#cuban stockings

[comatosebunny09]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, mild language, mutual pining, reader is shorter than sylus, flirting, gendered terms (good girl), mild jealousy, 2.2k of self-indulgent dribble tracklist: sweet time - raveena fig. 1 | fig. 3 | fig. 4 | fig. 5 | fig. 6

Coffee. 

Cuban, aromatic, sweet, bold. Nostalgic.

It’s the first thing to bring you to consciousness, followed by birds chirping outside, and the unbroken purr of a lawn mower.

You’re in your bed, swiping along the sheets in wide arcs as if chasing the remnants of sleep. Dreams of cerulean beach waves, sand caught in the interstices of your toes, the sun warming your cheeks.

Morning announces itself in the form of a golden strip cast over your eyes. 

You peek them open, throat dry, mouth sticky. A little sad to see you’re not at the beach, not tucked safe in your childhood home.

You push up with an unflattering yawn and crackling limbs. A glance at your phone reveals it’s a little past eight. It’s your day off. Still got some time to get ahead of the morning rush for grocery shopping.

The scent of coffee curls around you like a wispy shawl, and you’re warm inside. Smiling, lugging yourself off the bed to the window where you know he’ll be.

A glance outside and across the street reveals that familiar thatch of white, contrasting with the vibrant grass as Sylus pushes the lawn mower back and forth.

You’d almost forgotten he was back, kind of used to getting along without him. And of course, he’s up bright and early, helping your elderly neighbor tend to his yard. Made time to make you coffee on that expensive espresso machine he refuses to let you touch.

Funny. 

For someone who claims to abhor the sun, he’s best friends with it—the way it threads through his hair like he’s Atlas himself, bearing the sky on burly shoulders. How it highlights the rippling muscles in his back beneath a sweat-slicked tank, the tendons flexing in his legs as he works. 

You cross your arms and lean near the window, watching him push to a standstill when your neighbor approaches with water and a towel. Like clockwork, the old man draws him into conversation, nonsensical things in no particular order. And Sylus is always patient, letting your neighbor ramble like he’s got all the time in the world.

As if remembering yourself, you blink away your reverie. Shake it off. You sound like a lovesick fool. A secret admirer. Aren’t you? You’ve got better things to do than pine after your roomie.

So you strip down and crowd into the shower, the crisp spray a welcome reprieve for your stiff muscles. You slip into something that fits the heat—the kind that refracts light waves off the pavement, scorching enough to fry eggs outside and bring the mosquitoes out.

You sweep your hair into something passable, trotting down the stairs to the kitchen. The coffee’s still hot, warm in the mug between your palms and down your gullet. 

Not only is he a tolerable housemate, but he listens. Made it a point to stock your pantry with coffee that chased away your homesickness—imported—probably sick of you bitching about how much you missed it. Tired of asking why you’ll never go back.

A plate covered in a cheesecloth awaits you on the stove with a sad excuse for a cat scrawled onto a sticky note on top. You snort. Fish out a piece of bacon, pop a few blueberries strewn across your pancakes into your mouth. 

From the kitchen window, Sylus and your neighbor have moved to the old man’s porch. They’re seated on his rocking chairs, mouths moving, expressions easygoing beneath the flag fluttering in the balmy breeze. It’s infectious, that rare quirk to Sylus’ lips. Everything about him seems infectious these days. 

Swiping your keys from the counter and toeing on your sneakers, you push through the front door, and the humidity slaps you with zero remorse. 

Both men across the street perk up when you hit the remote start, your neighbor waving at you with a wrinkly, knowing smile.

You return his greeting, prickly when scarlet eyes track your every step as you round the car to the pooped-up trunk. 

You’re shuffling things around to make room for groceries when you feel him behind you—a tingly pressure between your shoulder blades, his shadow pressing into you and blotting out the sun.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, amused.

You jolt, a hand over your heart. You knew your roommate was back there, yet that voice is something lethal. Always manages to make you forget the world is a thing, breathing and thriving around you.

You turn, propping against the trunk’s edge, trying to play it cool over crossed arms. “God, warn me next time, will you? For your info, I’m going grocery shopping so my roomie doesn’t think I’m irresponsible and broke.”

