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333sth · 3 years ago

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dove. (frankie morales)

chapter i. previous.

pairing: frankie morales x ofc (’dove’) no use of y/n.

warnings: mention of ptsd/military service, language, violence, brief mention of torture/kidnapping, injury detail, fighting.

summary: frankie was going to propose, until dove found the ring and ghosted. even santi can’t track her down.

rating: mature. wc: 1.6k

Dove was a nickname coined by an old general during her training. He was a traditional man, though not disrespectful. It was a term of endearment that probably softened the influx of powerful women breaching into the male territory. He’d drawled, ‘I ought to call you Dove – I ain’t never seen a girl so swift, yet so fuckin’ lethal.’ She kept the boys in line too, he’d noted. When Benny got too reckless, or Tom’s temper ran away with him, she was the first to snap them out of it. In environments where peace was a very distant concept, she played the peacekeeper.

One time, during a two-month deployment in Nigeria, the group was shoved in the back of an ancient pick-up truck for six hours. Dove was wedged between Will and Frankie, sweltering in the humid air. The stale smell of sweat mixed with blood and diesel was permeating the air, and they were three hours from the nearest checkpoint. To pass the time, she asked them what they’d do if they weren’t special forces.

That was easy for Will – he’d be a teacher of some kind. Benny waffled about sports, making some brash comment about how he’s got to channel all his aggression somewhere. Tom and Santi couldn’t come up with anything that suited them more than the forces, which was not surprising. Frankie would still be a pilot somehow. Dove had never seen him more comfortable than in the pilot’s chair.

Dove dreamed of owning her own bar or café, somewhere relaxed and laid-back. A beach perhaps, somewhere quaint and peaceful, where the air is warm well into the late evening and the waves are gentle, collapsing onto the sand like white noise. She imagined the hum of conversation meeting tinkling music, beach lanterns dotted around the decking to cast an ambient glow beneath the stars. Maybe a chef on weekends could make bar snacks. Tom had snorted at that, throwing a jab about how she can burn the water they use to make their dried food sachets.

The men had recalled this conversation, desperately trying to fathom where Dove might have taken off to. It was met with an aching nostalgia for the type of teammate she was too. That conversation had been a tactic, a peaceful one, to prevent the terrible concoction of adrenaline, exhaustion and heat forming an argument in that truck. She was a natural tactician as well as a good friend.

Frankie had recounted each country they had been stationed and exactly how Dove had felt about them. She had loved Argentina, even when she got shot and Will spent three hours with his finger crammed in the wound to stop the bleeding. But she also liked Jamaica, Brazil and Hawaii. None of their contacts in the forces had any trace of her, not even Santi’s in South America. Her family were none the wiser – they brushed it off, her dad mumbling something about it sounding like her usual antics.

All he had was a scribbled note that read, ‘I need space. I’m safe. I love you.’ It was folded neatly in his wallet, like he was carrying the last piece of her that he had.

Mexico. That was where she was. A small town on the West coast that had enough life to keep her occupied, and the guarantee of anonymity.

If people asked, she was a retired nurse, which wasn’t entirely untrue. She told them she spent a lot of her career in humanitarian aid, to explain the occasional jitters on a rowdy Friday night and the nasty scars. There was a particularly gruesome one leading from the base of her throat up to her bottom lip from a knife fight. She told them it was shrapnel, flung from a collapsing building, and she was lucky it didn’t catch her jugular. The locals had gasped in awe at her heroism. She’d flinched against the memory of how her own knife buried into her attacker’s throat instead.

A few days into her move, Dove had found what could only be considered a derelict shed on the beachfront. It was probably the remains of an old boathouse. With some help from the locals, she had restored the ageing planks of wood. What was spare formed the bar and some rustic furniture. She pieced together a jumble of second-hand bar stools, chairs and lanterns that made for an eclectic combination. It had character and history in its walls, rather than some swanky, expensive build devoid of any personality. It was exactly what she had dreamed of, huddled in hypothermic temperatures or insomniac in her cot at base, sleep beyond her reach.

It didn’t change the fact that every time she entered her bedroom, the old polaroid of Frankie pinned to the wall hits her like a ton of bricks. Frankie knows she took it – it was pinned to the fridge at their home before she left. It’s quintessential Frankie, sat with his arms folded to his chest, biceps straining slightly against an old denim shirt that was getting a little too snug post-retirement. It was at a barbecue, his skin tanned and flushed from a day in the sun drinking, tousled hair peeking out from the sides of a dog-eared cap. Every time Dove glances at it, she wonders if he still has that hat.

‘Of course he has,’ the voice in her head snaps back. Any piece of clothing she’d suggest replacing would be countered with, ‘over my dead body’. The man was sentimental, a little too attached to his home comforts. She’d also bought it him in a seedy gift shop in the middle of nowhere as a joke.

“To add some variety,” she’d said. He would never let it go now.

Once, Veronica had eyed the photograph on her mirror and asked, “Who is he then? An ex?”

Veronica, or Roni for short, had lived in the town her whole life until university. When she graduated and moved home to save money, she needed a job. Dove needed a friend, so she took her on as a bartender. She was young and giddy, but harmless. More importantly, she was too self-absorbed to notice or even care that her thirty-something year old boss had bullet holes in her back.

“Something like that.” Dove had replied, rifling through her sorry excuse for a makeup bag. She’d closed the bar early to have a rare night off in the next town over, which had considerably livelier nightlife.

“You never talk about relationships. Or men.’ Roni observed, peering over Dove’s shoulder to eye another photograph. It was a group picture of the boys, huddled in the same fraying booth in their favourite bar back in Florida. “Looks like you were spoilt for choice.”

Dove scoffed, meeting her friend’s twinkling gaze in the mirror. “Shut your mouth. They were friends from work.”

“Were? Does that mean you can’t set me up now?”

“They’re almost twice your age. You’d tire ‘em out.” Dove set down the lip-gloss she dragged out for special occasions. “Come on, I’m not getting any younger either. It’s already passed my bedtime.”

Thankfully, that was enough to amuse the younger girl into linking her arm and hauling her out the door to the taxi, no more questions asked.

The hollering of spectators and thudding of skin slapping against the mat was reduced to a distant buzzing in Frankie’s ears. It was dimmed by the incessant ramblings of Santiago and Tom, discussing the files Santi had put together on Lorea. He could feel the reawakening of his rusty military senses as he follows the familiar tactics, mentally registering his agreement or noting what he might do differently. He doesn’t vocalise it though, because he hasn’t even agreed yet. Joining the debate would inadvertently signal his agreement. He didn’t want that.

