta go to a Christmas thing…. and fuckkk… ok…. we should .. definitely stop… ” 

“Hmm… I don’t… want … to either… but … I have ... same …”

Austin paused, just standing there, still buried to the hilt in Hannah. He kissed her, deepening with each one, tightening his embrace as Hannah whimpered. He looked down into her eyes.

“I want to see you again.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow?”

“I have a thing…”

“After?”

“Maybe….”

“Take you out… like on a date….”

“Ok.” Her voice was soft and breathy.

He pulled out of her, slowly, evincing a deep moan.

“I’m going to go buy the biggest box of condoms….” He promised, smiling into her with another kiss.

Hannah laughed, putting her hand around his dick, feeling her slick lubricating him as she tugged.

“I could still get you off?” She offered, puckering her mouth with a loud POP.

He looked over at the clock, it was 1:30.

“Fuck, god… but… ughhhh…. its ok… I’m a big boy… and I gotta jet,  I have two different parties I have to go to, and I’m already gonna be late…”

Hannah traced the ridges of the corded muscles along his abs, nodding, knowing she also needed to shower and get ready for her day. He helped her off the counter, kissing her, and  moving to find his clothes.

“So, what are you up to? Rosenfeld…. does your family celebrate Christmas?” Austin was on the ground looking for his pants.

“My uncle does, for his wife, they’re having a big party.” She leaned into the sink, watching as he searched for his clothes, now sitting on the bed, buttoning his shirt, pulling on trousers.

“Oh, do you have a big family?”

“No… he just knows a lot of people…. It’s just me and my dad here in LA…. ”

“Ohh… “ he smiled, as he bent to pull on his black slip on shoes. “Your pop meeting you there?”

Hannah shifted, running her hand through her hair.

“Um, no, he and my uncle don’t really talk….  s’a long story…. the short version is,  my dad’s an editor too… like a sound editor, he and my uncle started out together, my uncle’s a ... uh... a producer… they both came out here, found some success… and, well, about twelve years ago my uncle agreed to invest in my dad’s business idea, a full service sound design company … then.. well, my aunt convinced him not to at the last minute.. the whole thing kind of tore our family up….”

Hannah inhaled, and stopped talking. She didn’t tell him how her father had dealt with the devastation of defaulting on his loan by drinking. Heavily. How her mom ran off to San Francisco and then back to London, to her family, to get away, leaving 12 year old Hannah there. Which was ok, if she’d had to choose, she had always been closer to her father anyway. But things got messy, her father had made the horrible decision to restart his life buying a trailer in Malibu, in a small, unofficial retirement park full of nosy old people. Hannah had to transfer from her crunchy, alternative artsy private school to Santa Monica High, the nearest public school to where they now lived. Suddenly her commute to school went from 10 minutes to an hour, and that was probably the easiest part of high school. Pot, ice cream, music and her small coterie of friends had made survival possible until she escaped to college. Things were better now, her dad was three years sober in AA, working intermittently, though mainly non-union, TV and straight to video stuff. Hannah longed to buy him a big house, set him up, let him rest, he had been grinding for thirty years. She wanted to free him, help her father move on from his disappointed, disoriented life adrift these last ten years. Hannah stopped, feeling she had overshared.

She took in Austin’s look of warm sympathy, his low “Oh… wow…”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to get heavy… but.. no, I won’t see him today… we have a tradition, we swim in ocean at dawn on New Year’s day, so I’ll drive out to his place in Malibu and see him then…. But, uh, yeah, I like started trying to mend things with my uncle about two years ago.. ha…. You know, after I graduated from UCLA and started looking for work…. My uncle is a producer… I guess I am shamelessly trying to use him….”

Austin walked over, putting his hands around Hannah.

“That’s how this business is, I’d do the exact same thing - you have to use every advantage you have, because it’s not about how good you are…. It’s about who you know…”

————

5 p.m. 

The sounds of the party downstairs floated up to the guest room where Hannah had snuck off to call her friend Sara, excitedly running through the events of the last 24 hours.

“It’s like, a Christmas miracle babe… I might actually start liking this fucking holiday… When can you get away? Come meet me here, and we can go get a drink at Barney’s… I wanna hear all about Rod Todd.”

“Yes…. It’s definitely Todd, and I don’t think my night was as exciting as your’s… Give me another hour or so and I’m there…” Sara promised. 

Hannah smiled, she had been grinning all day, hearing Austin’s voice every where she went. If she squeezed her legs she could almost imagine feeling him between them as he asked to see her again, his hard length still inside her. She straightened her white blouse walking downstairs, she even smiled at the sound of the Vienna boys choir as she ordered a glass of red wine at the bar, nodding and making small talk with some of the other people there. The guests were mostly from Paramount where her uncle was Vice President of Development, but there was an assortment of people from other studios, talent agencies, competitors and random acquaintances. Right now, Hannah was learning how her uncle’s accountant had walk-on roles in several films last year. Hannah guessed over a hundred people were wandering around the party throughout the downstairs and back yard of her aunt and uncle’s vast Bel Air mansion. 

A caterer walked by with bacon wrapped scallops, and Hannah had only popped one her mouth when her younger cousin Nathan ran up and grabbed her hand.

“Mfph… caor-ful nat-tin,” she swallowed, steadying. “Wheww, I almost spilled my wine.”

“Mom said to come find you, Sloan just arrived with her boyfriend, she wants a family photo.”

“Ok, ugh, how do I look?” Hannah asked, brushing off Nathan’s hand as she followed him to the front of the house. “Oh, how much of an arrogant douche is this one?”

“I can’t tell, he looks like he could go other way..”

Hannah laughed and then stopped in her tracks as they rounded the hallway, the air left her throat and she jumped back, startled, her hand jerking back and spilling red wine all over her white blouse, her purse dropping to the ground.

“FUck fuck fuck…” she whispered, as she bent down to grab it. You are insane, every where you go, every voice you hear, you think it’s fucking Austin. But as she stood up, she saw Austin’s horrified face looking back at her, her thin, gorgeous cousin Sloan hanging on his arm. Her model cousin Sloan. Her 20 year-old model cousin Sloan. Sloan’s mouth agape in a shocked laugh as her aunt ran over, the British accent made her voice all the more shrill.

“Hannah, oh god, did you get any wine on the carpet? Dear dear, now we’ll have to wait to do the photo… Abe, ABE!  Get Gigi out of the kitchen for me…”

Hannah trembled, putting her glass on the nearest side table, thankful all the wine had spilled on her shirt, and none had landed on the pure, white carpet. She closed her eyes, wishing to be anywhere else as her aunt turned her around and started walking them away from the group, looking back to yell.

“Please excuse me, Austin, it was so nice to see you again. I have to go get my clumsy niece sorted out…  Sloan, show him around, won’t you? We’ll do the photo later….” She moved Hannah forward. “What am I going to do with you, Hannah? I just hope we can find something that fits… maybe one of Abe’s dress shirts… oh, I think I have an oversized holiday sweater that will work.”

Hannah looked at herself in the mirror of her aunt and uncle’s master suite. A large, oversized ugly bright red Christmas sweater dwarfed her body, almost completely covering her blue mini-skirt. She fell back onto the large, soft bed, arms spread, doom enveloping her. She felt the hairspray on her dirty hair crunch. Of course. You knew he was too good to be real. Maybe you imagined last night … maybe he was just a figment of your delusional mind…. ? Wallowing in self pity, the sound of the door disturbed her from her reverie.

“It’s ok, Elaine, I’m coming - I just need a moment…”

“Hannah?” 

She jolted up at Austin’s voice, watching from across the room, arms crossed, eyes glaring as he closed the door.

“Fuck off….”

“Hannah, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh?”

“No, look… Sloan and I broke up last week… she just… I just… she asked if I would come do this one last thing as a couple… it meant a lot not to tell her mom right now… I was gonna be out here anyway…"

Hannah looked down as he strode over, backing away as he tried to embrace her, wiping the tears at her eyes.

“Don’t…”

“Please, don’t be like this… fuck… this is the most unreal fluke … ya guys don’t even have the same last name…”

“We do have the same last name,  Rosenfeld is too ugly for a model, too Jewy, Sloan shortened it to Rose when she moved to New York after high school … ”

“Hannah.” He stepped closer. “C’mon, it was an honest mistake.”

“Ok, so if it’s not such a big deal, why didn’t you mention this morning that you had to pull out of me to go take your ex-girlfriend to her family’s Christmas party? …. It’s all about who you know, isn’t Austin? Tell me. ” Hannah jeered, wiping more tears away. “Is Abe producing the film you’re in?”

Austin growled, fighting off her swats and grabbing her by the shoulders, holding her still. He wanted to choke her and fuck her into submission and comfort her all at once. The fear and anger in her eyes caused him to back off.

“Just stop, ok, you’re not being fair… " he relaxed his grip, Hannah went slack and fell into his arms. “Oh Hannah…  I’m sorry… you’re right… Sloan… we really are broken up… but … it did feel weird meeting up with her... today…. after last night… this is… gnarly…. but I like you…  I still wanna see you again, is that so crazy?” 

He took her by the chin, gently, looking into her face, searching for recognition. Her expression tensed, a stony smile formed as she pushed him away.

“Here’s the thing, Austin. Babe. There’s a girl code. Friends, cousins, their exes are off limits.”

As her feet padded down the stairs, Hannah almost ran out the door as Wham’s “Last Christmas” came over the sound system. Landing with a thud, instead, she stalked over to the bar and ordered two double vodka tonics, downing one after the other, then grabbing a glass of egg nog from the punch bowl and liberally spiked it with rum. Pacing across the room, she saw Austin come down, her mind now racing to form an escape plan, only to disintegrate inside as she watched Sloan approach her, arm around an enthusiastically smiling Sara.

“Hannah, thank god you are all cleaned up, look who I found on the front doorstep?” 

Hannah inwardly groaned, as Sloan waved Austin over, continuing.

“Hey, why don’t we all go downstairs to the den? We might find some snow after all out here in sunny California…” Sloan snaked her other arm through Hannah’s as she tried to protest.

“Hey Sloan, Sara and I have to be some—"

“I don’t mind.” Sara chimed in. 

“Don’t be silly Han Han…. Austin, bring that hot bod over here…” Sloan commanded, leading them around the house to the downstairs den, a dark room with the largest TV in the world. 

No one was around, and Sloan plopped down on the couch, opening her purse to pull out a mirror and a small coin purse, from which emerged a little baggie of white powder. Expertly lining rails of coke, Sloan paused to look up. Austin slowly went over to join her, and Sara sat on her other side.

“Are you partaking Hannie?”

“Is everyone else?”

“Why not…” Sara sighed.

Austin eyes caught Hannah’s, as she nodded. “Then yes, please…”

“What’s with you Hannah, anyway?” Sloan mumbled, rolling up a $100 bill. 

“Hannah met someone last night…” Sara giggled.

“Really?” Sloan arched her eye brow, and snorted two lines, handing it to Austin, who shook his head slightly, muttering why not as he leaned in.

“I don’t really —“

“She really likes him…. What did you say? He was the sexiest guy you ever met? Ever?” 

Hannah shot Sara a dirty look, trying to communicate that she would kill her if she uttered one more word.

“What?”

Walking over, Hannah sat across them below the coffee table, taking two rails up the nose, sniffing hard as the taste hit the back of her throat. 

“I’m so happy for you Han Han…” Sloan turned to Austin, who coughed as she explained, “My cousin has dated some real losers….” 

“That’s not true…” Sara feebly added.

“What happened to Billy from last year?” Sloan asked.

Hannah responded through gritted teeth. “Billy is my very gay, very single, good friend.”

“Oh, well, we were all just glad that psychopath was out of the picture…”

“Psychopath?” Austin murmured. Hannah shot him the look of death, running her hand through her hair, tapping the mirror for Sloan to put more blow out. 

“Eddie.” Sara added, as Hannah formed the powder into more lines, and snorted. “He was the worst, I’m sorry Hannah, but he was.”

Sloan nodded, “Yeah, oh boy… what ever happened to him?”