There goes that lethal combo—that smirk, that chuckle. It’s not fair that he makes something as simple as roosting his hand on the edge of the trunk look cool, so close, you make out the veins and sinew jumping in his arm. Smell the sweat salting his skin, the grass staining his shorts.

“Irresponsible, yes.” Sylus pokes your forehead, and you sputter at how rough he pushes. “Broke, never. Not with me around.”

You huff, looking off to the side, pretending to be annoyed. Pretending like it wouldn’t take much to grab the front of his shirt and tug him down and—

Enough of that.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m assuming you’re done being a good Samaritan since you have time to talk.”

He straightens, that humor never leaving, that gaze sliding over you, stopping center mass, before finding your eyes again. He tugs on the towel around his neck, and you’re swallowing when his Adam’s apple bobs, chasing the sweat pouring down his throat. 

“Mostly. Want company?”

You jut your chin out defiantly, haughty, like you’re not giddy at the prospect of him tagging along. “Thought you didn’t like crowds.”

Something shifts in those lava fields. A glimmer of something burrowing deep before he’s back to his usual, smug self. Angles himself closer, making your heart skip a beat.

He’s all teeth when he says, “They’re bearable when I’m with you. Give me ten, and I’ll come with.”

You’re nodding like a lovelorn idiot, mouth halfway open, still processing what he said as he wanders into the house.

It’s hard to keep your walls up when he says shit like that. Chips away at those aged bricks you put up around your heart after you assumed he was seeing someone—the feminine name he’d say in hushed urgency, stepping out of earshot to take her call.

Whatever. 

It’s just a trip to the store. And he’s always been a tease. 

You brush it off, slamming the trunk shut, and slipping into the driver's seat to wait for this enigma of a man to clean up. 

—

Mornings have never been your forte. 

But you take advantage of them when it means getting a leg up on the housewives and boisterous teens who like to crowd the supermarket later on.

It’s eventless inside, a few customers scuttling about, music echoing from the speakers. The overhead lights compete with that of the sun bleeding through the windows, and your cart squeals and sticks.

One hand is tight around the buggy’s handle, the other pressing your phone to your chest. You’re tense, tight-lipped, pulse jackhammering in your throat. 

The source of your anxiety walks a comfortable distance behind and to the side, perusing the aisles with as much interest as someone out of their element. He’s not as close as he was before when he’d manipulated you into bringing him with you, but you’re still all prickly like he wrote sin into your bare skin with his fingers.

You always get like this when he’s gone for a while and comes back. Like meeting up with a stranger, sifting through the filing cabinet of your mind on what to say and how not to sound stupid saying it. 

You’re nestled between towering aisles of cereal when you glance over your shoulder, mouth moving, but nothing coming out. Sylus watches you, brow lifted, expectant. And your tongue’s suddenly too heavy for your mouth as you laugh it off, facing forward again.

You’ve never been this shy before. Never been this hesitant to fill the space between you with shit-talking and an interrogation on where he ran off to this time. Real estate conferences typically don’t last for most of the month. But you know your prodding won’t get you anywhere because he’s so good at diverting your questions and changing the subject.

“So,” you finally begin, attempting to break up the dense air between you. “We need milk, eggs, and bread. Maybe that bourgeois yogurt you like. Butter, oatmeal, and—ah, fuck. Forgot the plums.”

You stiffen, prepared to turn around, abandoning the cart in the middle of the aisle, but Sylus cuts you off. You almost run into him, that solid wall of strength, the heat of his skin overwhelming, the crisp notes of his cologne like chloroform. 

You look up to that knowing cant on his lips, and with a hand in his pocket, he tells you, “I’ll take care of it. You handle the rest.”

Nodding, you watch him walk off before venturing further down the aisle by yourself, grateful for the save.

At the end of the aisle, of course the oatmeal you want is on the top fucking shelf. And you’re straining on tippy-toe, fingers just barely grazing it. You purse your lips, contemplating stepping on the shelves for an assist, but it seems some higher being pities you today.

“I got you,” chimes a friendly voice from behind. 