There was a shadow lingering in the space on the bench beside him. It was an empty presence, not Will, who was hooked on the cage of the ring yelling encouragement to his brother. Not Benny, thumping his leather gloves together with his teeth pulled harshly over his mouthguard, judging his competitor with a predatory glint in his eye.

The opponent was a monster, but he lumbered like his limbs were filled with lead. Frankie notes that Benny, nimble and tall, will have a breeze tiring him out. Dove would have joked that it wasn’t worth coming, that they’ll be sat here until their asses are numb watching Benny play cat and mouse. His chest twinges. Sometimes it’s too easy to remember what she’d do, what she’d say. He wished he knew what she’d make of Santiago’s proposition. She always saw through Pope’s glamourisation and Tom’s greed.

What Frankie misses while he observes his pitiful surroundings is Tom and Santi descending into a hushed conversation. Tom nudges Santi, “You got anything on Dove?”

Santi sighs, long and solemn, “Maybe.” As Tom’s face quirks in interest, he holds up his finger, “It’s just a hunch.”

“A hunch is better than what we’ve had in the last year.”

Santi takes a sip of his beer, casting a glance at Fish, whose eyes are trained on the floor and the swirling contents of his cup. He knows him well enough to know his thoughts are the only thing that have his attention.

“I worry about him. We all do.” Tom whispers. “Getting busted just made things worse.”

“Don’t get his hopes up, man. It’s nothing solid. It’ll crush him if I’m wrong.” Tom nods solemnly before Santi continues, “A friend of mine saw an ex-Delta in a bar, a woman. He knew ‘cause of a tattoo she had on the nape of her neck.”

Tom’s eyes widen. In front of them, Benny lands a sickening punch on his opponent’s nose, complimented by an audible crack. He’s barely breaking a sweat, dancing around as the guy heaves and stumbles forward.

Santi’s gaze doesn’t break from the ring. “Mexico. I think she’s in Mexico.”

#Frankie Morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier imagine #frankie morales imagine #triple frontier fic #francisco morales #Triple Frontier #frankie catfish morales #Frankie morales fic #Frankie Morales x OFC #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #benny miller #will miller #Santiago Garcia #santiago pope garcia #ben miller #dove fic

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876renee · 4 years ago

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Jamaica Diaspora

09/11

I had a gentleman call the office today looking for my father.

My father for many years has built a solid relationship within the community. By community I mean those in South London and the Jamaican diaspora. This gentleman was of the diaspora. Based in the West Midlands and calling my father for his help!!! That's the confidence and trust I would like to invoke in everyone I deal with. Anyway, this gentleman, let's call him G for simplification, wanted to get architectural drawings for a property he had purchased in Jamaica. Simple enough you may say.

The problems are:

He does not have the Title [Title is documented evidence as to who owns the property] as of yet

There were multiple plots, but it seemed to not have been split at NLA [National Land Agency] level and the Vendor's [Vendor is the person selling the property] daughter [the Vendor was deceased] was paying for all the plots

His Attorney was dragging her feet

The architect required proof of ownership and proof of tax payments

I assured G that he could speak to me as I handle all things Jamaica now [bar mortgages].

I then said that he could get a letter from his attorney stating that he had purchased the property and that the Title will be available shortly. He said he had received this, but what about the payment of tax. I suggested he approach the Vendor’s daughter to confirm that he had purchased his plot and that she was paying. He stated that he wanted to do this properly. So I suggested that he contact the NLA directly and inform them that there are multiple plots on the premises, provide them with the Attorney letter and let them split the plots on their register and provide him with the details so that he can pay directly to TAJ [Tax Administration]. As we like to be honest and ethical I stated we could do this, but it is much cheaper for him to contact them by email. He agreed as he said he'd called them before, and his credit had run out in the process without him being able to solve the problem.

People forget you can contact the NLA by email. It's cheaper.

Also you can pay your Land Tax online [TAJ].

Drummonds can help you with any Land queries you may have. However, if you need some more in-depth help like contacting the NLA/TAJ we can do this through our sister company ExpatJA. You would need a letter of authority, which we provide but you would need to sign. We would then need the volume and folio number, along with the valuation number and the full property address.

Every situation is a case by case basis, but the £260 is a flat fee. The only extras would be if we needed to send physical copies via DHL which would accrue the exact cost of postage. Depending on the circumstance you may need to have your documents certified by a Notary Public, we can recommend one to you.

If you have any Jamaican property queries, please do not hesitate to contact me. Feel free to follow me on Insta @876renee or on @drummondsproperty @expatja

#jamaicanproperty #jamaican #property

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scato006-blog · 5 years ago

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Searching for a title and feedback.

New to this, would appreciate any feedback.

My mother’s hand squeezes around my infantile one, small, petite, and plump even for a 12-year-old. I feel the cold, hard shaft of the metal handle, the gun weighty in my hand. My mother’s breath, laced with Bacardi rum and stale Marlboro lights, coaches me to squeeze harder, my tiny fingertips biting under the pressure and turning light purple at the tips from being held so forcefully.

“You have to hold it like you mean it, steady.” She coaches.

“I don’t want to,” I whine, almost silently.

The wind kept biting my plump cheeks, and I felt my legs, bare in the November air, tingling and pocking with cold bumps.

This has become a routine, my mother getting intoxicated or high, and taking a sudden interest in her children and choosing the worst time to suddenly teach us some life skills. My brother, with his autism, is too heady a project to undertake. So, it is me, who at 11 pm is hauled from my kitten covered sheets and dragged outside for an impromptu lesson on protecting myself, undoubtably due to some loosely based on a true story Lifetime network film where a girl, most likely Tori Spelling, is victimized.

Thankfully, she loses interest surprisingly fast this time, and when she loosens her grip on my hand, I am able to wrestle past her, knocking her to one knee as she curses and I bolt back into my bed and lock the door. She staggers in and pounds for several moments, calling me names, before I hear her door shut and know she has passed out.

My mother hasn’t been quite right since my father died. I see her leaving often to doctors’ offices, complaining of ailments ranging from pains to depression and anxiety disorders. Her pills litter the tops of our 80’s style maroon kitchen counters; every consistency you can imagine from syringes to tiny multicolored capsules. In the mornings, we see her guzzling down the liquid medications, never using the tiny, clear ridged top that is supposed to serve as a barbie sized measuring cup. Instead, she uses that as a pseudo lid when she gets too inebriated to remember where she put the child proof cap the pharmacist carefully clicks into place. Her arms are littered with pock marks from needles. Some self-inflicted and some from all the blood draws ordered by her physicians. She has become obsessed with this idea of teaching us how to protect ourselves since my father passed. Which later I will realize is terribly contradictory, since the basis of most our inflictions come from her blatant negligence.