“His band went on tour with Minor Threat and he cheated on me… what can I say, I seem to attract losers, gays and cheaters.” She raised her eyebrow, looking Austin straight in the eyes, and then stood up.

“So Han Han, still editing The Mickey Mouse Club …?” Sloan swiped more coke out with her finger, smearing it on the inside of her gums.

“I think she’s actually editing all the Disney original TV shows right now, right?” Sara tried to break the awkward silence following Sloan’s condescending tone.

“I think I’m gonna head out, Sara?” Hannah’s voice was curt, Sara nodded, and joined her, a bewildered look as she followed Hannah out to her car. Aunt Elaine never got a family photo that day, and Hannah filled in her friend as they drove to the bar and proceeded to get very, very, very drunk, swearing off men forever.

Forever lasted about five hours.

Hannah left her car in Westwood Village. The second thing she saw after she fell out of her cab, feeling her sheer black stockings rip, badly, as she stared at the pavement laughing at the cruel joke we call life, was a pair of white, leather dress oxfords at the base of white pants. Very similar to the ones Austin had been wearing earlier that day. She heard the cab door close, and an Austin-like voice ask what he owed, before strong hands came under her arm pits and tried to pull her up.

“Fuck off … I’ve got it all unner controllll” she rolled away, laying flat on her back, feet slumped over the curb. Austin walked between her knees, his cool eyes looked down at her.

“I told Sloan about last night.”

Hannah blinked, rolling up on her elbows.

“What? Why would Sloan tell you ’bout last night?”

“You are such an idiot.” Austin sighed, looking up at the stars, laughing to himself and shaking his head as he looked back down at Hannah, drunk, a confused expression hovering above the large Christmas sweater, black tights torn across both thighs, blue mini skirt askew. He mused to himself that it looked like two rats had fought in her hair. The ridiculous spectacle made his cock stir even more, he couldn’t explain why. “Give me your keys, we can talk upstairs.”

Hannah pushed herself up, swatting his hands away, then promptly dropping the keys as they came out of her pocket.

“You gave me bruises, ya know, gonna call you Bruiser…”

“What?” 

“Yeah… s’ its your hips…. Yer too fuckin’ skinny…. I’ve some light bruising on my ass, Ssssara confirmed this for me in the powder room at the skey lub.”

“Ski Club?”

“Klee Clunk”

“Oh, right, the Key Club… oh boy, how many places did you guys hit?”

“Ev’ry place…. And I can’t believe you gave me bruises with your stupid sharp skinny sips…”

“Ok, babe, duly noted.” Austin laughed, shaking his head further, grabbing her keys and sweeping Hannah over him as she started to stumble forward, carrying her up the stairs over his shoulder, getting her cleaning and falling asleep next to her for the second night in a row.

————

January 1988 - July 1989 

It started out casually enough, neither one wanting to ask the other what they were doing, avoiding talking about what this relationship was. In fact, they barely spoke for the first few months, their lips otherwise occupied as they were drawn to each other by the magnetic attraction that only grew in intensity each time they laid eyes on one another. On the first three dates, they couldn’t even get out the door before the graze of an arm over a chest or the kiss of lips saying hello on a cheek would become the catalyst for heaving, sweating, swearing, groaning, primal, squelching, slapping, bruising, choking, senseless, neighbors-banging-on-the ceiling, wall, floor, fucking. Usually followed by a session of panting on the bed, leather chair or kitchen floor, exhausted and conceding that they should just order delivery. And then commanding a repeat performance once their energy returned.

“So…” Austin moaned, in flagrante, after date number two had been derailed by Hannah’s fingers brushing lint off Austin’s sweater.  “Am I really the sexiest man you ever met?”

“Ughhh… shut the fuck up… I was hung over… clearly brain damaged from the alcohol… just be quiet and fuck me, you ugly sod …”

“If I’m so ugly, why’d ughhh… keep me around?”

“Imma a slut for uggos… you’re all so insecure you compensate with that tongue …. *moan*… its the low self esteem….  plus you got me hooked fucking me from behind… didn’t have to see that fucked up mug… ”

Every time Hannah sighed or looked at him with her big doe eyes, his lips would part in awe and his cock would propel him forward, his mouth seeking out her pleasure like a beacon being guided home. Finally they agreed they had to meet in public if they ever wanted to successfully leave her apartment, so he would pick her up at work and take her out, undeterred by her protests that it was too expensive as he arrived at the valet stand in front of Orcini’s, Chinois, The Ivy, her voice raising higher and higher as she argued In-N-Out was just as good.  Austin spent a lot of nights finding new ways to make Hannah’s Murphy bed creak before he found his own place on the Westside, and got settled in a small, modern rental up in the hills.

It was a day in late May, Hannah had just started working on her first feature as an assistant editor, when Austin proposed they stop using condoms. She was sitting on the marble counter of his house, eating chow mien out of the container in a Talking Heads tee-shirt. He was in his briefs. Both exhausted, he’d been shooting his second movie, playing Emilio Estevez’s  younger brother.

“I mean, I’m not seeing anyone else… are you?”

“Well,” Hannah fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, “I’m so busy wrapping this McTiernan picture I really haven’t had time to meet anyone else.”

“Is it any good? I can’t believe they cast Willis, he’s a TV star.”

“I love Moonlighting…”

“Still, is he believable as an action hero?”

“You’re just jealous…. “

Austin took the noodles out of her hand and pulled her into a kiss.

“OK, no more talking about other guys… what do you say? You’re on the pill now, right?”

Hannah nodded.

“OK, I’ll get tested…. You’ll get tested… And voila… ”

She kissed him as he lifted her up, legs wrapping around him while he carried her to the bed room.

Despite her misgivings, Hannah brought Austin out to Malibu for tea at her dad’s trailer. It was a Sunday afternoon, and her heart burst as she watched Austin engage with Avram, not hesitating to talk movies and nodding as her father explained his theories about film school, “waste of time, scholars never make good directors, they’ve got their heads in books,” how Mel Brooks was not funny, “but no one has the balls to tell him the truth.” Austin praised sound editing, particularly dialogue editing, as the most important and unappreciated part of making a movie. And he was particularly gracious every time he tried to tell her father he liked movie he’d worked on.

“Hannah told me you worked on Chinatown, it’s one of my favorite movies…”

“Ughhh, what an awful film,” Avi groaned, frowning, his British accent drew out every vowel. “It had real potential, but Polanksi can’t help himself.”

Hannah stifled her laughter, waggling her eyebrows at Austin as she went to get more biscuits. He jumped up, offering to bring the tea cups in.

“I’ve never met someone with so many strong opinions… about film… and I went to NYU… ”

“My father hates every movie, especially the ones he worked on. I can’t tell you how many times he dragged me out of a movie theatre to walk out of something 30 minutes in.”

“He does know that you and I majored in film, right? When he tells you it is stupid to study film?”

“Yes, he knows that one of us went to the best film school in the country —“

“And the other went to UCLA…” 

“Ha! …. But Austin, my dad started working in this industry when he was 16, a poor Jewish kid from London, he followed his brother and his career to another country, always having to learn on the job. Always having to prove him self, no one to support him. And then everything with my uncle… He is bitter about how the industry is changing, no one ever had to go to film school to break in until the ‘70s…. And in some ways, he’s right, imagine how much more experience we’d have if we hadn’t wasted four years in expensive classrooms…”

Austin introduced Hannah as his girlfriend for the first time at the after party for the Estevez movie premiere. His publicist, Min, was sweet to her face, though she had made Austin promise no public appearances together. He walked the red carpet alone, meeting Hannah inside, where he found Min smiling as Hannah relayed her own editing credits from the year, making a mental note to discuss publicity and relationships with Austin later. 

In their next meeting, Min explained. “You have the potential to be a leading man, Austin, trust me, you do not to be tied down… to an editor? No. Please, trust me, actors are always better dating other actors. Or super models. Or pop stars.”

He brushed it off, explaining it was his private life, and he knew what he was doing. A part of him wondered if being in a committed relationship was wise, fair, good for his career, but those doubts disappeared as he watched Hannah cum on his face the next morning, her dopey smiled sent sparks to stomach, and he pushed up to cover her plush, red lips with his, the taste of her pussy all over his face. Riding her to the hilt and exploding inside of her, Austin shouted “fuckkkk” in rhythm to the sounds of their flesh smacking, filling the empty hillside below his open bedroom window with vulgar noises. That was the day he told her he loved her, pussy drunk, blissed out, nuzzling together in the cosmic afterglow of energetic coitus, endorphins flooding their systems. Austin twisted her hair. 

“Hannah Hannah Bo Bana Banana nana … I think I love you.”

Turning, she kissed the side of his chest, her fingers trailing down his chest.

“I feel it too, Bruiser."

“You should move in.”

“Babe…”

“What? This is the first day we’ve spent together all week. You’re busy. I’m busy. So just move in already. Then at least we can do this everyday.”

But of course, they did not fuck everyday. They didn’t even see each other everyday. Some nights, Hannah would fall asleep on the cutting room floor working for a deadline. Austin had to go to Idaho to shoot a western, and he became close with his co-stars, Robert Downey Jr. and Kiefer Sutherland, returning to LA with a stronger proclivity for nose candy, taking the weeks in-between projects to join his newfound playmates on the club scene. He would call Hannah from the pay phone at whatever bar they went to, asking when she would be there. Telling her he found the perfect alley for their anniversary. Some nights she ventured out, Hannah had always enjoyed feeling music pound through her soul, but she found she didn’t just enjoy getting high every night and she needed the blow to stay up until 4 with them and get to work the next morning. And so, on many nights, Hannah would just collapse at home and wake as Austin came in.

She met his family, briefly, at Christmas 1988. Dinner was small, quiet, just Austin, his father and older sister Ashley in the large dining room of a large, stucco house in Anaheim. Hannah had foregone her usual thick eyeliner and studded black leather jacket, buying an outfit at JC Penneys and wearing her grandmother’s pearl necklace. She hated herself, as she looked in the mirror and asked her self, “Would Nancy Reagan approve?”

She burned the dress in July, as she packed her things and moved out of the Hollywood Hills house. The female voice on the other end of the phone line still reverberated through her head. Austin was shooting on location in Arizona, it was his second leading role.  At first Hannah had questioned whether the hotel operator had connected her to the right room when a women’s voice answered the phone. She paused, thinking carefully.

“Oh, hey, um… is Brian there?”

She could hear the shower running in the background, and then Austin’s distinct voice shout out.

“Don’t answer the phone!”

The mystery women giggled, then spoke into the receiver.

“Sorry, no Brian here, you must have the wrong number.”

“Oh, this isn’t room 335?”

“No, 334… Austin, don’t, you’re all wet!”

“I thought I said not to pick up the phone?”

There it was closer, deeper, in the midst of some sort of exertion, was he tickling her? Kissing her?

Hannah’s mind raced and her imagination ran wild as she listened to a commotion of fabric and limbs while the phone receiver dropped to the floor.

Muffled voices continued.

“It was for the room next door… why don’t you want me to pick up the phone?”

“Shut up, just promise me  -" more feminine giggling as he spoke … “you won’t, ok?”

Hannah hung up after that, adrenaline coursed through her veins, and a sharp, nervous ache ran up her tummy and settled at the top of her chest. Pacing through the living room, through the kitchen, and back again, she started shouting at herself.

“Fucking idiot, fucking actors, fucking Orange County, fucking Reagan, ugh, you fucking stupid cow… you can let this go.” She breathed. “You love him. You knew. This was bound to happen. If you were honest with yourself, you knew. You knew. You knew the minute he told you why he had moved out here. Any real relationship would be impossible. But no, you didn’t care, did you? It was fuuuuun. He was hooot. It felt goooood. Losers, gays and cheaters, Hannah. This is as good as it could ever be. You can push it down, smother it, kill your jealousy and take what he gives you.”

She slumped on the ground, banging her fists into the hard wood floor, seeking out it’s cold to temper the crazy, frenetic heat overtaking her body. Now, she was taking a shower, drinking a beer as the water pummeled down. Three beers later, cold, shivering in the empty bathtub, she had convinced herself to just pretend she didn’t know, act like nothing happened, you love him - that is all that matters. 