His hand reaches over you before you put a face to a voice, plucking the tub of oats down for you. Almost close enough to crowd you against the shelves. You turn, following the stretch of his arm as he steps back, a nervous chuckle in your throat when he deposits the container into your hands.

“Hey, thanks,” you say, smile courteous, the container pressed to your bosom. “I owe you one.”

It’s awkward. Blinking. Staring. Averting your eyes. 

Your savior makes no move to leave, instead making himself comfortable, all teeth and confidence as he leans against a shelf. 

“Hard to believe a pretty thing like you shops all by herself. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in town. You live around here?”

You have this nasty habit of letting your face convey your emotions in place of your words. It’s instinctual. But this guy was nice enough to help, so you tamp down your discomfort, chuckling anxiously. Maybe if you entertain him a little, he’ll take the hint and leave you alone. 

“Um, yeah. Just out running errands. Trying to get my life together. You know.” 

Mr. Smug Smiles still doesn't budge, doesn’t pick up on your unease, instead taking you in like a starving wolf ogling skewered meat. 

“Maybe I could help you out. Grab anything else you can’t reach.” He steps closer, voice descending. “And maybe you could give me your number.”

Before you can work your mouth into a retort, you feel it—quiet, intimidating pressure behind you. Swallowing you whole, though the ire pouring off his skin isn’t directed at you. 

You nearly leap some fifty feet out of your body when a sizable hand falls to your back. The touch is light, but it’s hard not to sense the possessive flex of his fingers as he scorches you down to the bone.

You peer up as Sylus steps in, glare unrelenting on the man before you, and he drops a bag of plums into the cart like they’ve personally offended him. Your breath corks in your throat as his jaw pulls, the tendons in his throat twitching. If looks could kill, you’re sure he would’ve murdered this guy a thousand times over. It’s kind of…hot. And it convinces you just for a second that maybe your roomie’s into you, too.

Sylus’ demeanor shifts from murderous to sweet, giving you whiplash when he looks down at you. Asks, “Do you have everything you need, sweetheart?”

The way the name rolls off his tongue drips hot into your belly, and you’re nodding like a mindless little thing, lost in the soft stir of his irises. He reaches around you to grip the cart’s handle, trapping you between cool metal and sweltering strength. He turns you away from the sputtering man who had no idea you kept such company, walking you down the aisle into another.

Moments pass, and Sylus doesn’t let go. Doesn’t release you from the cage of his body, doesn’t loosen the clench of his jaw until you’re in the frozen section.

You start when he angles low, his hair tickling your neck, your cheek, lips a tease by your ear. It’s pleasant, satisfying, the way his voice drags like chalk against a smooth sidewalk, igniting a flurry of goosebumps across your skin.

“The next time you need assistance, don’t ask a stranger. Wait for me. Understood?”

You have this nagging feeling there’s more to his words than what’s at surface level. And you have half a mind to tell him you didn’t ask for anything. Yet you stutter out a quiet, “Ye-yeah,” absently nudging closer to his mouth.

You feel it curve against your ear—his sly smile. Watch his fingers tighten around the buggy’s handle, forearms just barely brushing your sides.

“Good girl.”

And you don’t realize you’re still clutching the damn oatmeal for dear life until you drop it on your foot.

tags: @pemhpredo, @bluesidez, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @freeprincesslove, @raginginferno267, @dyeinsomniadontwake

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[mariacallous]

There are situations in which tariffs are a useful tool to address a trade deficit, or to protect key sectors of a country’s economy. Then there are situations where you accuse a bunch of penguins on an uninhabited island of currency manipulation. Guess which one we’re living in?

This is the takeaway of the manifold tariffs announced by President Donald Trump on Wednesday afternoon. In addition to the penguin-occupied Heard and McDonald Islands, the tariffs target the British Indian Ocean Territory, whose sole occupants live on a joint US-UK military base on Diego Garcia island. Yes, the United States is levying reciprocal tariffs against its own troops.

And then there are the tariffs against countries that have actual goods and services on which US consumers depend. China: 54 percent. Vietnam: 46 percent. Cambodia: 49 percent. South Korea: 25 percent. No corner of the US consumer economy will go untouched. Prices will rise. The stock market is spiraling. A recession looms. The tech industry will be turned upside down. Mark Cuban, noted billionaire, is encouraging people to stockpile consumables before it’s too late.