It isn’t until I start having sleepovers with girls outside my neighborhood that I will realize this isn’t a normal occurrence. I spend time with girls whose parents bake them cinnamon buns in the morning slathered with extra crystalline icing, whose mothers collect little figurines cased in glass cabinets without fingertips smeared on them and father figures who go off to work, kissing cheeks instead of backhanding them like the other dads in my neighborhood would do. It’s a foreign world to me, and oddly, it makes me surprisingly uncomfortable to be in such a serene environment. Almost mundane as wild as that may seem to some. Beige. I always notice this common color scheme in these safety net homes, everything was always varying shades of beige from the carpets to the placemats to the sheets. Beige everywhere.

In the morning, it’s as if nothing has happened, as she bustles around the kitchen getting my brother’s routine down to match the Velcro pictured descriptions that are supposed to help with his over stimulation. I can tell there is something tangible and tense in the air, the blatant ostracizing of me from our tiny family unit. I will learn later that it is due to embarrassment over her own actions, but in the moment from my young perspective, I have somehow failed her.

I gather my things, my teal Jansport backpack smeared with pen marks and patches, and dig in the back cabinet, shoving expired bags of chips and soup out of the way to find a long lost granola bar and walk out the door, pausing before turning the silver knob to look back slightly out of my peripheral at my mother to see if she pauses at the sound of me leaving. She doesn’t.

The bus stop holds a sense of comfort for me, knowing that I will be headed to the one safe institution I have in my young life, school. There are rules, teachers, consistency, and scheduled mealtimes. I know what is coming and when. I know what is expected of me and it isn’t laced with alcohol and substances, or parties in my home with strange men who grab in places they shouldn’t and burn your arms with their cigarettes when you try to yell in protest for someone who is too inebriated to come to your rescue.

Teacher’s take special interest in me, I must exude some sense of chaos at home, my behavior is mildly disruptive with chattering to my fellow neighboring classmates, often causing my desk to be moved adjacent to the teachers to curve my “social butterfly” antics.

Years later, I will run into my favorite English teacher, Ms. Mueller, and she will subtly hint at the signs of abuse she saw from my rumpled clothes to my bruised arms and vacant expression from exhaustion. She will tell me of a time she went to my mother’s store, at the height of our home tsunami during my high school years, and the words heatedly exchanged between them. From that point on, in school, before I have this knowledge, I will choose to spend an hour every day after school with her and be exposed to various forms of literature. She will bring books with her and give me deadlines throughout the year, hoping to keep me driven and expand this world I escape to through books.

Oddly enough, my thirst for books came from the very person I was trying to escape.

In fifth grade I had a teacher I absolutely loathed. It was truly, the first person I had a deep hatred and resentment for. I remember the feelings of rage and a craving for the demolition of our high-ceilinged classroom. Ms. Symzick was a small, petite woman who would prance around her classroom in various shades of loud pinks and magenta, shouting in her irritatingly shrill, chalkboard scraping screeching voice. She had a serious inclination to class favorites, and those favorites tended to be the children of affluent parents she co-vacationed with in the Bahamas and Jamaica, frequently referencing scuba diving explorations and inside jokes she had created with the kids poolside while they showed off their attempts at underwater hand stands. She accused my indifferent attitude towards her and my inability to pay attention to her reading “out loud” to the class on comprehension issues. My mother responded, in typical Tammy fashion, and greeted me that afternoon with a stack of VC Andrews books. Her philosophy was that I needed something to read that could hold my attention in a mildly traumatizing way. Make the book risqué enough for me to care, and it would cure my non attentive approach to active listening. It certainly worked.

While my classmates were reading books about bridges crossing into Terabithia to conquer exciting pretend lands, I was obsessed with mentally trying to connect the incest family trees of wealthy families stuck in attics, toiling away pasting together paper flowers to create gardens. I craved reading about these fucked up families, and was elated to find that not only where the books thick with small font which meant they lasted longer than my classmates small flirtations with literature, but they also were in series so I could follow these families for generations. I would blow through a book a day if it was the weekend, absorbing finally, every comma and black small printed letter flowing into my mind through an osmosis of obsessive reading.

I sit next to Holly and hold her hand under our jackets in solidarity. Holly has the same house as I do, which is baffling and comforting for my young mind. Her brothers shout and throw things in their drunken rages, blaming their parents for their adult failures and losses of custody over children. Her father sits on the couch, sleeps on the couch, drinks on the couch, argues from the couch, he exists on the couch, never intervening. When he would winded from yelling, he would clutch a small, metal vile necklace he always wore. I would learn later it contained a single pill that would melt under his tongue because he was prone to panic attacks from his time in the military.

Holly will sneak into my room, late in the night, when things get bad and she climbs into my bed, cold hands and feet pressed against my calves for warmth. She rustles under my sheets and presses her perfect little bud lips against my cheek and snuggles into my neck and falls asleep fast, just as our thermostat registers the drop in temperature from the window being pried open for her to come in and the furnace clicks on, as always, I fling my leg out from under the blankets, so as to not wake Holly and soak in some cool air as her body heat radiates against my own. I love her and want to protect her, as she is the only one who has ever expressed a kindred likeliness to what I experience behind closed doors. She protects me as well, when my mother opens the door slightly to see if I am awake or when she is under the influence ready for another “life lesson,” she will always close the door and slither away when she sees Holly’s body next to mine.

Holly knew about these moments, in the dead of night when my mother would make her way into the room. She was the one who saw the handprint makes in shades of black and blue, purple then fading to yellows and lime greens. She would take my arm, and lay her hot, brown palm slowly and softly on top of the blue and purple marks so gently, brushing the tops of the soft baby arm hair then would turn over, as if nothing had happened. It was the act of acknowledging, that would transition into acts of protection. She knew if she was there, those marks wouldn’t appear. Holly became an ever-present staple in my life, it was truly as if she was holding me together, fastening my frayed edges to keep them from being burned by my mother and faceless men’s lighters.

This is my day to day, and night to night. The seeking of comfort in concrete things and people outside my home and struggling to find a purpose outside of myself.