But then he called her later that night, whispering “Hey Hannah Banana,” into the phone as he always did, his gravelly confident voice exuding fidelity.  She wondered if this was even the first time, she couldn’t tell the difference. He had the same deep timbre, extolling honeyed devotion from Arizona as he told her about his day and laughed at her sarcastic jokes.

Hanging up, hate overtook her. She played with the idea of throwing his stupid record collection down the hill. Sitting in indecision for five days, she knew she had to make up her mind about what she would do. He was due to come home in a week. At night, she forced herself to picture him fucking someone else, an anonymous mystery woman didn’t seem real enough, so she pictured Sloan, sucking his dick, riding him on top, crying out his name as he devoured her pussy. Hannah was so anxious she could barely eat, subsisting on coffee and digestives for the next few days. Her whole body trembled through a meeting with the director Joel Schumacher,  and Mike, the supervising editor shifting to stare at her periodically and then cornering her to ask if she was ok.

So Hannah made up her mind and started to form a plan. She grieved, chain smoking on the bed, a bottle of vodka in her hand, listening to the mix she had made of The Cure, Depeche Mode, Joy Division, smiling as she stabbed out her cigarettes into the ground, ruining the hard wood floor, thinking of Austin loosing his security deposit. She continued playing stupid on the phone when Austin called, although more and more she let the message machine pick up, feigning a busy work schedule when they talked. She signed the lease on a a little studio in West LA, near Wilshire Boulevard, packed her shit and moved out. She cried as she burned all love notes, valentines, cards, mix tapes and photos of them together in the fireplace before she left. And the dress from Christmas, she would never try to be something she wasn’t for any man. Ever again.

It took Austin two days to notice she had moved out. He arrived home late on a Monday night, assuming Hannah was still at work, he passed out and slept until noon. The past month on location had been a blur. He had wanted Hannah to come with him, and was resentful at her and her career, because they only occasionally had breaks that overlapped. They’d been able to sneak away for a weekend in Cabo, a few days in Vancouver. But it would have been cool to have her keep him company on this shoot. He was busy filming, beginning almost every day at 6 a.m., but the cocaine helped, and he felt like a champion working through the day and going out at night with some of the other actors.  He convinced Bob Downey to come visit him when he had a weekend off,  they drove to the Grand Canyon together, and dropped acid, then missed their paid and scheduled guided tour and ended up laying on the hood of his Beamer gazing at the stars and pondering the meaning of life. 

On his first morning back in LA, Austin got dressed and drove out for meetings with his agent to discuss his the next project, calling home and Hannah’s work no avail trying to reach her. He ate dinner alone at the at Chateau Marmont bar on a whim, drinking a whiskey and talking with the bar tender for a while. He wasn’t famous, yet, not really, and he enjoyed the anonymity, although he nearly jumped out of his skin with joy when Demi Moore recognized him as she entered the restaurant with Bruce Willis. They’d met when she was dating Emilio Estevez, and Austin took the opportunity to gush to Willis about how much he loved Die Hard and how he always thought Willis had action star potential watching Moonlighting. Leaving the Chateau, Austin ended the night with a drive through Hollywood, listening to Genesis and U2 on his tape deck, before growing lonely at home and wondering where Hannah was. He called her work again with no luck, drank a half bottle of whiskey and passed out. It was the next morning, unpacking his suitcases from Arizona, that he noticed Hannah’s side of the closet was empty. Austin frantically walked through the house, opening dresser drawers, looking through the bathroom, checking to see if she had left a note on the fridge or any travel receipts at her desk. His first hope was that she’d gone on a spontaneous trip with friends. Or maybe out to visit her father for a few days. Austin’s heart sank when he saw the empty frames above the mantle, the specks of burnt cards and photos in the fireplace. He wasn’t sure how much she knew, or how she found out, but he punched the wall until his fists bleed, raging at himself for being so stupid, for getting carried away, for screwing around with one of the supporting actresses.

It hadn’t been the first time another actor had flirted with Austin. Indeed, flirting, pranks, late night philosophical discussions, it was all common practice between the crew and the talent, especially on location when the everyone lived at the same hotel. For a month. However, this had been the first time he had given into temptation. Kim was 20 years old, beautiful and carefree, with none of Hannah’s angst or deep insecurities, although he later realized there wasn’t much depth to her personality at all and he got bored. Quickly. In the beginning, it had been freeing and wonderful, even exciting, to explore and get to know a new female body, to end the loneliness he’d been enclosed in over the first week and a half in Arizona. Why did anyone live in the desert anyway? He asked himself as the dry heat hit his face every goddamn day. The way Kim had pursued him was also incredibly flattering. She waited for Austin by his trailer, caught his eye on set while she bite her lip, cornered him at the hotel bar, causing him to smile a mischievous knowing smile every time their eyes locked, to know she wanted him, to feel the power he held over her. It stroked his ego and poured gas onto the fire that would blow up his relationship with Hannah. The sex daze wore off after a week and he realized what a huge mistake he had made. They had nothing in common and it was increasingly annoying how she didn’t get any of his jokes, or slipped into a form of baby talk in bed that grated his nerves, especially when he was hung over. It was worse when Kim began holding his hand on set, probing him about the future, and looking at him impatiently as she talked about going to the premiere together. Like a man, Austin said nothing, and suffered through another ten days of mediocre sex and companionship with Kim before breaking things off the moment shooting concluded.

All of this flashed through Austin’s head as he drove to Hannah’s work, yelling at the receptionist who explained Hannah was not working on anything there, she’d finishing before deadline, and had no idea if Hannah was working somewhere else or coming back in the near future. Swearing under his breath, Austin walked back and forth in the parking lot, squeezing the bridge of his nose, palming his hand through his hair. He considered driving out to Malibu and shaking down Avi, but he couldn’t bare to look Hannah’s father in the eyes, afraid she had shared what had happened, or worse, hadn’t and he would have to explain why he had no idea where his girlfriend was. Racking his brain, he wasn’t sure what to do. He had met several of Hannah’s friends, but didn’t know their phone numbers. It was pure dumb luck that he happened be driving down Wilshire Boulevard in a daze and saw her small, blue Honda hatchback parked down one of the side streets. He immediately recognized the Dukakis 88 bumper sticker in exactly the same place he’d watched Hannah paste it as he teased her relentlessly with promises to cancel out her vote by pulling for Bush. Parking across the street, he sat waiting, unsure of his game plan, but unable to leave. He put the radio on and leaned back. Thrumming the steering wheel, he didn’t see her walk past his car from the apartment building behind him and frown as she recognized his profile. Movement on his periphery startled Austin, and he looked over his shoulder to see Hannah’s beautiful, heart shaped ass running slowly back up the block in low black heels. Springing into action, Austin ran after her, his Nikes and jeans giving him the advantage.

“Hannah! Hannah….” He caught up and blocked the sidewalk, panting deeply. “C’mon Hannah, I made a mistake… one mistake… haven’t you ever made a mistake while you were drunk?”

Crossing her arms, sighing, she resisted the urge slap him.

“Yes. Christmas Eve. 1987.”

Read Chapter Two Here

Taglist (let me know if you would like to be added)

@woundmetender​

@powerofelvis​

@aconflagrationofmyown​

[tackfield]

Mastering Men's Leather Jacket Fashion: A Timeless Guide

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Perfecting the Fit: A well-fitted leather jacket should feel like a second skin, hugging your body in all the right places without restricting movement. Pay attention to sleeve length, shoulder width, and overall silhouette when trying on jackets, and don't be afraid to seek out tailoring services for minor adjustments to achieve the perfect fit.

Versatile Wardrobe Staple: One of the greatest assets of a leather jacket is its versatility. Whether dressed up with a crisp button-down shirt and chinos or dressed down with a plain tee and jeans, a leather jacket adds instant coolness to any outfit. Experiment with different layering options and accessories to create unique looks that suit your personal style.

Caring for Your Investment: Proper care and maintenance are essential to prolonging the life of your leather jacket. Be sure to regularly clean and condition the leather to keep it supple and prevent drying or cracking. Store your jacket in a cool, dry place away from direct sunlight, and avoid exposing it to harsh chemicals or moisture.

Embracing Timeless Appeal: While trends may come and go, the allure of a well-worn leather jacket remains timeless. Embrace the rugged elegance of this iconic garment, and let its inherent character and charm speak for itself. With proper care and styling, your leather jacket will only grow more handsome with age, becoming a cherished wardrobe staple for years to come.

In conclusion, mastering men's leather jacket fashion is about more than just wearing a stylish garment—it's about embodying a sense of confidence, individuality, and timeless sophistication. By selecting the right style, investing in quality craftsmanship, perfecting the fit, exploring versatile styling options, and caring for your investment, you can elevate your look to new heights and make a lasting impression wherever you go. So go ahead, embrace the allure of the leather jacket, and let your style speak volumes.

[hilarychuff]

All the Best People See You (All the Best People Know), Chapter 8

hello guess who's back so soon here is another installment in my pre-season 4 robin/chrissy inadvertant desert hearts movie date au!!! it is no longer so pre-season 4!!! exciting!!

Robin says Chrissy’s the one with the magic, but Chrissy’s pretty sure it’s the other way around. Something about wearing Robin’s blazer yesterday had made her feel brave, safe, like she could talk about exactly the sort of things she’d practiced avoiding with Miss Kelly last week. Today, Robin’s jacket is black denim instead of a blazer, scattered pins and patches decorating the material, but when she loans it to Chrissy, it feels just the same.

read it on ao3 here

Chrissy hesitates while getting dressed Thursday morning. She’s got her uniform on, her cheer cardigan too, but when she looks at herself in the mirror, she half wants to shrug the sweater off. Hang it back up in her closet. She won’t be swapping it out for Jason’s letterman after first period today. What would happen if she just… left it at home?

Maybe, if she gets cold, someone else will let her borrow their jacket for the day.

She wonders if Jason would offer. Would he insist?

Can’t have my girl looking cold, Chris, she imagines in his voice. I know it’s game day, but here, you should take it.

Maybe it wouldn’t be like that, though. Maybe it would be the opposite.

Baby, how am I supposed to feel you cheering me on all day long if I don’t have my jacket? Plus, you know all the guys are wearing theirs. It’s good for team unity, and I have to set the right example as captain. I thought you girls were wearing your sweaters today.

She half entertains the idea of sneaking into her father’s room to borrow one of his sport coats. What would Robin think if she showed up in a blazer of her own? Or could Chrissy maybe not pull it off the same as Robin does? Robin always looks so cool and effortless in her outfits, like putting them together comes as naturally to her as breathing. Her style is so — her own compared to most of the other girls at Hawkins High. Maybe if Chrissy tried to copy it, she’d just look exactly like she would be: a little girl playing dress up in her father’s closet.

Maybe she could squeeze into one of PJ’s. His size probably isn’t so different from hers. As long as he has something that fits over her shoulders, it wouldn’t matter too much if the arms were a little short. She could roll the sleeves to her elbows the same way Robin usually does.

Chrissy doesn’t typically wear anything tight, though. Her own sense of style tends to favor a looser fit, her closet full of long cardigans and pleated pants, structured jumpsuits and billowy dresses that can be belted in at the waist. Her mom would call those sorts of items forgiving. Things that can change with or hide her fluctuating weight. It also tends to mean it’s less noticeable when her mother buys her clothes a size too large or decides she’s gained another few pounds and takes it upon herself to let out all the seams.

Oh.

Her mother.

Her mother would never let her leave the house in something like that. Not ladylike enough. Of course, it’s one thing to wear her boyfriend’s jacket at school, but it’s another to include men’s clothing as part of her regular wardrobe. And it’s not like she’d be able to hide it from her parents. Even if she managed to sneak into someone else’s closet without being discovered, she couldn’t just stuff a blazer into her backpack and pull it out later. Not if she also wanted to fit any of her books in there.

She’s pretty sure there isn’t a world where her mother would be swayed by any claims that it’s some sort of new trend either. Laura Cunningham always insists that truly well-dressed women always look timeless. Classic. They don’t chase trends that will look silly in pictures they’ll be showing their children one day.