It’s reckless, it’s absurd, and it’s also everything Donald Trump said plainly he would do on the campaign trail. True, he didn’t telegraph how misguided the methodology would be—you can read about it more here, but suffice to say it’s thoroughly detached from the realities of international trade—but he loudly, repeatedly promised to tariff his way to glory.

The stated goal is to return manufacturing jobs to the United States, which is a bit like resurrecting the dodo. The US still manufactures plenty of goods; it’s second only to China in annual output, according to the World Bank. But many of the industry’s jobs have been replaced by automation, a bottle you can’t re-cork. And higher domestic labor costs mean US-made products will inherently be more expensive, a trade-off American consumers have consistently rejected. All of this was already true in Trump’s first term. It’s even more so now.

And let’s say a plurality of companies did decide to reshore or set up factories in the United States. The timeline for those decisions and implementation is measured in years, if not decades, and follow-through can be spotty. (Just ask Foxconn.) So what happens in the meantime?

The rationale has all the weight of a soap bubble. There isn’t a world where the US suddenly manufactures all the items the country has decided to target. There’s a 47 percent tariff on Madagascar now. Do you know why the US has a trade deficit with Madagascar? They produce vanilla; we don’t. Unless we’re suddenly setting up vanilla assembly lines in Ohio, that’s not changing.

But maybe Trump’s so-called Liberation Day is all just a master negotiating ploy. “Everybody sit back, take a deep breath. Don’t immediately retaliate. Let’s see where this goes,” said Treasury secretary Scott Bessent on CNN Wednesday. “Because if you retaliate, that’s how we get escalation.”

It’s an interesting tactic, to start a bar brawl and ask everyone not to punch back in case someone gets hurt. It’s not working. China has already vowed to retaliate; the EU suggested that it could as well. (New Zealand is officially chill.)

Set the economics of this aside for a moment, though. The insult on top of that looming injury is how sloppy this all is. It’s the same blunt-force destruction that DOGE has implemented within the US government, that Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has imposed on the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, now projected on a global scale. Yes, Elon Musk and DOGE have taken a blowtorch to federal agencies. But the tariffs are a helpful reminder that it's Trump who's fiddling while it all burns.

It’s the instinct to measure wins in units of pain and suffering. It’s an assumption that the only way to help yourself is to hurt other people. This is just what America is now.

The optimist’s case is that this is all a feint, that other countries will capitulate or at least make enough of a show of it that things will go back to normal. Seems unlikely. First of all, they’re already doing the opposite, all apologies to Bessent. But even if they weren’t, even if this is just posturing from the US, that posturing has consequences. Whatever equity the US has built up over the last century as a reputable trade partner has been largely wiped out by a businessman-president best known for his bankruptcies.

And then there’s the pessimist’s case, which also seems increasingly like the realist’s. The US is barreling toward a recession for no good reason, and dragging the world—and a few thousand penguins on remote Antarctic islands—down with it.

[nylonnika]

How do you like these seamed Cuban-heel stockings on me?

[defjux]

Here are 120 of my favorite hip hop albums, with only the first two rows being in order. This was tough for me, I tried to be as fair as possible and include the albums I grew up listening to that impacted me the most while also including the more recent albums that I listen to all the time. I’ll post the list below, and a version of the charts with the titles included. Let me know what you think, are any of your favorites here? If you've got a list of your own favorites, i'd love to see it. Peace. Chart with album titles included 1. De La Soul - Buhloone Mindstate 2. Cannibal Ox - The Cold Vein 3. Aesop Rock - The Impossible Kid 4. Billy Woods & Blockhead - Dour Candy 5. Company Flow - Funcrusher Plus 6. Madvillain - Madvillainy 7. OutKast - ATLiens 8. Mos Def - Black On Both Sides 9. El-P - I'll Sleep When You're Dead 10. Edan - Beauty & The Beat 11. Armand Hammer - Paraffin 12. Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth - The Main Ingredient 13. GZA - Liquid Swords 14. The Roots - Illadelph Halflife 15. Ghostface Killah - Supreme Clientele 16. Hermit and the Recluse - Orpheus vs. the Sirens 17. Organized Konfusion - Stress: The Extinction Agenda 18. A Tribe Called Quest - Midnight Marauders 19. Wu-Tang Clan - Enter the Wu-Tang ( 36 Chambers) 20. Camp Lo - Uptown Saturday Night 21. Redman - Dare Iz A Darkside 22. The Pharcyde - Labcabincalifornia 23. Aceyalone - A Book of Human Language 24. Black Moon - Enta Da Stage