Years pass, the same abuses remain constant, even after the school nurse contacts my mother over concerns she has when she sees my bandaged fingers from a screaming hot iron. The difference is the older I get, the more I learn to fight back, slick mouthed and learning to block hands quickly with forearms. I develop the internal switch, for numbing and hardening emotions to dispel any sense of misery or hopelessness, I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable around her and show any form of pain or exaggerated anger. I treat her with complete indifference, which in her drunken, high moments causes absolute meltdowns. Her emotional levels skyrocketing due to inebriation, and my disconnect growing more profound with each outburst. I start to want more, more than these walls and house. I want to sleep peacefully, quietly, and safely. A concept I had never visualized for myself that I thought was coveted for children with two parents and yards without brown spots and littered with dog feces.

I sit, at 15, in my English class, the scared space I have carved out for myself. Ms. Mueller, walks past, having just kicked Gary out of class for shouting at her.

“Dyke gave me a F,” he rages after we are returned our midterm grades.

“Out!” Ms. Mueller declares, stunning me at how she so gracefully and passively dismisses him and his hate slurred words.

As she passes back to her desk, I feel a blue piece of paper get slid under the flesh of my forearm. I slide it under my notebook, I can tell through its delivery, she doesn’t want me to attract any attention through receiving it. She looks pointedly at me, and when the bell rings I rush out to see what it is she has slipped me.

She knows I am not happy with her today. Ms. Mueller detests Holly. There is this just under the surface acknowledgement that they don’t address one another, ever. Holly feels Ms. Mueller is trying to come between us and take time I should be spending time with her and instead am choosing to spend it reading, which is the most boring thing in Holly’s mind. Oddly enough, Holly has detention or make up tests almost every day after school, so her time wouldn’t be spent with me regardless. Holly is known to have her behavioral issues, shouting at teachers and authority figures much in the same fashion as her older brothers do to her and her parents. It is a cycle that has already began its inheritable rotation.

“She’s not good for you, you have too much inside you for that one.” Ms. Mueller had told me suddenly, interrupting me reading silently beside her while she worked on the summer reading list for the class, and my own which had easily an extra fifteen books added to it. At the time, I didn’t really understand what it was she meant.

“Too much inside me? What the hell?” I thought. I glared defiantly at the top of her head, wishing I had the nerve to reach out and rustle her short, cropped hair out of its artfully tousled with hair paste landscape just out of spite. She didn’t look up, nor acknowledge my anger filled face, and after some time I set my mouth in a taught line and kept reading. Leaving that day without saying a word when our hour was up.

I open it up and see it’s a flyer, for some summer program called Upward Bound and kids interested in colleges. I had never imagined myself being on some pristine collegiate campus. That was also reserved for the cinnamon bun kids whose parents showed up to every sporting event, cheering them on from the sidelines and pumping their fists in the air, visualizing college scouts coming with hefty scholarships and grants. Not for me, who begged for rides to and from practices, relying on my grandparents for transportation sparsely, so they wouldn’t see the state of our house. My mother would always get angry when her parents came to drop us off, always insisting on coming in to survey the

damage in the house from holes in walls to dirty dishes crawling with critters and cats licking dirty pans for burned egg pieces.

I folded the flyer in half and hastily shoved in under my stack of books on the bottom self in the locker I share with Holly. I am always the bottom shelf, to take my lacking height into consideration. She can’t see it; she will lose her mind. I know this, our codependency has blossomed into a full relationship of unhealthy proportions, two emotionally crippled humans attempting at something far too adult.

I wait, as always, for her to come meet me briefly, and she does. Angry brown eyes, jet black hair, browned skin from her native American heritage, and slanted eyebrows. I forgot she was angry with me from this morning when I pulled my hand away from hers when Kim snatched the jacket up that hid our weaved fingertips.

“Mr. Mason is such an asshole,” she huffs slamming her books in the locker, standing on her tip toes to launch them to the back where we hear them ding as they hit the metal back.

“What happened?” I ask, gauging her temperance to see where we are at. Holly drives the emotional state of our relationship; she being the more volatile of the two of us.

“He gave me detention for missing all that homework,” she huffed as she slammed the locker shut. “I just want school to be done already, I hate it.”

I watched her stalk off, wordless, now definitely wasn’t the time to broach the subject of an academic summer camp that focuses on colleges. Holly was not interested in anything remotely studious, let alone something that would separate us for an entire summer.

I watch her turn the corner of the light seafoam green colored hallways, waiting until I can be sure she is completely out of sight before slamming my elbow into the door right above the turn lock, causing it to pop open, a little trick Tommy showed me last year when he had this locker. I hop up on the toes of my sneakers and grab the flyer out from my Roman History classes textbook.

It is in that moment; I realize I don’t want to stay closeted with Holly and hide holding hands. I don’t want to stay in a home I feel constantly threatened in, showing all the scars on my skin and inside of my flesh. I don’t want to be stuck slinging burgers at the diner down the street, or as a cashier at the grocers. I don’t want to struggle against the New England seasonal depression of grey skies to salt crusted and frost heaved roads. I don’t want to be tied to this place where I feel like a hamster on a spinning wheel, never moving forward and back, just in one constant place.

The flyer announces the meeting is today, in Ms. Mueller’s classroom of course, but an hour after we usually meet. I know Holly has detention, so if there was ever a time I could go and take a glance at what this whole thing is about, it is today when she will be occupied for a definite set amount of time.

I watch the clock anxiously for the last two periods, bouncing my leg in anticipation, choosing to focus more on the seconds hand than the other two since it moves at such a faster pace. Holly isn’t in my last two classes; they are AP and she is sequestered into the more remedial ones where they mostly watch movies instead of getting lectures from young teachers who still feel they can make a difference and impact our lives.

Ms. Mueller is at the door, leaning against it with her arms crossed, her cuffs folded up at the elbow, creased slacks and pointed shiny ebony dress shoes, almost as if she was waiting for me. Now that I look back, I think she was.

“Well here she is, take a seat.” She gestures to the open door.

I look in and see every seat is filled mostly with kids from other schools and a couple familiar faces of girls I have barely exchanged two words with. I slide into a seat near the door, resolving that if I need to make a quick getaway, I will at least have an easy shot to the door. Ms. Mueller positions her chair in the doorway; it’s like she can sense what I am thinking and gives me another one of her pointed stares.

A young man with a lot of vigor and energy and radiant brilliantly white smile bounds up to the front of the room. I will learn almost immediately that his name is Craig when he finally stops bounding around and announces who he is, that he went to Bates College, and dives into a lengthy description of what Upward Bound really is. There are other individuals up there as well, all standing in a line with various colleges strewn on their tee shirts and sweatshirts: Colby-Sawyer, Keene State, UNH, Plymouth State, are some of the names I spot.