There’s no use, really, in trying to prepare for a conversation she’ll just lose. She keeps the cardigan on.

keep reading

[alarawriting]

52 Project #50: Grandma's House

Just in time for Thanksgiving weekend!

The O Street Museum, unlike the grandmother's house in this story, is a real place, and is really as I have described. Possibly even more over the top than the grandmother's house.

***

Grandma’s house was cold. It wasn’t a metaphor; someone must have turned the heat down to some ridiculous level, 65 degrees or something. Grandma used to keep it around 75 degrees; I’d wear summer pajamas when we came here for Thanksgiving, despite how cold it was outside. For some reason I’d thought it would be just as warm as when she was alive. I shivered, and wondered if I’d find sweaters upstairs in the Sweater Room, or if someone had gotten to them first.

No time like the present to check. I stuffed the key into the pocket of my blazer and headed up the first set of stairs. I’d gone in on 27, so I headed up to the third floor and went through the secret door to 29, then up another flight of stairs and through the regular door to the fourth floor on 31, because you can’t get to the third floor of 31 through any other of the doors. The Sweater Room was on the third floor of 31. I went inside.

The walls were hung with sweaters. Cable knit sweaters, cashmere sweaters, sweaters with sparkly sequins all over them, ugly Christmas sweaters, cardigans, short-sleeved sweaters (never been able to understand why those even exist), thick wool sweaters… The sweaters hanging from the hooks on the wall partially covered the dressers, which were covered to the inch with knick-knacks of Grandma’s that had no real theme or connection to them, like she’d just dumped stuff she couldn’t figure out where to put it. But inside the drawers: more sweaters. Men’s sweaters, women’s sweaters, sweaters for every size child and baby.

Most of Grandma’s themed rooms seemed to have some artistic point to them – the rooms themed around specific historical figures, like Elvis or Teddy Roosevelt; the rooms themed around features of nature, like the Ocean Room or the Cherry Blossom Room; the rooms themed around seasons like the Winter Room, or colors like the Purple Room; or the ones themed around activities, like the Billiards Room or the Music Room. And then there were rooms like the Sweater Room, that had a theme, but the theme was ridiculous.

I asked Grandma once why she had a room dedicated to sweaters, and only sweaters. She glared at me. Grandma used to glare a lot. “No one will ever say I let any of my family members be cold, ever!”

My favorite was still hanging up on the wall. It was a gradient of blue, light at the top and dark at the bottom. I pulled it off the hanger.

It smelled like Grandma’s laundry detergent.

The tears welled up out of nowhere and I found myself sobbing, out of nowhere. I pressed the sweater to my face and breathed through it until I had myself under control again.

“What are you crying for?” Grandma would have said. “People die! If they led a long, full life, then stop crying about it! That’s the best any of us ever get!”

I didn’t know how long Grandma had lived. No one did. When you asked her, she’d say “As old as Ann,” and when you asked how old Ann was, she’d say “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” I took this as permission to try to find out, when I was thirteen; I went rummaging through her purse to find her identification documents. Her driver’s license said her name was Gloria Reyes and she was born in 1929. Her passport said her name was Long Xin-quan and she was born in 1918. Her other driver’s license, which was buried at the bottom of the purse, said her name was Aanya Desai and she was born in 1907. Grandma used to claim to be Chinese, which would have made sense given that the name on her passport was Chinese, but she could easily pass for any number of other ethnicities – she had long, straight black hair, she tanned very dark in the summer and turned very light in the winter, and her eyes were like Keanu Reeves’ – if you had assumed she was white, they looked white. If you assumed she was Asian, they looked Asian. She had, to my knowledge, been assumed to be Indian, Native American, Hispanic, Polynesian, Thai, practically every East Asian nation, Polynesian, and white, on various occasions.

I thought she was a spy. None of those ages could be right; Grandma couldn’t be that old. Although, my biological grandmother, my Nan-nan, also called her Grandma, so maybe she really was that old.

It didn’t seem weird to me until I was nearly a teenager. No one knew exactly how Grandma was related to us, and no one really cared. There were, the last time I counted, 25 separate families of cousins, all of whom counted as Grandma’s family. Some people might have been adopted; Grandma had taken in at least two abused kids on separate occasions and just declared them to be hers now, according to my mother. Though I happened to know that the Haskins, the African-American family that ran into trouble occasionally when people couldn’t believe they were related to Grandma, were in fact actually directly connected to me; my Nan-nan’s sister had married a black man. According to my Nan-nan, this utterly shocked and horrified her parents, but Grandma had just glared at them and said, “You had better come to this house for Thanksgiving, you hear me? I don’t care where you go for Christmas or anything else, but Thanksgiving is for my family, and you better come.”

With my sweater on awkwardly under my blazer, I returned the way I came, back to the front room of 27. I’d always intended it to be my starting point. And then from there, I went through the hallways to 23.

***

If you’ve ever been to the O Street Museum in DC, you might get a sense of what Grandma’s home was like. Grandma claimed that the founder of the O Street Museum got the idea from her, and I don’t know enough to dispute it. O Street Museum is five interconnected town houses; Grandma’s house is seven, and they all have four floors and finished basements. Oh, and a gabled roof, where most townhouses, including the others on the street, have flat ones. It actually looks from the outside like just one very long roof, the only visual indication from the street that the townhomes are connected in any way. There’s supposedly an attic under the roof, but I’d never been there and neither had any relatives I’d talked to.

We used to call the houses by their street numbers, but not the whole thing. We were on the 1200 block, so the houses were 1223, 1225, 1227 and so on up through 1235. 27 was the main entrance to the whole thing. You could also get in on 23 and 33. All the rest of the doors were blocked.

There are over 70 rooms, not counting the private bathrooms that most of the bedrooms come with. And every square inch of the walls and furniture in most of the rooms is covered with Grandma’s stuff. Art, knickknacks, jewelry, books, clothes, you name it. One of the rooms is filled with nothing but hats. Unlike the O Street Museum, which has a similar aesthetic but with more selective artistic grounding behind it, you couldn’t buy any of the stuff and you couldn’t rent a room. Grandma wasn’t running a hotel; this was actually her house, and she didn’t take in boarders. Not for money, anyway.

So when Grandma demanded that the whole family gather for Thanksgiving… she meant the whole family. 25 separate families, as in family trees with kids and grandkids, and around 30 singles and couples who had no kids and weren’t considered part of one of the other families. Everyone was your cousin, and the exact degree didn’t matter. Us kids indiscriminately called everyone in our parents’ generation Aunt or Uncle (or Avun in a couple of cases where someone considered themselves non-binary, but that comes up more in my generation than it did when we were the kids), and everyone in any generation above that was either Aunt/Uncle or Great-Aunt/Great-Uncle depending on how elderly we thought they were.

Grandma also owned a parking lot, about two blocks away from the house. That, she rented out, but around Thanksgiving the parking lot would close and you had to have the code, which Grandma would give out, to get in. Even then, there wasn’t enough room for all the cars. The disabled and elderly parked in the row of on-street disability parking spots Grandma had acquired in front of all of her houses, and everyone else parked further away and walked or took mass transit. The 7-Eleven across the street on the block corner actually had signage specifically forbidding that anyone from Grandma’s house, which was generally referred to as “Long Mansion” due to being long enough to take up most of the block, park there.

All of that would be gone soon. Grandma had entrusted me to sell off her stuff and give the proceeds out to the entire family, and that meant the houses too. I figured I would probably have the doors between the houses sealed, covered up with wall, and sell them as separate townhomes. Grandma’s will said I could do that if I wanted. I didn’t want to – I wanted everything to be exactly like it was. I wanted all of Grandma’s stuff to remain in her house and for the family to meet every Thanksgiving and Grandma would be there. But that wasn’t happening, and I had a mission, given to me in Grandma’s will. And a seven-house four-story mansion wouldn’t sell to anyone unless they planned to cut it up for apartments, which no. I wasn’t doing that. I was going to sell these houses to families, people who wanted to raise kids in them. Or run a nonprofit to give housing to runaway teens, or something. Something better than being a landlord renting out apartments.

I’ve done estate sales for the past six years, but I’d never had to do one for anyone I was related to. There was a pattern we’d always follow. You meet with the bereaved family members who hired you. You express condolences on their loss. You’re gentle, friendly but not over-familiar. I work for a company that does these, so someone else was responsible for setting the percentage we take, doing the marketing, signing the contract; it’s just my job to satisfy the customer by getting the best price possible for their loved one’s stuff, while making sure no one in the family feels slighted because some favorite knickknack got sold instead of given to them like their mom promised.

I always begin by walking around in the house, taking pictures of everything. Often, the person who owned the house had been sick for some time, and the house smells… not bad, exactly, but it smells like sick old people. Often, cats have peed on a good bit of it. I’ve been in the homes of hoarders, where rooms are stacked to the top with old magazines and newspapers the deceased couldn’t bear to throw out. It’s a little weird, walking through someone else’s life, but I’m professional about it and I try not to speculate on the life I’m observing, even in my own head. Then I catalogue all the photos in a spreadsheet and make sure that the family members all get a chance to see it and point out what they want to take, even before I price anything. Once they’ve done that, I work on getting pricing. Often someone will come back after I’ve priced things and tell me they wanted a specific item, they forgot about it or they didn’t see it in the sheet. They come back during pricing often enough that I know this isn’t always motivated by money… but sometimes, they just coincidentally remember that their grandfather left them this particular piece of fine art that’s worth a few thousand, or whatever. I always check that against the will, first, and then against whichever family members are closest, who hired me. The children, usually. The siblings, sometimes. In some heartbreaking cases, it’s the parents, who outlived their own child.

Grandma picked me to do her house because I’m the only family member with experience doing estate sales, and I’m generally very professional. But walking around in Grandma’s house, every little stupid object with a history I remember, and the afterimage of Grandma everywhere… I broke down a few times. I didn’t know if I could do this.

I was so glad there wasn’t anyone here to see me crying.

I’d made the mistake of going to the Kids’ House first, number 23. When I was little, my parents lived in the same city as Grandma, as many of the family did, and sent me over here for babysitting, so I spent a lot of time in the Kids’ House. Later after we moved, we still came here four or five times a year. The basement was a playroom for kids to run around in. There were some huge dollhouses, large enough for a Barbie doll, and some smaller ones that were more works of art, that only the older children and adults were allowed to touch. First floor had the game room, where there were board games and three different televisions hooked up to every video game console that had ever existed. Grandma actually had a Colecovision. I was going to have to test if it even worked.

On the same floor we had the huge dining room with the enormous child-height table, the high chairs and booster chairs and children’s seats still ranged around it like Grandma was expecting guests with children. 23 also had a working kitchen; most of the family’s food was prepared in 25, but 23 had a fridge full of healthy snacks and bottled water, a pantry and a breadbox full of not-so-healthy snacks, canned food on shelves, and a stove with every childproofing technology known to man. Kids were encouraged to learn to cook for themselves. There were children’s cookbooks on a shelf, and a TV hooked to a computer that had nothing on it but cooking videos, and links to cooking videos online.

I wondered if it had usually looked like this when we weren’t here. For obvious reasons, I’d never seen what the house looked like when Grandma hadn’t prepared for child guests. There used to be milk, chocolate milk, apple juice, and sometimes for a rare treat even soda in the fridge. None of that now, just water. There were no handmade brownies or cookies on the platter with the glass lid, no fruit in the fruit bowl with the bug net over it. Carrots and celery in the fridge, and jars of jam and jelly, but no peaches, no pre-made salads with plastic wrap over the bowls. The breadbox had a loaf in it, but it was wheat bread, which most of us had always refused to eat. Grandma didn’t do pure white bread, but she usually had multi-grain and potato bread and honey wheat, as well as the wheat bread and the weird options like pumpernickel and sourdough. None of that was in there. And the wheat bread had gone stale.

On the second floor, we had the TV room, separate from the game room; that was on the second floor and had probably been a master bedroom, once. We also had the Baby Room, with cribs, and the Toddler Room, with the baby gate to lock them in there so they couldn’t get down the stairs. I held it together until I got to the Toddler Room, and then I started bawling. The kids who had last visited Grandma who’d stayed in this room wouldn’t even remember her.