25. zeroh - awfulalterations 26. Dark Time Sunshine - ANX 27. Jam Baxter - …So We Ate Them Whole 28. Freestyle Fellowship - Innercity Griots 29. Siah & Yeshua dapoED - The Visualz Anthology 30. Black Star - Mos Def & Talib Kweli Are Black Star 31. MF DOOM - Operation: Doomsday 32. Little Brother - The Minstrel Show 33. Digable Planets - Blowout Comb 34. De La Soul - Stakes Is High 35. Juggaknots - Re:Release 36. Cavalier - Private Stock 37. Dr. Yen Lo - Days With Dr. Yen Lo 38. Mach-Hommy - DUMPMEISTER 39. Cult Favorite - FOR MADMEN ONLY 40. Aesop Rock - Skelethon 41. Earl Sweatshirt - some rap songs 42. Boldy James & Sterling Toles - Manger on McNichols 43. Open Mike Eagle & Paul White - Hella Personal Film Festival 44. Common Sense - Resurrection 45. Avantdale Bowling Club - Avantdale Bowling Club 46. CunninLynguists - A Piece of Strange 47. Armand Hammer - Shrines 48. The Roots - Things Fall Apart 49. Deltron 3030 - Deltron 3030 50. The Doppelgangaz - Lone Sharks 51. Gang Starr - Moment Of Truth 52. Serengeti & Kenny Segal - Ajai 53. Heltah Skeltah - Nocturnal 54. E L U C I D - REVELATOR 55. Raekwon - Only Built 4 Cuban Linx… 56. Billy Woods & Kenny Segal - Hiding Places 57. Jeru the Damaja - The Sun Rises In The East 58. Smif-n-Wessun - Dah Shinin 59. Big K.R.I.T. - 4eva Is a Mighty Long Time 60. O.C. - Word…Life 61 .Mach-Hommy - The G.A.T. (The Gospel According To…) 62. EPMD - Strictly Business 63. Ultramagnetic MC's - Critical Beatdown 64. Mobb Deep - The Infamous 65. Cities Aviv - MAN PLAYS THE HORN 66. Navy Blue - Gift of Gabriel: Rain’s Reign! 67. Milo - who told you to think??!!?!?!?! 68. Oddisee - The Good Fight 69. Eric B. & Rakim - Follow the Leader 70. Mr Key & Greenwood Sharps - Yesterday's Futures 71. Blackalicious - Nia 72. Quasimoto - The Further Adventures of Lord Quas 73. Shabazz Palaces - Black Up 74. Lord Finesse - The Awakening 75. Prince Paul - A Prince Among Thieves 76. Roc Marciano - Reloaded 77. Masta Ace - A Long Hot Summer 78. Sonic Sum - The Sanity Annex 79. Quelle Chris - Guns 80. Nas - Illmatic 81. Binary Star - Masters of the Universe 82. Souls of Mischief - 93 'til Infinity 83. Slum Village - Fan-Tas-Tic, Vol. 2 84. Mavi - let the sun talk 85. Public Enemy - It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back 86. Gravediggaz - 6 Feet Deep 87. Illogic - Celestial Clockwork 88. Blu & Exile - Below the Heavens 89. Dr. Octagon - Dr. Octagonecologyst 90. Mike - Disco! 91. Nickelus F & Ohbliv - Yellow Gold 3 92. lojii - due rent 93. The Koreatown Oddity - Little Dominiques Nosebleed 94. Dälek - From Filthy Tongue of Gods and Griots 95. Mos Def - The Ecstatic 96. Lords of the Underground - Here Come the Lords 97. Cities Aviv - Working Title For The Album Secret Waters 98 .Onry Ozzborn - c v p ii d 99. Fly Anakin & Big Kahuna OG - Holly Water 100. Black Milk - No Poison No Paradise 101. Busdriver - Thumbs 102. Kendrick Lamar - To Pimp a Butterfly 103. Artifacts - Between a Rock and a Hard Place 104. Mike Ladd - Welcome to the Afterfuture 105. Defcee & knowsthetime - Lacuna 106. R.A.P. Ferreira - purple moonlight pages 107. Scarface - The Diary 108. Mad Moon - MAD SPACE 109. Skipp Coon - Miles Garvey 110. Mattic & Madwreck - Ill Scholars 111. Mood - Doom 112. NoName - Room 25 113. Deca - The Ocean 114. Darc Mind - Symptomatic of a Greater Ill 115. Pete Rock & Ini - Center of Attention 116. Count Bass D - Dwight Spitz 117. Showbiz & A.G. - Goodfellas 118. Y Society - Travel At Your Own Pace 119. Theravada - Xenophon 120. Versis - Illcandescent