The program is a six-week summer session that focuses on preparing students for college and even offers opportunities to take college level classes that can be accredited. Six weeks on a college campus, right in my hometown, sleeping in the dorms, going to classes, they even offer sporting events and excursions to local spots for day trips. It sounded too good to be true.

I looked around the room and saw most of the kids had that same look as I did, clinging to every word. “Give me an escape, please. Tell me I won’t fall through the cracks and be left right here where I started.” Their faces all seemed to say.

Craig took the basic Q&A after his dialogue of wonderous academia enchantment and promise, everyone asking the same things I was wondering. I wouldn’t raise my hand and attract attention to myself, no way.

I saw her then, Jodie, sitting with her hand up to ask more about the sporting opportunities offered, field hockey specifically. She sat with her blonde hairspray scrunched hair, long eyelashes and friendly, wide open blue eyes. I was amazed at how drawn I was to her instantly, like she was the bright glinting Christmas tree of hope in contrast to Holly’s darkness and shadowing pessimistic outlook on life and humanity. There was also this underlying feeling emanating from her. She was wearing adidas snap pants and her field hockey jacket, I knew without knowing, I knew she had the same attraction to females as I did. When Craig answered her question to her satisfaction, Jodie thanked him, and I saw her sign the sheet to enroll and receive more information. I watched that sheet for the rest of the presentation and when we were wrapping up, Ms. Mueller caught me at the door, the sign sheet in her fingertips.

“You forgot something,” she stated, a black pen in her other hand, held out to me.

I stepped aside, opening my mouth to let out a string of excuses, all based in fear and simultaneously worried that if I failed at this camp, I would disappoint her.

“Don’t.” She held up her palm that held the pen. “Sign the paper.”

I realized in that moment; this was my chance. I was on the edge of something, a choice. I knew what I would lose, and I quickly sobered to the reality that what I stood to lose, didn’t outweigh what I had to gain.

So I made the choice, to take a chance, put the pen to that blue paper, and signed my name, choosing to take that chance, choosing something so much bigger for myself than I could have ever imagined and taking the first step to end the cycle that would have ensnared me just as it did many others. It even would claim Holly in the end, leaving her to browning pine trees, closeted and affairs in secrecy, the shame and impending alcoholism, cursing from her couch just as her father did.

#feedback writer nonfiction

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rootsooman · 6 years ago

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The Persistent Animalization of Melanid/Origin Populations Globally & Why I'm Vegan for ALL Earthlings

I challenge all majority-melanid nations regardless of origin (African or Melanesian) to create patriation zones for these people in their countries the same way Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia created Shashamane for Jamaican Rastas who were being persecuted and killed in Jamaica for their beliefs.

I challenge vegans of color to recognize, address and share the info regarding the blatant animalization by derivative-humans of isolated melanid groups who do not have the international visibility and cultural influence that Afro-Americans and Greater Africans have on the global stage.

I challenge vegans and non-vegans of African descent especially, to OBEY the great Bob Marley and unite so that we can put our outrageous population numbers to good use by being the refuge and support system of melanid humans worldwide, which includes our similarly suffering cousins the Australian indigenous people, the Jarawa and the West Papuans. The slavery in Libya is just a repeat of medieval Morocco!

This story repeats itself over and over again. For 1000 years, this animalization of origin groups (melanid/Afroitic peoples) by derivative populations has been going on and on, and all it takes is disunity and complacency to allow it.

I challenge bloggers like Kwekudee and others to step up. I challenge Chronixx, Jay Z, Femi and Seun Kuti. I challenge Lupita Nyong'o, Viola Davis, Julius Malema and Donisha Prendergast.

Derivative populations do not see any of us as human.

They. Do. Not. See. Any. Of. Us. As. Human.

This is our common denominator besides our overlapping skins, hairs, features, attributes. There is a clear reason why only groups that LOOK a certain way are treated a certain way. The capitalist-colonial power structure (both Western and Eastern) does not register our clusters of attributes as human attributes.

Ignore genetic distance. People don't see genes, they see skin. They see noses. They see hair. They see limb length. Cut the BS. Unite or perish! We do not have any military bases or organizations with the power to protect and defend our peoples, lands, oceans and animals.

We rely on others. We need to rely on and do for one another. Handouts will not fix things.

Nigeria, I challenge you. I challenge you to step up. As the most powerful economy in Africa with one of the most densely populated places in the world, please please please step up! The distant cousins of Africans are suffering on levels similar to and sometimes beyond Africans. The colonial massacres, the quashed rebellions, they happened. They stained flags. We all share this legacy.

And we will not tolerate terms like "negrito" (mini negro in Spanish)here or other colonizer terms (speciesism). Miss me with it. Serious discussion only.

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douxreviews · 6 years ago

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Manifest - ‘Contrails’ Review

"The government didn't start hiding things on the day we came back. They started on the day we disappeared."

Even paranoids can have non-imaginary enemies, and sometimes the crazy conspiracy theory is not just a theory and nowhere near crazy. Just ask Captain Bill Daly, who was the pilot of Montego Air Flight 828 when it left Jamaica on the evening of April 7, 2013.

Last week, we saw that Captain Daly was something of a mess, more so than most of the 828ers. As the pilot, the safety of the passengers was his responsibility, one he took very seriously. When the plane encountered the storm/wormhole/alien spaceship/wrath of God/whatever it was, he got them through it in one piece and landed everyone safely--only to find himself being blamed for whatever it was that kicked 828 five and a half years into the future. Add that on top of all the other stress that the "average" 828er has to deal with--finding out you were presumed dead, your loved ones remarried, and your worldly possessions were given away to Goodwill years ago, and such--and, well, if that happened to you, you'd be a mess, too.

After Cal prophecies that "the man from the plane" will need his father's help, Ben gets a call from Capt. Daly, who enlists his help. The good Captain has determined that the official government records of the crash investigation are deliberately misleading, or at best wildly inaccurate, regarding the weather conditions. The crash investigation report is dated April 8, 2013, just one day after the disappearance.

Ben subjects the inquiry record to one of his trademark analytical binges and discovers that a meteorologist named Roger Mencin, who was conducting observations of "dark lightening" near where 828 disappeared, was supposed to testify at a hearing, but backed out, and almost immediately took early retirement and moved to Massapequa. They go to visit Roger, who tells them that he was pressured into erasing his data--but saved a copy just in case. They load Roger's weather data into a 737 cockpit simulator, which gives them a pretty good replica of the storm and turbulence, but registers a crash when Daly tries to repeat the maneuver that got them through the storm. As Ben points out, the simulator probably doesn't model time travel--but Daly just gets even more frustrated at his inability to "prove" that what he did was right, and even more convinced that Fiona Clarke is behind it all.