I got a piece of tissue paper from the Toddler Room bathroom, and a bottle of water from downstairs, and got myself under control. Then I went back up, to the bedrooms. They were practically Spartan compared to the rest of the house; I thought that would be a good way to ease myself into it.

���Compared to the rest of the house”, however, turned out to be the operative word. Each room had bunk beds – sometimes two sets – with nice sheets, nothing ever branded with commercial characters, fluffy blankets, and a few dressers, bookcases, and bins for toys. The bookcases were stuffed with children’s books. The dressers were completely covered with kid-friendly decorations, and some that weren’t such a great idea for kids, like ceramic statues as music boxes. Inside the dressers and closets, there were clothes of every size. The rooms tended to be themed, with gender markers in the toys and the colors. Bright rainbow colors on a room with dollhouses. Deep blue ocean colors and murals of monstrous sea creatures on a room full of action figures. Some rooms had no clear gender, devoted to books and art supplies and board games, painted in light blues or neutral yellows.

Why had Grandma supplied us so many clothes? These clothes weren’t for us to take home, they were to stay here for cousins who needed them. Sometimes kids stayed with Grandma for extended periods of time – maybe because a sibling was sick, maybe because there was upheaval in their homes. Sometimes, cousins brought friends to Grandma’s, and the friends stayed for weirdly long periods of time even after the cousins went home. Some of those then kept showing up every Thanksgiving as new cousins.

So many clothes. All of them smelled like Grandma’s laundry detergent.

I was old enough that none of these had been my toys or my clothes. Grandma swapped out the toys and clothes to stay on top of fashion and children’s interests. Even things like board games got replaced with newer editions of the board game in question. There had been videotapes and small TVs with VCRs in these rooms when I was coming here, and I remember heated discussions with my other female cousins as to which of us would room together in which room, based mostly on which videos we wanted to watch, or wouldn’t be caught dead watching. Those were gone now. Instead there were laptops, one on each bed. Most of the kids brought their own, but if you didn’t have one, you’d have one at Grandma’s house.

The thought occurred to me that Grandma must have been fabulously wealthy to be able to afford things like this. New toys and games every few years. Every game console there had ever been, and televisions to go with them. Clothes for any and all possible grandkids. Laptops.

My uncle, the executor of Grandma’s will, had said that once I’d sold everything on behalf of the estate, then all of the money would be divided among all the family members. Including Grandma’s existing liquid money. Everyone was waiting on me to get this done.

It took me three hours to get through house 23, taking pictures of everything, and 23 was the simplest one because it was set up for kids. I had over a thousand pictures of separate items to price, and then sell at estate sale or online auction.

This was gonna take forever.

***

I met my cousin Vanessa while we were staying together at 23, when we were both around 8.

I mean, I’d seen her before; she was my age and she was at every Thanksgiving, just like me. But there were enough kids running around at every Thanksgiving that I didn’t even know all of their names, and I’m not sure if I knew Vanessa’s before the year I was 8. That year, we were put in the same room together, and something clicked.

We went exploring together. When you’re 8, something the size of Grandma’s house is a mountain, or Lewis and Clark and Sacagawea’s journey to the West Coast. It’s a major league undertaking to explore it. Some rooms connect to other rooms with a door, without going through the hallway, and some have secret passages that go to other rooms. There are closets nearly as deep as a room in themselves. Almost every bedroom has its own bathroom, but you can’t explore the bathrooms if there’s someone asleep in the bedroom, so you have to explore over multiple days to actually get every room.

We spent four nights at Grandma’s, as usual. Wednesday was always the night to travel to Grandma’s, after school. Vanessa’s family lived closer, so she’d been the first one in the room. We’d been given the Boat Room, a two-kid bedroom where the beds were themed as boats, the furniture and decorations were all nautical, and the walls were painted ocean blue, with fish and seaweed and coral painted onto the walls as a mural. When I’d arrived, late, and dropped my bags on the bed that was left, Vanessa said casually, “I’ve been playing Nintendo for two hours and I’m bored. Wanna go explore?”

“I just got here,” I said. “I want to go to the kitchen and get some food. We had McDonalds, like, five hours ago.”

“I’d like a snack.”

Vanessa accompanied me to the Children’s Kitchen, where I got a roast beef sandwich and some handmade chocolate chip cookies, and Vanessa got juice, celery, and a peanut butter dip in a ramekin. While I was eating – you were not supposed to take food back to your room – Vanessa told me that she found a swimming pool. It was November, of course, and I’d somehow managed to never get here during the summer, so I – and presumably Vanessa – had not known about the swimming pool.

If there was a swimming pool we’d never encountered before, what else might there be? After my long drive, I was tired but also restless from having to sit still so long, so I agreed to go exploring with Vanessa.

I don’t think we successfully managed to get the whole place that visit; it might have been another couple of years. Vanessa got her parents to hold her 9th birthday party for her at Grandma’s house, and invite all the cousins close in age; her birthday was in July, so this was her clever plan to get access to the swimming pool. That visit, we spent too much time in the pool to explore much. Exploration resumed that November, and then Grandma had us come back over winter break so she could hand out presents. I got a Sega Genesis and a Sonic game. Vanessa got some Mario game, I don’t remember what. So we didn’t explore much that Christmas either. It took until our 10th Thanksgiving for us to finally finish filling in the notebooks we were using to track our progress, though since we had started that the previous year, it’s entirely possible that places our notebooks said we’d never hit were actually places we’d gotten to that first year, and we’d just forgotten.

Vanessa and I exchanged phone numbers and addresses, and we spent a lot of time writing letters. Less time on the phone, at least until long distance charges stopped being a thing, but we tried to call each other once a week or so, given parental interference in the matter of the phone bill. We were best friends. She crocheted me a doll. I wasn’t crafty enough to make her a present like that, so I scoured toy stores until I finally found a stuffed animal that wasn’t a bear. (Seems odd now, but in that decade it was genuinely hard to find stuffed animals that weren’t bears.) When we were teenagers, we talked about school and classmates and our romantic lives. We met up for Vanessa’s birthday at Grandma’s, every year, and Christmas (an event to which only families containing children under 18 were invited), and one year I managed to get my February birthday at Grandma’s. We made up names together for the hypothetical babies we would have, and talked about buying a house together when we were adults, and our husbands would just have to suck it up because we would insist on living together.

This did not happen.

I don’t know when Vanessa and I drifted apart. Maybe college. Maybe when she got married at 23 to a guy with an annoying laugh. I went to her baby shower a year later, but not the one two years later for the second baby. By then I understood that my life was going to be different. I had no desire to have kids, and I was never going to get married. Gay marriage was on the radar then, as a thing the community was working toward achieving, but I had a good career I was moving ahead in, and friends, and I didn’t think I’d ever want the level of being tied to another person that marriage represented.

Vanessa and I didn’t have any angry, angsty falling out; we still see each other on Facebook and comment on each other’s posts, perfectly civil, like we were nothing but cousins who see each other at Thanksgiving, because that’s all we are now. And as I was remembering it, I realized, I don’t know when that happened, or how. We just got busy, and we didn’t have much in common anymore.

***

25 had the Kitchens. This was the area that fed the majority of the people, at Thanksgiving and other large gatherings. Nearly the entire first floor of 25 of was a kitchen, and there was another kitchen in the basement, plus a pantry. There’s a dumbwaiter in the basement that goes up to the first floor kitchen, and a passage at the back of the house that goes over to the dining hall in 29, bypassing 27 entirely. (It doesn’t actually bypass 27, it still runs through that house. It’s just that you can’t get into it from 27.)

The first floor kitchen was all stainless steel and granite countertops. I remember a time when all the appliances in here were white, and then black, before the stainless steel came in. All of Grandma’s cooking pots and pans were either cast iron or stainless steel. There were knives in blocks, modern kitchen appliances like food processors and blenders, a microwave oven, and a bread maker that was still in its box. I couldn’t help laughing, imagining Grandma’s expression upon realizing someone was suggesting she use a bread maker rather than knead her own dough and bake it herself. The waffle iron had seen a lot of use, though.

I went down into the basement, where the pantry – the size of one of the smaller bedrooms – and the basement kitchen were. The basement kitchen was used when someone had an allergy, so there wouldn’t be cross-contamination. I remember seeing Grandma directing a few adults in scrubbing the basement kitchen so she could cook for the vegans and the people with dairy allergies, after she’d already made food for the nut allergy people.

There were four chest freezers and a tall freezer down here in the basement, and three refrigerators. A lot of meat in the freezers, as if Grandma kept it stocked with entire cows, pigs and sheep on a regular basis. There were three turkeys and a dozen large roaster chickens. A lot of very large whole fish. I’m no fish expert, so I couldn’t tell what kinds they were; I just wrote down “fish” in my notebook and noted how many there were, and approximate sizes.

All the food was making me hungry, but it felt almost sacriligeous to cook in Grandma’s kitchen, without her permission. I used my phone to find a local Asian fusion place and ordered myself delivery food.

Grandma had cooked food from all over the planet. It had been impossible to figure out her ethnicity based on her cooking style or her choice of cuisines; Thanksgiving dinner itself had always been the traditional American turkey and sides. Usually two turkeys, a ham and maybe some other large roast like a goose or a pot roast. But the rest of the holiday’s dinners could have been Mexican, Chinese, Thai, Italian, Indian, Peruvian, Nigerian, anything. Not usually Northern Europe, she said there was no spice in their food, and no taste. Grandma liked her spicy food, though there was always something on her table that family with more mild taste buds could handle. I’d tried a curry she’d made one time when I was little, and had to chug an entire glass of milk after one bite. Everyone had laughed, and I felt ashamed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grandma had said. Her voice was never gentle. Everything she said was barked or shouted or growled. But we just accepted that that was Grandma. If she was actually mad, she’d let us know. “Mighty dragons start out as little cubs out of the egg, after all. Try something that spicy once a year, maybe once every few months, and it’ll get easier. Or eat a little bit of hot with your food every day, and a little bit more, and a little bit more, and you’ll get there.” I still haven’t. I was here for Grandma’s Easter celebration earlier this year, and she had enchiladas, ranging from mild to super hot. I’d taken a bite of the super hot, but ended up eating the medium. Super hot was still too hot for me.

By the time the food arrived, I’d finished cataloguing the kitchen, so I took a break to eat, and then onward. In 25, the second floor has color themes and then the rest of the floors are themed for old celebrities. So we had the Olive Room, the Lavender Room and the Orange Room – all foods as well as colors, and the lamps had glass shades with colored bits showing off the plant the room was named for – and then rooms like the Elvis Room, Sinatra, Monroe, The Beatles… Grandma’s interests were all over the 20th century as well, because she’d also had Teddy Roosevelt and Ozzy Osbourne themed rooms. That was quite a spread.

When I was in my twenties, I’d brought my first real girlfriend to Thanksgiving one time. Most of the younger folks did; Grandma fed the plus-ones same as the rest of us. We had the Ozzy Osbourne room, which my girlfriend thought was hilarious. Posters on the wall, photographs, a Funko Pop of Ozzy, album covers. Also a train-on-tracks decoration on the dresser and a Marvel action figure of Iron Man. I didn’t want to tell Grandma that that wasn’t the Iron Man the song was about, because she’d have asked then who was it about, and I wouldn’t have known.

We’d been making out, our tops off, her skirt racked up, my pants unbuttoned, when there was a loud knocking at the door, which repeated when we tried to ignore it in hopes that it would go away. And then there was my mother’s voice, calling my name.

After frantically getting dressed as quickly as possible, I opened the door a crack, expecting some kind of emergency. No. The house was full of dogs, because several of my relatives had brought their dogs, and my mom wanted me to go to the Lounges and cover all of the sofas with chairs so the dogs wouldn’t climb on them overnight.

That girlfriend wasn’t back the next Thanksgiving, but I tell the story at family gatherings now with teens and twenty-somethings, to great horrified hilarity.

The Ozzy room was nearly the same as I remembered it from that night. There were a lot of actual vinyl albums hanging on the walls now, and some newer reprints of photos, and the inserts to the DVDs of “The Osbournes”, but the Funko Pop figure and the train were still there. Iron Man had been replaced with a small iron sculpture of a man. I took it. There are advantages to being the one your grandmother picked to catalog all her stuff and run her estate sale.