[myfootyrthroat]

I think the thing that I find most hilarious about the "CIA propaganda" allegations is that like, I've had a pretty blue collar life. The stuff that I know about various countries is from working with a bunch of Eastern European line cooks and dishwashers, working on a tagging line with a bunch of East Asian women, doing overnight stocking with a Cuban coworker, throwing rolls into bags with a bunch of Iraqi guys, etc etc.

I didn't get my info from the CIA Factbook or from the 23 year old "expert" who spoke at one YDSA meeting on my college campus.

[harveywritings92]

[l4d au: Price, Gaz and their civilian friends search a high end mall for supplies, whoever was there before hand was smart enough to leave an elevator code for the upper levels, (all the escalators were destroyed to try to keep the infect down in the lower levels). Gaz sees Price grabbing a few boxes of Cubans from a cigar shop.]

Gaz: You serious?

Price: I'll be damned if run through this apocalypse without a good cigar on me.

Gaz: Fair enough.

[R/n and Tasha come walking in.]

R/n: Good news! We found an army supply shop around the corner; fully stocked. It even has an exit to the roof where we can signal that helicopter we saw flying outside...

Price: What's the catch?

Tasha (she talks like a valley girl): It's, like, locked up tight, so when we open it an alarm thingy is, like, gonna go off, everything, that's like, trapped downstairs is gonna come up here, sooo we'd probably have 3 minutes to, like, grab what we need and get the hell out...

Price: Right...Let's go then.

=====================

[Reader was a one of those security guards who gets money from stores and transports it to the banks in the armored trucks. She was waiting for her boss and coworker to secure the money at a hotel when hell broke lose.

And her teenage friend Tasha is a 16yr old pageant queen and she hated it, her step-mom and aunt would force her into the pageants.

Tasha was more interested in pyrotechnics and engineering. (Her dad made fireworks.) She's the one who makes the groups pipe-bombs. she was a pageant contestant at the same hotel as R/n when everything went to hell.

She (after getting her hands on a fire ax) ran into R/n in the lobby and the older woman got her to the armored truck outside and they drove off; With all the money falling out of the truck as they went but no one gave a crap cos they were trying not to die.

about a week later they ran into an overwhelmed Gaz and Price trapped on a scaffolding fighting off a horde of infected after most of their squad was wiped out.]

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue June 1952

Whose Shoes?

1) Black suede Cuban-heeled slippers with backless straps, with or without toes, Ferragamo. Calfskin bag, Jana. Stockings, by Holeproof. 2) Nylon mesh opera pumps by Laird Schober. Gold tassels on the toes, tied with rings: David Webb. Stockings, by Holeproof. 3) Pale pink kidskin sandals, open almost everywhere, with the straps buckled in an asterisk at the front; very high heels. In Allied Kidskin. Bracelet by De Rosa. Stockings, Munsingwear. 4) For this, with black or white piqué, black and white cotton shells with red leather Louis heels. By Capezio in Hope Skillman fabric. Wicker bag from Italy, imported by Josef. Stockings, Munsingwear.