Meanwhile, Michaela is babysitting Cal on her day off when Autumn shows up at the apartment, asking Michaela's help in locating someone she claims stole her identity and framed her. While Autumn is there, Ben calls Michaela and she asks him "Hey, how was Massapequa?"

The next day, Roger Mencin turns up dead in a suspiciously-timed boating accident. Ben and Michaela go to check up on Daly, and when going through his apartment discover that he's planning to steal an airplane and fly into a storm cell looking for more dark lightening. When they get to the airport, they find out that the airplane isn't the only thing Daly is stealing--he's kidnapped Fiona and is taking her with him!

I should mention here that while Autumn is attempting to break away from The Major's operation, her new handler is refusing to accept her resignation and putting the squeeze on her. (The new guy gives off the same weasel-y vibe as Autumn's previous contact, the late Lawrence Belson., and will therefore be designated "Weasel 2.0.") While Ben and Michaela are chasing after Captain Daly, Autumn breaks in to Michaela's apartment, takes photos of Ben's research documents, and steals a page out of Cal's sketchbook.

Though Ben and Michaela do their level best to talk him out of it, Daly goes roaring into the center of the storm, pursued by two Air National Guard F-16s. The plane is either shot down or flung forward in time, take your pick.

In reviewing the events of the day, Michaela realizes that Autumn overheard her mention Massapequa, and realizes she's the Major's mole.

And then Grace discovers that the window to Cal's bedroom is open and Cal is missing.

"828" Watch

The flight number appears on the cover of the government report. The tail number of the stolen plane is N728PH.

Also on the manifest.....

In further developments on the romantic-triangle front, Michaela, to her credit, tells Jared that it's over between them and she will not be "the other woman."

"Dark lightning" really exists. The technical term for it is "terrestrial gamma ray flash," a phenomenon first detected in 1994, and still not all that well understood. They seem to propagate in and around thunderstorms, though the exact cause is still the subject of some scientific debate. A typical "TGF" lasts from 0.2 to 3.5 milliseconds (don't blink or you'll miss it!) and kicks out up to 20 million electron volts. While "20 million volts" sounds impressive, we're talking electron volts, which are a measure of energy (and mass and momentum) in particle physics. (They have nothing to do with the volts in your 9-volt batteries and 110-volt electrical outlets, which measure electrical potential.) An electron volt is so small that you'd need 249,660,461,771,990,093,472.9 of them to power a 40-watt light bulb for one second. (That's the answer I got, anyway. Please feel free to check my math.) I imagine it would take a lot more than that to send a Boeing airliner hurtling five years into the future through the space-time continuum.

Captain Daly drives a C2 Corvette Stingray. Definitely a pilot's kind of car.

In the first scene with Ben and Daly in the Corvette, the car radio is playing "Midnight Rider" by The Allman Brothers: Well, I've got to run to keep from hidin'/And I'm bound to keep on ridin'/And I've got one more silver dollar/But I'm not gonna let 'em catch me, no, not gonna let 'em catch the midnight rider. Fitting choice for Daly's theme song, given how his story arc plays out.

This week's gold star for acting goes to Frank Deal, who played Capt. Daly. In the flashback scenes and the first act of the pilot episode, the character is snarky and supremely confident (as pilots usually are). In the "present day" scenes in this episode and the previous one, he's a broken man--but still the same individual, and still sympathetic even at the end. Honorable mention goes to Francesca Faridany, playing a terrified Fiona Clarke.

In the cockpit scenes during the storm, Daly says he's "increasing speed to 300 knots." According to Wikipedia, a 737's cruise speed is in the neighborhood of 450 knots when at altitude, so how could he be increasing to 300? He's referring to indicated airspeed, which is not the same thing as "true" airspeed. A plane's airspeed indicator measures speed by measuring the difference between static air pressure around the plane and the pressure in the pitot tube, which points directly forward. At cruising altitude, the air is thinner, and this causes the airspeed indicator to register something less than the speed the aircraft is actually travelling relative to a fixed point on the ground. That 450 knot cruising speed therefore translates to something a bit below 300 knots IAS.

Massapequa is a town of 21,685 (2010 Census) on the south shore of Long Island.

According to the co-pilot, Kelly Taylor was demanding a hypo-allergenic blanket from the flight attendants. She would do a thing like that.

I am very certain that I would not want to be Autumn Cox when Michaela catches up to her.

Quotes

Captain Daly, to his co-pilot: "I'm a cowboy. Plane's my horse, and the sky an open desert."

Captain Daly, in his debriefing: "You don't understand. There is no 'conventional maneuver' when a storm appears right on top of you. And this storm was like nothing I've ever seen."

Airport guard: "Hey, hey, Captain Future! You gonna fly through the Bermuda Triangle again?" A more prophetic statement than he realized.

Conclusion

Another good episode with a couple of annoying little details. The Major's organization seemed uncharacteristically ham-fisted: kill the meteorologist the day after he talks to Ben Stone? Way to draw attention to your secret operation that no one is supposed to know about and blow your mole's cover in the process! Shoot down a plane and kill the hostage? Not swift either, guys. Also, I thought it a little too neat that Fiona, a neuroscientist in a narrow specialty with New Age leanings, would be conversant enough with high-end particle physics to know what dark lightening was in the first place. (A quick scene of Fiona looking it up on Wikipedia would have been a nice touch.) However, the episode did an excellent job portraying Captain Daly's descent into madness in a believable fashion, and I liked how Fiona Clarke, until now the very portrait of emotional equilibrium, completely lost it as she concluded she was about to die. And the cliffhanger at the end--oh, boy!

Three out of four terrestrial gamma ray flashes.

Baby M avoids exposure to gamma rays whenever possible.