I’d been at this for eight hours and only gotten two houses done. It was a good thing the estate was paying me; if I was doing this as a volunteer, I probably would miss so much work I wouldn’t make my rent.

***

I turned up the heat the next day. I know why the thermostat was set so low, but it was just wrong for Grandma’s house to be cold.

Today was 27’s turn. This house was our main entrance. There was a large, open foyer – I think this was the kind they call a lawyer foyer, extremely fancy and open, with a wide spiral staircase going up to the second floor. We called the first floor and the basement “The Lounges”, because that’s what all the rooms were dedicated to. The basement was a man-cave sort of room, finished, dark paneling, no windows, a pool table and a cribbage board, and fat vinyl armchairs and sofas strewn about, surrounding coffee tables. At least one of the coffee tables was one of those chessboard tables with the chess and checkers pieces hiding in a drawer underneath. There was no television, though. This was a game room, not a TV room.

Upstairs we had the piano room (which also had a couple of guitars and a trombone) and the art deco lounge. Then most of the back of the house was taken up by the TV room. I’d never seen it showing anything other than sports. Even when we kids had begged to be able to use the big TV to watch Disney movies on videotape, none of the grownup men had been willing to relent and give up any of their precious sports. The day after that, Grandma had gone out and bought us a big TV; before that the TV in the children’s room had been a normal CRT. She replaced it with a projection TV – flat screen televisions didn’t exist yet – that was bigger than the one in the TV room. At one point one of the uncles came over to the kids’ TV room and complained that our TV was bigger. Grandma apparently heard of the complaint, even though she wasn’t there in the room, and came to chew him out. “You think you’re better than them? You think because you lived more years, you have a job, you think you’re entitled to have things that are better than theirs, all the time?”

“It’s wasted on them,” my uncle – I forget which one, there are a whole grouping of them of similar age who all look pretty similar, and I always confuse their names – said. “They were fine with a regular TV. They all have good vision!” He wasn’t old enough to have old-age related vision problems. “Kids don’t need fancy things, they like the regular things just fine.”

“You men wouldn’t let them have the main television to watch a movie, because you wanted to watch sports commentary. The game was over. So they get a bigger TV than you to teach you a lesson. You don’t treat my grandchildren like crap.”

I was going to point out that he was wrong about the vision thing; I’d learned by then that older people tend to get farsighted as they got older, which meant they couldn’t see things that were close up anymore without glasses, but children who are nearsighted often don’t get diagnosed until late elementary school, because they don’t know that the blurs they’re seeing aren’t what everyone else sees. And nearsighted people need big TVs a lot more than farsighted people do. I didn’t have a chance, because Grandma shooed him away. She always used to tell me not to complicate my arguments anyway. “If they say something that’s not true while they’re in the middle of making a stupid argument, you don’t need to tell them that the thing they said wasn’t true. That makes it sound like their stupid argument would make sense if the thing was true. Just tell them their argument is stupid. And why. Or don’t. Sometimes they don’t deserve to know why.”

The TV room took up almost all of the back of the house, but there was a narrow extension of the hallway that went all the way to the back, up a ramp, to a door. That led to the Decks. Plural; on the first floor the deck stretched over to 33, but it had two additional decks above it on the second and third floors, and the third floor deck was technically multiple. It ran from 27 to 29, skipped 31, and  was back on 33. The second floor deck actually only went to 31; if you wanted to get to the deck on 33 you took the spiral staircase on the first floor 33 deck. There used to be a rope ladder from the second floor deck at 31 to the third floor at 33, but I think Grandma was convinced to get rid of it in the late 00’s, in case one of her grandkids fell off it and broke something.

Not much on the Decks, though. Patio furniture with covers over it. I had to take off the covers to take pictures. A fancy grill, probably only about 5 years old, on the first floor of 29. It was out at the edge furthest from the houses, and the second and third floor decks weren't quite as wide, so the smoke would miss them… usually. Some plants in pots. None of the games or lawn toys appeared to be out here; they might be in storage under the deck.

Someone had removed the volleyball  net from the lawn. I'd have to go down there to assess the lawn features, but later. I could see the pond filters were still running, but from here I couldn't see if there were any fish. The parts I could see of the pool were covered in tarp.

A long time ago there was a really elaborate treehouse. That was long gone. The swingset of my childhood had been replaced with one of those kid playsets of wood and plastic, with foam cushion underneath, sometime in the 00’s. I'd have to check Grandma's records and hope she noted down the purchase, or kept the receipt. The age would be important in determining the resale value.

I remembered so much about these decks, that lawn. The trees, most of which were still here. The fish pond. The swimming pool partly under the decks. Me and my cousins running around  here screaming, because kids always scream when they play outside.

All gone now. All going away forever.

I don’t have kids, don't plan to, so why was this hitting me so hard? The nieces and nephews (technically,  cousins, but our standard practice was, everyone a generation younger than you or more was a niece or nephew) who were children now… I hardly know them. Some of my favorite cousins, their children, I know pretty well, but this emotional reaction seemed extreme.

I went back inside.  Time to do the rest of 27.

***

Upstairs we had Music, Movies and Dancing for themes, then colors, then Famous Writers, Sculpture and Animation. There was a whole fine arts theme going on the second and fourth floors, which begged the question why the third floor was Purple, Green and Yellow.

When I was in my late 20s, I was hanging out with a 14 year old nephew, technically cousin. It wasn’t just me and him, but I was the one rooming in Animation Room that visit, and he was the one who said he wanted to see it. So I went over there with him, and we ran into Grandma on the way. Grandma, being a very nosy person, asked what we were doing, I told her, and she came with us.

Then she spent the next hour telling us all about the different styles of animation that the pictures and objects in the room came from or represented. Steamboat Willie. Rubber-hose style. Looney Tunes. Claymation. Ralph Bakshi. At the time I didn’t pay a lot of attention, because animation isn’t really a thing I care about much, then or now. Evan – that was my cousin – was blown away. He wouldn’t stop talking about it all weekend long. Now he’s in his 20’s, making animated shorts on Youtube, and he and some friends are apparently trying to make a pilot episode for an animated series.

I envy him a little, although I’m making a lot more money than he probably ever will without exceedingly good luck. I didn’t get into estate sales because it called to me or I was obsessed with it. I applied for a million different jobs, like most of late Gen X/early Millennials, because there were online job application systems and it was so much easier than going around in person or even calling various offices. A few interviewed me, and the one that sounded most interesting was the estate sale business. You have to be fairly good with people – compassionate and patient, because they’re grieving, and because the matter of a dead family member’s estate is something that raises a lot of emotions in a lot of people – and you have to be detail oriented, and good at math, and willing to do what I was doing right now, systematically going through a house and recording everything. When I got started, we wrote descriptions down in notebooks. Now that I use a phone to take pictures, I can barely remember how we managed that.

It's important work. The things that families owned, the things that the dead pass down to their loved ones, those carry memories. They’re representations of the times spent with the one who’s now gone. Or they’re representations of one’s own past, now gone forever, the way the past always is. Things are never just things. They always represent emotions. Sometimes the emotion is ennui, or the mild aching emptiness of the absence of emotion – when people buy things they don’t really want to assuage some lack in their lives, all those things carry are memories of the lack. Sometimes the emotion is bewilderment or even betrayal, like when the dead’s estate turns out to contain things that throw into question the living’s understanding of their loved one, such as evidence of a long lost child or an affair in the past or papers that indicate employment as a spy. But they are always emotions, and it’s important to tune into what the survivors are feeling about the stuff I catalogue, price and sell… or don’t sell, because sometimes a survivor says “oh, that old thing, yeah, sell it,” but you can tell that either they don’t mean it, or some other family member has emotions attached to that thing, and they want to keep it.

So I care about my work, and I’m good at it, but it’s not my passion. I’ve never been sure what my passion actually is. I’ve loved my girlfriends, but never enough to make them the center focus of my life, which is probably why I don’t have one right now. I was into alternative fashion for a while, until I found my look, the pantsuit lesbian, and now I just buy clothes that fit that and I don’t really go outside that zone. There were times in my past when I collected things, when I was deeply emotionally invested in them, but nothing I acquire nowadays has much of any emotion attached to it, so I’m something of a minimalist in my personal life now. Two storage units full of memorabilia from my childhood that I can never let go of, things my girlfriends left behind when they left me, stuff I owned in college… but my apartment looks barely lived in, like a model from a magazine about Less Is More Living. Evan loves his animation. What do I love?

***

After I’d catalogued all the bedrooms, it was time to do 29. I did it upside down this time. There was a door between 27 and 29 on the fourth floor. When we broke this up into multiple units, we would be going to have to bar all those doors. It wouldn’t be enough to put locks on them; total strangers will be living in them. We would have to wall them up.

That made me very sad, but honestly all of this did. I was grateful no one was here to see me. The constant on-the-verge-of-tears look would play holy hell with my rep as the one who was always strong, always cool, helpful and friendly and compassionate but never with weaknesses of her own. That wasn’t just my professional rep; it was what I showed my friends and girlfriends as well, the way I wanted to be, and it was bad enough how my feelings about Grandma’s house were wrecking that image to myself. I couldn’t bear letting anyone else see that image being destroyed.

Maybe Grandma herself. She was the only one I could ever imagine deliberately letting myself be weak with. Even my parents – ever since I went to college, I’ve tried my best to never upset them or make them unhappy by letting them know I’m suffering. Grandma was the only one who loved me enough to care if I was hurting, while being strong enough to take it. But Grandma was gone.

The top floor here had some of the weirdest rooms – Jewelry was fairly normal, but then there was Figurines, and The Majesty of the Law (we weren’t allowed to shorten it to either Law or Majesty), which was dedicated to politicians and judges. When I was something like eight or nine, my cousins and I used to sneak into the Figurines room to play with the figurines, which were mostly collectable toys and models with occasional ceramic statues. One time Grandma caught us and yelled at us; we were supposed to be in the Kids’ House, playing with the toys that were there for us. These, she said, were for looking at, not playing with.

I asked, “Aren’t they sad, with no one ever playing with them?”

In retrospect, this was a little bit of a strange sentiment, given that the movie Toy Story hadn’t come out yet. I don’t remember why I thought that toys wanted to be played with. Grandma took it perfectly seriously, though. “I play with them sometimes. They’re too fragile for kids, but when you’re as old as I am, you learn how to take care of things.”

Then she put on a little play for us, doing voices with different figurines. I actually don’t remember what it was about, I just remember we thought it was hilarious, watching our ancient, intimidating Grandma playing with toys the way we did, using them to tell stories.

The other floors’ rooms were more normal. The third floor had Stars, Moon, and Autumn, which sounds weird until you know that the second floor was Winter, Summer, Spring. Summer had a door that opened onto the second floor deck, above the swimming pool. Most of the pool was sheltered by the deck; it ran horizontally along 29 and 31, with a third of its width sticking out into the sunlight. You could get into the pool area from the basement level, or the first floor, or you could go down the stairs from this deck. I wanted to test the stairs, so I took them. They were still in good condition.

The pool was tarped, not drained. Grandma used to drain the pool in early November so the frost wouldn’t crack it. She hadn’t made it that far this year. Without the pool drained, I couldn’t inspect the condition, but I didn’t need to right away. I noted that we should have the pool drained so I could check it over, and I catalogued the pool toys and lawn furniture. Unlikely that they’d have any real value; I half expected they’d get thrown out, honestly.

A swimming pool with a tarp on it, in cool weather, looks so empty. It’s almost a liminal object, something that looks wrong, like it shouldn’t exist. Swimming pools exist in the late spring and summer. They should just vanish on the fall equinox, not to return until spring. Grandma had a pool heater, so we would generally start swimming in late April on nice days. By the end of June, the pool heater would go off, and then run most of September. We never went near the pool on Thanksgiving, obviously, but there were plenty of times we’d come up here in the summer. Sometimes the families would come up and then the kids would stay for two weeks while their parents went back home, back to work.

I remembered this area in summer, so many summers, crowded with all the kids in the water, most of the adults out on the pool deck or up above us on the regular decks, a handful – usually dads – in the water with us. I never understood why the moms didn’t want to come in the water. I still don’t really; when I grew up, I was one of the adults who’d play with the kids in the pool. One time, my parents and I came up in May, before school was out, and I remember being alone in the pool, floating on my back, looking at the sky. My parents and Grandma were on the pool deck, so I wasn’t truly alone, but when the water’s in your ears, all you can hear is your own heartbeat, and when you’re looking straight up, you don’t see the people to your sides.

It was peaceful. I’ve tried to get there again in public pools, but even though I can’t see or hear the other strangers in the pool, I know they’re there, and it’s not the same.

From the pool deck, I unlocked the gate from the pool area, and went out onto the lawn. Someone had set up the croquet hoops and never taken them down. I noted that; it was a potential hazard, but I wasn’t going to walk around pulling them up. The estate could pay for someone to do that. I inspected the children’s play structure and the fish pond. The fish were in there, but hiding until I showed up. Then they figured it was dinnertime and they all swam over to me. I felt bad for them, and decided to try to find the fish food. Turned out all of the pond stuff was down in the basement of 29, along with the changing rooms, the swimming pool accessories like the chlorine and the skimmers, and the showers. I went down the concrete stairs from the side of the swimming pool, catalogued the basement quickly, and brought the fish food up.

Big koi can sell for a lot. I photographed the fish as they ate. There were five, and they were large and looked healthy. Then I went back inside and up to the first floor.

The Dining Room, where all the adults ate at the holiday events, took up most of the first floor. There was also the Guitar Room, which I’d always thought was odd – why so many guitars? There were already some in the Piano Room, why another bunch of them here? – and the Salon, where smaller groups of adults would get together and talk. I never quite felt adult enough to join them, even when cousins my own age joined in.

It was late. I’d been at this all day. I should have stopped here, saved 31 for tomorrow… but I had 31, 33 and 35 yet to do. If I stopped now, I’d have three left.

 I pushed onward, up the stairs to the fourth floor and through the door to 31. It was hard to get there any other way from where I was; I could have gone via the first floor or second floor deck, or go over to 27, go outside, in through 33’s door, and then go through the first floor door. But in 29 proper, there was only one door to 31, and it was on the fourth floor.

Up here, we had the Comedians Room, the Rock and Roll Room, and the Actors Room. My cousins and I would go in those room, look at the various pictures on the walls, and try to guess who was who; this was before the Internet was a significant thing. On the third floor, we had the Sweaters Room, the Shoes Room and the Hats Room. We used to try on the hats and show them off to our parents. There were dresses in the closet in most of those rooms; we’d try them on and put on makeup, badly, and high heeled shoes that didn’t remotely fit us, and show off to our parents. I did it to fit in, but sometimes I’d dig out a fedora or a snazzy suit, and put that on, and everyone would laugh. Grandma never laughed; she clapped for us.

I couldn’t do this.

The family had been there long before I was born. It couldn’t end in my lifetime.

All of this… I was going to sell all of this? To strangers? People who couldn’t care about the history, because they wouldn’t know? People who never played with these things, never danced in this ballroom, never ate at the table, never laughed here, never swam in the pool… I was going to divide this estate into separate houses, and no one who lived here would ever use the secret doors, and none of the family would ever come here again?

The Ballroom, down on the first floor of this house, where the family parties were held? I’d attended so many weddings and graduation parties there, and one or two funerals, and a celebration for a family member who’d been elected to some minor political office, and Grandma’s birthdays…

The library in 33, the books I’d always promised I would read once I was tall enough to reach, and then I never did, because there would always be time later…

The Princess Room in 33, and showing it to my new adopted cousin Jessie, joining the family at the age of 6, and how frightened and unsure she was, and how much I wanted to make her feel like she was part of something that would never abandon her, something that would protect her and shelter her and give her joy for the rest of her life…

Being a just-turned-teenager in the Boat Room and inviting a whole pile of younger cousins in to play sailors exploring, because I was a big teenager now and I didn’t need to play, but of course, it was only kind to play with the younger ones because they would like it. And never mind how much I secretly resented growing up and wanting to be a kid who could just play and not having to pretend I was above all that now, no, I was just doing it for them…

Listening to the beat of the music from the Ballroom from the Mountains room in 33, which was catty corner to it…

The Board Games room in 35, and the D&D set I’d put there myself, and running a game for the teenagers when I was in my 20s. The Billiards room, learning how to play pool because women playing pool were sexy in a competent, badass way and I wanted to be that.

All of this, I was supposed to sell it off? Me? The person with the two storage units of memories because nothing in my life right now compelled me as much as my own past? The person who did estate sales because the past was so important to people, because the things of the past were such a vital part of any family’s history, and family members deserved to have that treated with respect and care, and I was supposed to do that to my own past? The past for all the young cousins I played with and mentored and treated like brothers and sisters? The future for all the young kids now who would never have this?

For a moment, I thought, No. I’ll take it all for myself. Grandma’s will gave me the right to do whatever I thought was right with her property. So I’ll keep it. I’ll be the new family matriarch and I’ll share it with the family the same way Grandma did.

And then reality sank in. I was not a mysterious elderly figure of unknown age and origin who had always been there. I was 36, and half the family had known me as a child. I didn’t even have kids; I certainly hadn’t earned the right to be a family matriarch, either through raising children or through a lifetime of service to the family. They’d see it as a selfish property grab, not an attempt to keep the family together.

And did any of it really matter, since Grandma was gone anyway? No one could step into her role. All the older men and women of the family had their own lives, their own subset of the family where they were the elders. If anyone had ever been Grandma’s direct child, they were dead now; my grandmother had called Grandma “Grandma” the same as everyone else did, and so had my great-aunts and great-uncles, many of whom had technically been my Nan-nan’s cousins rather than siblings.

It could never be the same because the woman who had made it that way was gone, and owning her property couldn’t possibly make me into her.

I finished going through 31, dully, going through the motions. It was very, very late and my eyes were burning by the time I was done. Part of me wanted to keep going, right now when I was so tired that my emotions were numb, but I recognized that I was too exhausted to do a good job. The temptation to cut corners in the bedrooms, to maybe not photo every sweater, every piece of memorabilia in the Rock and Roll room or the Actors room, had been very strong, and I wasn’t going to be able to resist it if I kept going, and the family deserved better. Grandma deserved better.

***

I didn’t go back to the house the next day. I spent the day entering stuff into the database, looking up current price assessments and adding them to the records. I didn’t normally do the pricing at this stage, but I didn’t normally work with houses this incredibly big. Also staring into space thinking about Grandma and the rest of the family. I’d lost touch with most of them, so why did I feel so strongly about protecting all of this for them? Was I just being selfish, wanting to hold onto it for myself?

By the time I was done for the day, I was already at an assessment of slightly over a million, based on the resale value of everything I’d entered, and I’d only finished 23, barely starting on 25. And there was a lot more stuff in the rest of the houses that might actually be valuable. Kids’ toys don’t have a lot of resale value unless they’re collector’s items or there’s a lot of intense nostalgia for them. I wasn’t even counting the house itself, which in this neighborhood could probably go for half a million all by itself.

This whole thing was probably going to end up being something like 20 million dollars. Which is a lot, until you consider that it had to be divided amongst somewhere between 125-250 people. Individuals were all likely to end up with less than $100k. Not chump change by any means, but in today’s economy, not exactly fabulous wealth either.

Was all this work even worth it? To give all the family members an amount that wouldn’t cover a full four years of college, or buy a nice house in most places in the country without having to have a mortgage?

I was being hypocritical. Most of the estate sales I did resulted in similar or lesser sums if there were a good number of family members; only when there were few children or few grandchildren did anyone walk away with half a million. Also, I wasn’t considering Grandma’s wealth in banks and investments, which had to be substantial for her to have afforded all this. Yes, it was worth it. If the family couldn’t keep the properties and the possessions, at least they would probably all get a substantial amount of money. I doubted Grandma was a billionaire, but she had to have a few millions stashed away to have afforded all this, unless she had literally spent it all on the property and possessions, and somehow I doubted that.

That part wasn’t my concern. I wasn’t the executor of Grandma’s will or the accountant tracking down how much she had had in liquid assets and investments when she died. She had specifically named me as the one to assess her properties and possessions, and dispose of them in whatever way I thought was best for the family. Since my job was estate sales, we’d all assumed that meant she wanted me to run the estate sale and manage the sales of the properties.

Thoughts occurred to me as I worked, plans that would allow me to avoid breaking the properties up. The O Street Museum has a very similar deal going on, and they’re a museum and hotel, taking ticket fees to see the place and significantly larger fees to stay overnight. But they were also in DC, in an area of town where there were other attractions as well. Our home was in a city where most of the things tourists came to see were nowhere near us. Plus, I didn’t want to risk them suing us.

What if we made it some kind of shelter? Homeless teenagers, maybe? Mentally ill people who needed to get back on their feet after leaving a hospital?... no. I didn’t expect that people who generally hadn’t been treated with basic human respect would respect the property, and all of Grandma’s charity had been for her family members.

There simply weren’t that many applications in the world for seven townhomes linked together. I could sell it to some incredibly wealthy person, whole, but most incredibly wealthy people were assholes and it still didn’t solve the problem. I didn’t just want to keep the houses together. I wanted the family to continue to have access. I wanted this place to be what it had always been, and I kept running into the same incontrovertible problem. Grandma was dead. This place could never again be what it had always been.

***

My thoughts were dark when I went back to the mansion, and it was hard for me to work. I don’t do a lot of mansions this size, or have to catalogue quite this many knick-knacks and little things, so I was burning out from just the workload. But if this hadn’t been my family, I wouldn’t be pushing myself so hard. And if this hadn’t been my family, it wouldn’t be haunting me this badly.

There was no way I could get through the library on 33. I had to skip it and do it last; cataloguing so many books could take a day or two all by itself, and I feared I might end up losing time to trying to read them. There wasn’t much else on the first floor – the coat check, which was of course empty aside from a desk, a number of cubbies and a portable closet rod with hangers on it, and the room where the outdoor equipment was stored. Badminton sets, frisbees, sleds, a tire swing that I didn’t even remember ever having been up.

I started to head upstairs, and then I sat down on the stairs and cried.  

“Grandma, what were you expecting me to do?” I said to the empty house. “What did you want me to do?”

The will hadn’t just said that I should do the estate sale. It said, specifically, that I should be the one to dispose of Grandma’s properties and possessions “in whatever way she thinks would be best for the family.” Uncle Paul, the executor of Grandma’s will, had assumed that meant she expected me to do an estate sale. It was my profession, after all. But then why had she said “whatever way” I thought best? Why make it ambiguous? What had she thought I should do, or what did she think I would do?

What alternative was there to just selling everything to strangers?

I got up, slowly, and continued upstairs to catalog the rooms.

It was tiring. Every room I entered had memories. I hadn’t stayed in all of them, but I’d been in them all at one point or another. Nearly everything I touched reminded me of something, and I wanted to pack it all away in boxes and put it in my storage unit.

What would any of this mean to strangers?

What would it mean to us that we’d never see it again?

Oh, many of the things would probably go to individual family members. Anyone who had a particular sentimental attachment to something would probably get it, unless there was a conflict. But never again would there be one place that had it all. Never again would there be one place the family could all come together…

…why not?

For the first time it occurred to me. What if there was a family trust, set up to manage the estate, with a board drawn from different generations and branches of the family?

If we didn’t sell anything, we wouldn’t make enough money to maintain the place. Grandma had never had hired help. The people who kept the house clean and in good repair were family members, repaying loans she’d given them, usually young people with more time than money. I’d never been in that position but several of my cousins had. It wasn’t something we thought of as bad or demeaning. If Grandma gave you money, to pay off your student loans or put a down payment on a house or help you buy a car, and you didn’t have the money to pay her back, you helped her out in return. We wouldn’t necessarily be able to do that on an ongoing basis. I didn’t know what access Uncle Paul would approve for the family trust to use Grandma’s money.