#Manifest #Ben Stone #Michaela Stone #Manifest Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

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irvinenewshq · 2 years ago

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Serbia set to considerably align itself with EU visa coverage

Serbia might find yourself cancelling extra visa free regimes with nations to additional stem migration in direction of the European Union. The Western Balkan nation had final week ended visa exemptions with Tunisia and Burundi, following threats that its personal visa-free journey to the EU can be scrapped. On Monday (24 October), its embassy to the EU mentioned that Serbia “would considerably align itself with EU visa coverage till the tip of the 12 months.” Though not explicitly acknowledged, the remark suggests others apart from Tunisia and Burundi may be on Belgrade’s chopping block. Nationalities from some 20 nations are nonetheless capable of journey to Serbia with no visa, together with Russians and Belarusians, that are themselves excluded from the EU’s visa-free system. However statistics suggests a spike within the variety of Cuban (339 vs. 36), Indian (4,469 vs. 557) and Turkish (6,186 vs. 1,652) arrivals to Serbia, posing questions on whether or not Belgrade will subsequent impose visas on them. Though the overwhelming majority of individuals utilizing the Western Balkans route to succeed in the EU stay Syrians and Afghans, the EU says it had additionally registered a major improve of irregular border crossings by nationals from Turkey, Tunisia, India and Cuba. Final 12 months, Turkey, Tunisia, India, Cuba and Burundi represented solely 2.5 p.c of irregular border crossings on the Western Balkan Route. This jumped to twenty p.c up to now this 12 months. An inside doc from the Czech EU presidency, out earlier this month, additionally says member states north of the Western Balkan area have since seen an “improve within the variety of asylum seekers by residents of nations that are visa-exempt in Serbia.” Additional afield, Belgium, as an illustration, reported an increase in Cuban and Burundian asylum seekers. The stress comes amid stories of unlawful pushbacks within the Western Balkans. A brand new report out by Border Violence Monitoring Community (BVMN), a rights watchdog, registered a rise of violence towards folks on the shared land border between Serbia and Hungary. “This month, the BVMN noticed a rise within the variety of pushbacks -and their stage of violence- perpetrated by Hungarian authorities on the Serbian-Hungarian border, which presently constitutes the busiest route within the area,” notes the report. Accidents embrace fractures, dislocations, and laceration in keeping with stories of bodily assaults utilizing boots, batons, belts, rubber bullets, and electrical shocks, it says. Von der Leyen in Balkan tour Serbia’s remark additionally comes forward of a Western Balkan go to this week by European Fee president Von der Leyen. Von der Leyen is about to go to Skopje on Wednesday, adopted by Pristina and Tirana on Thursday after which Sarajevo and Belgrade on Friday. These visits align with earlier bulletins by Von der Leyen to incorporate the Western Balkans in an EU joint gasoline procurement. Requested if Von der Leyen additionally intends to debate migration whereas in Belgrade, her chief spokesperson Eric Mamer gave a large response. “The message on the whole phrases is that the EU has solidarity with the nations with the areas,” he informed reporters, citing investments and Russia’s battle in Ukraine. “So I’m positive that there will likely be a number of subjects of debate,” he added. Serbia’s visa free checklist now consists of Armenia, Azerbaijan, Bahrain, Belarus, Bolivia, China, Cuba, Guinea Bissau, India, Indonesia, Jamaica, Kyrgyzstan, Kuwait, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, Oman, Qatar, Russia, Suriname, and Turkey. Originally published at Irvine News HQ

#Irvine News HQ

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rocklandhistoryblog · 2 years ago

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FLASHBACK FRIDAY – NEWS FROM YESTERYEAR

#FBF

September 7, 1932 – 90 YEARS AGO Excerpt from the Rockland County Journal News

PLUCKY GIRL 12, SAVES COUSIN FROM DROWNING [Image: Bathing at Rockland Lake, undated postcard. Courtesy of the Bob Knight Collection.]  Visitors at Rockland Lake on Monday were thrilled when a plucky 12-year-old girl rescued her drowning cousin in the nick of time. The boy, Arthur Scheibel, of Jamaica, L.I., became panic-stricken when he found himself beyond his depth near the slide. Those on the shore saw the lad sink, while two of his cousins Rose and Eileen Scheibel, called from the shore to their sister, Margaret, 12, who was still in the water.  The girl swam to the boy and seized his hand as he sank again, but it was only after a hard fight that she managed to drag him to shore, where he was revived. Both victim and rescuer were almost dragged under the surface several times. Margaret’s bravery and strength were soundly praised by those had watched the struggle.

Flashback Friday appears every Friday. To receive the full flashback report (formerly seen in the Rockland Review), read this week’s “News From Yesteryear” click here: https://www.rocklandhistory.org/page.cfm?page=977

To receive it in your email inbox, enter your email address at the bottom of the website's landing page, or call the HSRC office to register your email at 845-634-9629.

www.RocklandHistory.org

_____

#RocklandCountyNY #RocklandCounty #RocklandHistory #LocalHistory #NYSHistory #HudsonRiverValley #HudsonValley #LowerHudsonValley #HSRC #HistoricalSocietyofRocklandCounty #HistoricalSociety #HistoryMuseum #HistoryMatters #HistoryHappens #KnowYourHistory #HistoryLesson #SharingLocalHistory #HistoryBuffsUnite #HistoryEnthusiasts

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enthusiasticharry · 7 years ago

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the one where you call each other by your names.

masterlist

asks

When you got the message from him earlier saying come over, you didn’t actually know what would happen, but you certainly weren't expecting this.

He had just finished the first concert of his second solo tour, and everybody was making their way back to the hotel. As you was the tour photographer, you stayed directly in the action of it all, and it was last year when the professional barrier between your and harry was broken — but it wasn’t as if you didn’t want it to be broken.

It was after his first concert last year where you started the whole ‘fuck buddy’ relationship, and you both agreed on the rules. No strings. No pet names. No telling a single soul about it. At the start, you both stayed true to the rules and didn’t break them; it was about a month afterwards when you both stopped obeying them. You started hanging around with each other more and not actually having sex, he started referring to you with pet names and people started guessing that something was happening between the two of you so you had to own up and from there, you never went back. It wasn’t as though you wanted to stick to the rules, but they were there to make sure that you were safe, and that he wouldn’t get to hurt you.

As you clicked the button in the lift to take you to his level of the hotel, you could feel your palms getting sweaty and your chest started to ache at the thought of that he might actually make this into something real. The doors opened with a ding and you pulled my backpack strap tighter onto your shoulder and started to stalk down the hall towards the room number that he had messaged you.

When the number came into sight, you wiped both of your palms onto your jeans and bucked up the courage to knock on his door. You felt somewhat better when you heard his voice shout, “Coming!” from the inside.

The door swung open and your vision was clouded by the brown-haired, green-eyed boy with only his boxers on, opening the door and smiling at you. You returned the smile, yours coming out smaller and less sure as you looked down at the tent forming in his boxers. Knowing the reason he wanted you to come over, a blush automatically rushes to you cheeks and covers them, not knowing if you were ready for what was going to happen. You were scared — not because of the sex you were going to have but because you had blurred the lines between fuck buddy and being in a relationship.

“Are you going to come in, or are you just going to stand on the door step?” You turn redder, if that's even possible, and walk into his room, not turning round as you hear him shut the door. Your heart was pounding out of your chest, and you had to make sure that your legs didn’t collapse.

You place your bag on the floor and walk over to the window, looking down at the night below. People have no clue what's happening in people’s life until they get to know them; that man at the bus stop down their doesn't know what’s going to happen in this room, even you don't know what’s going to happen in this room. It scares you to think that you’re so unsure about what’s going to happen.

You hear steps coming closer and lean backwards into him once you feel his fingers graze your shoulders. He starts to rub them in circles with his thumb as his lips press into the base of your neck, the kisses repeating from the base of your neck around to the side until you feel his head rest onto your shoulder.

“What's wrong, love?” He asks, his voice coming out as a whisper close to your ear. His breath tickles your skin as he places a kiss next to your ear and hovers there. You want to let out a whine but you hold it in.

“Nothing,” Your voice still isn’t certain, but you mean it to come out as a whisper, unlike last time and you shake your head slowly.

“I’ll ask you again, Y/N. What’s wrong?” His head leaves your right shoulder and moves to the left, giving it some love with kisses and his chin.

You turn around to look at him and you see the concern laced through his eyes as you let yours meet his, “What’re we doing, H?”

“What do you mean?” He asks, wrapping his arms around you, wanting to pull you into his chest but you don’t look like you’re going to.

“What’re we doing? Why are we doing this? What's the reason? We’ve gone completely against the rules, so, what are we doing?” You say, stepping away from him and going to sit on the edge of the bed, your knees coming under your chest as you come to the end of your speech, a sigh leaving your lips.

“Maybe I’ve always wanted to break the rules…” Harry says, shrugging his shoulders as he steps closer to you, the tent in his boxers still evident as he does.

“Harry but we set those rules for a reason. I thought that's what you wanted.” You spoke, your voice coming out stronger but your emotions glassed over it, and you want to cry but you hold it in, running your hand through your hair.

“I set those rules because I thought that's what you wanted,” He spoke, sitting next to you on the bed but not close enough to touch, “I never wanted the rules, I wanted you to be mine. Ever since we met in Jamaica.”

“Harry…” You turned around to look at him, the truth clearly feeling better to be let off his chest. You want to smile but you don’t, you want to say you’re scared but you’re not.

Nobody spoke a word, you just came and sat next to him – closer – so close that your thighs were touching and it was almost like you were sat on top of him, yor were that close. You kicked off your shoes, the black trainers landing on the floor, and you felt the cold wood beneath your feet. You moved your feet slowly, your toes dancing across the wood before sitting on top of his. You attempt to slot your toes between his, as if you were trying to hold feet or something ridiculous like that, but all you could hear was the chuckle escape his lips, and you bit yours.

“Are you okay now?” He asks, and your head immediately lifts to look at his carved features, lit only by the small lamp on the bedside table.

“I’m okay,” You reply, giving him a smile to reassure his worries.

“Can I kiss you, then?” He asks, and all you can do is nod your head. No words come out of your mouth or even attempt to come out but your actions convince him that you want this, and that's all he needs.

You both have only ever wanted this.

You slowly turn so that you're straddled across his lap and he places his hands on either side of your cheeks, rubbing them slowly with his thumb before he starts to kiss anywhere but where you want him to – on your lips, on your body...

You tilt your head to initiate the kiss and he finally realizes what your want, you want his lips on yours, you want to feel the heat radiate off them and just to feel you both slot together like puzzle pieces again.

When your lips finally do slot together, everything you wished for becomes a reality and all your worries and concerns leave as you both throw yourself into this kiss, Harry’s hands coming up to rest on yout ass as you lean up to kiss him from higher up. His hands then rake up yout back, pulling your chunky jumper off in the process, “Let's get this off, love, yeah?”

You nod my head and let him pull it off, your white lace bra being revealed underneath, causing a grunt to leave his lips. He kisses you once more before picking you up and placing you on the bed.

His hands come from underneath you and start to unfasten your jeans before pulling them off, and you watch him biting his bottom lip at the sight of your matching panties. He leans down to kiss you again before trailing pepper kisses down your neck and collarbone, sucking in different places to leave purple marks. As he reaches the top of your bra, his hands run softly down your back towards the strap that he unfastens before throwing the material across the room somewhere. His attention is then thrown back to you where he starts to suck and bite on the skin above your nipple before then wrapping his lips around it and starting to suck and nibble at it. He then moves his lips across to your other one, giving it some attention as well.

“Harry…” You draw out, it coming out as a whine instead of a clear sound, causing him to smirk at the pleasure he causes you.

“What do you want me to do, baby?” He asks, looking up from tailing kisses down your stomach, your teeth clamping down on your bottom lip.

“Just do anything,” You whine, running your hands through his curly brown hair, and pushing his head down towards your throbbing core.

“OK, darling, I guess I’ll go down there then,” He says, chuckling a bit before grabbing your panties with his teeth and pulling them down before grabbing them and throwing them across the room. You've never seen something so hot before in my life.

His face then hovers over your cunt, his hot breath sending vibrations through your body. All it takes is one kitten lick and you're jelly in his arms, but as his licks quicken in pace, you're set into a moaning mess. He then inserts his fingers into you, flicking your clit as he pumps them in and out, your back raising off of the bed as he does it as moans leaves through the gap in her open lips.

It takes you a couple of minuets to register what's happening before you're pushing him away and reassuring him that he’s done nothing wrong. He looks worried but you change it when you pull him up.

“I just want you inside of me,” You say and he nods, hovering over your body and placing a hard kiss to your open lips. He pulls his boxers off and looks at you hesitantly before lining himself up with your entrance.

He looks at you deeply in the eyes before opening his mouth to say, “Call me by your name, and I’ll call you by mine.”

A blush rises up to your cheeks but all you can do is smile at him, and at the way he is making you vulnerable to one an other.

“Y/N.” You say, looking up directly in his eyes.

“Harry…”

“Y/N.”

You can’t help myself but lean up and place a deep kiss onto his lip which he kindly returns. He’s still kissing you as he pushes in, filling you up bit by bit until you've got all of him inside of you. You give him a kiss of reassurance and he starts to thrust at a soft and steady pace, filling you up again and again. He never once looks away from you; he holds your gaze and kisses you repeatedly.

Your high creeps up on you and you hear him grunt as you clench around his cock and ride out your high, his face scrunches up as you feel him release into you, filling you up.

“Y/N…” You say, smiling at him.

“Harry.”

#harry #styles #harryedwardstyles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry styles masterlist #harry styles

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