But AirBnB was a thing. We couldn’t be a hotel, there would be zoning issues, and permit requirements, and possibly renovations required in places… but we could absolutely rent out rooms via AirBnB when the family wasn’t using them. Or other such services, I knew there were some more traditional “rent your house out to vacationers” services in more touristy locations, and there might be something like that in this city. Also, Grandma’s parking lot counted as one of her properties, and we could absolutely continue to rent out parking spaces.

What if the Long Mansion remained family property? Where any of the objects here could be given away to family members who really wanted them, but most of them would remain here as décor? Where any family member who needed a place to stay could come, anytime, and we had scheduled events – like Thanksgiving, Christmas, the summer stay for the kids… And anytime the whole family wasn’t here, the rooms could be let out, via AirBnB or one of the services that did that kind of thing. And the proceeds would go to the upkeep of the house, and if there was any profit, it would be used to give out loans to family members, like Grandma used to.

There was no one matriarch – or patriarch – to step into Grandma’s shoes. But we could have a board. We could have elders who everyone respected, and representatives of all age groups. Including the children. I could see reserving a spot on the board for a teenager, and maybe even a ten year old.

I needed to talk to Uncle Paul.

***

 Uncle Paul listened to me go on about my idea for some time, without saying anything. I was beginning to feel distinctly nervous about the whole thing, when he finally spoke. “Grandma thought you might come up with a suggestion like that,” he said.

“Wait. Grandma thought this was what I would do?”

“She mentioned a number of potential things she thought you might do, and she left you letters in case of each of them. I’ll email you the one for this idea.”

“Well, but, what do you think? You’re part of the family!”

“I’d be happy to serve on your board, if that’s what you want,” he said, which didn’t exactly answer my question, but it wasn’t much of a surprise to me. Whether because he was a lawyer or he was just that kind of person, Uncle Paul rarely gave a straightforward answer about what he thought.

“So you think it’s a good idea?” I persisted.

“I think it has some merit.” I knew that was the best I was going to get out of him. And I wanted to know what Grandma had thought. If she’d guessed this was something I might do, had she thought it was a good idea? Had she wanted me to proceed with it?

What if she hadn’t? What if she’d wanted me to go with the other plan, and sell everything, and divide the money amongst the family? Would I still do it?

I realized… yes. Yes, I would. Because if Grandma was dead, what she wanted no longer mattered. She wasn’t here. Whatever I did had to be for the sake of the living. And I felt sure that this was what the living needed. It was certainly what I needed. I couldn’t be the only one.

“Well, thanks,” I said. “I’ll be waiting to see what Grandma said. Are you snail mailing it?” I couldn’t imagine Grandma writing an email.

“It’s a scanned copy of a paper letter. I have the original in my office, here. I’ll email you the scan.”

***

Grandma’s handwriting looked like the kind of fancy cursive people had used in the 19th century. It was hard to read, but I sized up the scan as far as I could on my laptop monitor while still keeping the whole width of the page on screen, because I really hated bottom scrollbars.

“Dear Tara,

“If you are reading this, you’ve told your Uncle Paul that you are planning on keeping everything together for the sake of the family. Perhaps some kind of family trust, or perhaps you are giving it all to Paul or another to hold in my place. I hope you haven’t decided to try to keep it for yourself. I believe you’re more sensible than that.

“I set letters aside for different contingencies, but this is the one I thought you would most likely follow. You are too much like me. The old blood runs strong in you. I thought when I saw your apartment that I might be wrong—” wait, when had Grandma seen my apartment? I’d never seen Grandma leave her house – “but then you mentioned to me that everything you had owned in childhood and your younger adult years was in storage, and I knew what you were.” I remembered that. I’d been trying to feel Grandma out for whether I could store things in her attic or not. She’d told me that there was nothing in the attic but that I couldn’t store things there because there were bats and squirrels and the roof leaked.

For the first time, I wondered if that was actually true.

“My recommendation would be that you set up a family trust, but if you intend to hand it over to some member of the family to hold it for the rest, I do recommend Paul; he is impeccable. I chose him to execute this will for a reason, after all. And the others respect him. He’s old, though, and I don’t know how much of the old blood runs in him or how long he will live. A family trust is a better idea.” I felt bands around my chest untighten, and tears prick my eyes again. Grandma had the same idea I did. She believed my idea was a good one.

“Now, before you do anything else, go up to the attic. The way is sealed in every house but 35. In 35, go to the top floor, to the Fire room.” 35 was laid out slightly differently than the others; there were four rooms on the top floor, Earth, Wind, Water and Fire, all of them slightly smaller than the bedrooms on the other floors and in the other houses. Fire had a wooden stove. I’d stayed there several times, basking in it. “At the back of the closet there is a panel. Pull it aside and you will see a spiral staircase. From that you can reach all the attics. There’s more information waiting for you there.

Love, Grandma.”

So there was something hidden in the attic that she hadn’t wanted anyone to see. She must have told me about the bats and the squirrels so I wouldn’t think the attic was a safe place to put anything, and therefore wouldn’t ask how to get to it, or what was in it.

***

I did what she told me. It was a very clever trick. Making the rooms smaller and distorting the shape of the Fire room with the wood stove had hidden the fact that there was a narrow vertical passage, large enough for a human who was of medium or smaller size, unaccounted for in the floor plan. I suspected if I’d actually looked at the floor plan, the space would have been labeled as part of the chimney, or insulation, or something.

The spiral staircase went up to a trap door that rose. I pushed it open and went up and through.

The attic had no walls between the houses. There was a wall at the side of 35, which was actually the end of the block and the last house on the street, so of course there was a wall, and there was a wall I could barely make out in the dimness, all the way at the end of 23, but between the seven houses there was nothing but open space. At its highest it was only about five feet tall, so I had to bend over slightly to stand.

It was crammed full.

I don’t know how the floors didn’t cave in. She had literal chests full of gold and jewels up here. Big cedar hope chests stacked on top of each other. Instead of fiberglass insulation, there were piles and piles of blankets, and roughspun sacks that looked like they might have clothes or other cloth, pushed up against the eaves. There were china cabinets full of fragile things, packed in behind plastic milk crates full of books to the point where I could barely make out the china cabinet or what was behind its glass doors. There were narrow, very narrow, winding passageways between the stacks of things, so a slender person could get to everything, with difficulty and maybe some scraping against their arms.

At a wild guess, this would easily add several million to the total. So many of these things were old. Grandma didn’t have a lot of very old antiques downstairs; most of everything she had down there dated from 1920 or later. Some of this stuff might be over 200 years old. Plus, I couldn’t even begin to assess the chests of jewelry just from seeing the tops of them, and I didn’t know how many other enclosed chests there might be with gold and jewels in them.

There was a manila envelope hanging in a transparent plastic pouch, which was attached to a nail in the nearest support beam by a chain and a grommet, directly in front of a full-length antique mirror that wouldn’t have been out of place in an evil queen’s boudoir, telling her to kill Snow White. I went over there and removed the manila envelope, and opened it.

“Dearest Tara, the grandchild who carries the old blood more strongly than any I have seen so far, what is here in the attic is for you. Your legacy. I have taken all that I can carry already. It breaks my heart to part with it; I can yield it up only because I know you will care for it as I have.

“I am not dead. You may see me again, depending, but none of the rest of the family will, and that too breaks my heart. But a person in the United States cannot hold an identity over a century, and it is too hard to establish the new ones. I have spent twenty-seven years growing my new identity, because when I saw how you behaved toward your possessions, and toward your family, I hoped you would be what I believe you are, and everything I have seen of you since reinforces that belief. Except for that apartment. I don’t know how you bear to live in it. I know that you have had to move several times, and that you are often inviting girlfriends to live with you who then leave you, so I believe you are storing your possessions where you think they will be safer than your apartment, and perhaps also following the modern fashion because you believe that being what you truly want to be will frighten women away. Perhaps it will. It was more acceptable when I was young.

“I have spoken of the old blood more than once, and I am sure you don’t yet know what I’m talking about. Our kind surround ourselves with what we own. We are greedy, and yield nothing unless we must, for everything is precious to us. We live a very, very long time… and with the coming of electronic measures to verify identity, it becomes harder and harder to hide among humans. Perhaps by the time you need to do that, we won’t need to hide anymore, or perhaps we will have a better solution.

“Your father is descended from the old blood as well, so I thought you might be the one. We are rare. Most of my grandchildren have only my own blood, and your parents had only you, so you were my best hope. I am pleased to see you have shown all the signs. Even if you are just human, you have the correct attitude, and I am sure that if you age and end like a human, you will carefully arrange for the things I own and the things you own to be returned to the family.

“Things are not as important as family. You know this. Things are precious because they remind us of the things that are most precious. Family, and memories of family. The people you love, and the memories of those you love. There are humans who treat family as disposable, who can be cruel and write family out of their heart for not being what the humans want them to be. There are other humans who treat family as nothing but possessions, and those humans will lose those family, because people are never merely possessions. I lost family that way, in the past, by treating my family like things to own, not like people. In this era, and with the example I have tried to make from the lessons I have learned, I believe you will never have that problem.

“I know you do not intend to continue the bloodline. I know that someday, in the far future, you may change your mind, but if you do not, the family I created will be all the more precious to you. I know you have always treated the cousins of your own age as brothers and sisters, the cousins of the younger age as nieces and nephews, perhaps even your own children. They are the most precious thing you have. You may add a person you love, in the future, perhaps several. That only adds to the precious things you have. No person you love should ever try to separate you from what you already hold precious.

“I have been alive a very long time. I have held to precious things, as memories of who has not passed the years along with me. I cannot take any of them with me now, so care for them for me. You may sell any coins, precious stones, stamps, or pure gold or silver; those things no longer matter to me. They carry no memories, they only allow me to care for my things and my family. They are yours to use if you need money. Everything else, I beg you to hold to. Someday, I hope, I will be able to talk to you and tell you of the memories everything here holds.”

I put down the letter and looked around. Everything here had memories? This looked as if possibly twice, maybe even three times as many things were in here as were downstairs. How old was Grandma?

The letter went on. “You will find it hard to believe when I tell you of the old blood. Humans call us dragons. You imagine a monstrous beast with scales. We can be that, though in most of us, the blood has thinned enough that such a transformation is nearly impossible. We can breed with humans, and we look human, but we live far, far longer. I am five hundred years old and I am not old, though my human form seems so. It’s because I surrounded myself with grandchildren, and they saw me as old. Where I am now, in my new life, I appear young. You would barely recognize me, Tara.

“The same may happen to you someday. I think there is enough of the old blood in you that you will live a long, long time.

“I will try to come to you, sometime in the future, when your blood has proven itself, or not. Until then, I hope you understand. I am rebuilding a new life. Before long I will have a new family. I grieve the loss of the one I must leave behind, and hope that someday we will no longer need to hide what we are, and I will be able to rejoin you.

“Love forever, Grandma.”

I stared at the letter in disbelief. Dragons? Was this some kind of a joke? I actually didn’t find it hard to believe Grandma was immortal, or incredibly long-lived, when I was surrounded by so many antiquities, and with the evidence of three different legal identities I’d found in her purse as a child. But seriously, dragons?

I looked into the mirror. Grandma saw something in me I’d never seen in myself. Was it seriously evidence of dragon blood?

She’d said the transformation was “nearly impossible” for most of the ones she claimed had the “old blood.” Without any serious belief that anything would happen, I thought, as I stared into the mirror, What if I looked like a dragon?

And then stared, and stared harder.

My eyes were gold, without irises, and slitted. Like a cat. Or a reptile. Or a dragon.

Eventually they turned back to my normal brown, within an eyeblink.

I laboriously climbed back down the stairs. Setting up the family trust would take time, and persuasion, and probably arguments. I was going to let Uncle Paul know that the letter said Grandma agreed with me – I wasn’t going to say anything about the dragon thing, though. She hadn’t mentioned that in the letter she’d given him to scan and mail to me, only the one I found in the attic. I’d tell him I’d found a few antiques in the attic to add to the list.

My hands were itching to get back up there, to start going through everything there, cataloguing it, deciding what could be brought downstairs to be shared with the family, what could be sold to support the trust, what I wanted to keep hidden away until I saw Grandma again. But first things first. The family was the most important thing.