1) Pantoufles à talons cubains et brides dos nu en daim noir, avec ou sans orteils, Ferragamo. Sac en cuir de veau, Jana. Bas, par Holeproof. 2) escarpins d'opéra en maille de nylon de Laird Schober. Au doigt, pompons dorés, noués par des anneaux : David Webb. Bas, par Holeproof. 3) Sandales en cuir de chevreau rose pâle, ouvertes pratiquement partout, avec les brides bouclées en astérisque sur le devant ; des talons très hauts. En Allied Kidskin. Bracelet De Rosa. Bas, Munsingwear. 4) Pour cela, avec du piqué noir ou blanc, des coques en coton noir et blanc avec des talons Louis en cuir rouge. Par Capezio en tissu Hope Skillman. Sac en osier d'Italie, importé par Josef. Bas, Munsingwear.

Photo Horst P. Horst

[sataniccapitalist]

"Open Celebration of the Oligarchy": Both Dems & GOP Sucked Up to Billionaires in 2024 Election

In the wake of the reelection of Donald Trump, some of the richest people in the world saw their net worths soar as stock prices rapidly shot up. "What was different about this election was how central billionaires were in the entire political discourse," says The Lever_'s David Sirota, who joins _Democracy Now! to discuss the outsized role of the super-rich in U.S politics, pointing out that both Trump and Kamala Harris campaigned heavily with billionaires, including Elon Musk and Mark Cuban. "These people are not giving money simply out of the goodness of their hearts. They want things. They have policy demands," Sirota says. "The investors, the donors, like billionaires, are looking for a return on their investment." Sirota, who previously worked as a communications adviser and speechwriter for the Bernie Sanders presidential campaign, also explains how Elon Musk's influence on Trump's campaign is a preview of the power he could wield if he ends up appointed to the Trump administration.

[foundtherightwords]

As the Sun Will Rise - Chapter 17

Pairing: Grunauer (Overlord) x OFC, Beauty & the Beast retelling

Summary: After losing most of his unit in a disastrous D-Day mission, Derwin Grunauer returns to his hometown near Miami, body riddled with scars and heart heavy with guilt, only to find his neighbors shunning him due to his German name. He retreats into his family mansion and remains there, unwilling to rejoin the living, until the day Alba Reyes turns up at his door with a basket full of warm bread. As the daughter of a Cuban immigrant, Alba knows something of being an outsider, and when she offers to work for Derwin as his housekeeper, it is not only to pay off her father's debt to the Grunauers, but also because she feels some connection to the reclusive young man. When that connection develops into something more, they must overcome both the town's prejudice and their own doubts to find happiness.

Chapter warnings: non-explicit smut

Chapter word count: 5.9k (sorry this chapter is a bit longer than usual; I tried to break it up but couldn't, so here we are)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Derwin had never looked forward to Christmas, even when he was a boy. His mother's ill health meant that every celebration had to be carefully timed and always ended too soon, or else it would tire her out. And later, after she'd passed away, seeing all the other happy families had only reminded Derwin of how small and lonely his own family was. His father had tried, bless his heart, but he had never been much good at being fun or spontaneous, poor old Dad, and Christmas with just the two of them had always been rather awkward.

This year was the first time Derwin had been excited for Christmas. A cold front had come in, turning the air crisp and cool outdoors and making it cozy indoors, and for once the Christmas decorations fitted right in, as did the scent of pine needles from the tree and the smell of cinnamon and cloves from the cookies that Alba brought—they weren't Cuban, but, as she explained, her father understood the need to cater to their American customers. However, the real reason Derwin was excited, and nervous as well, was that Alba had insisted on him spending the day with her family, no ifs or buts about it.

"I want them to know about us," she'd told him. The way she'd said us went straight to his heart, so casual, yet with so much love and even a touch of pride as well, and he couldn't refuse her, even though he was quaking at the thought of Mr. Reyes, with his booming voice and critical eyes, judging Derwin as his daughter's suitor. But Derwin knew sooner or later they would have to face that particular hurdle, and with Alba there with him, he would be able to get over it.

The other reason he was nervous about Christmas was that Alba's plan didn't stop at Christmas dinner with her family. Apparently Frank knew a valet at some swanky hotel in South Beach and had managed to secure tickets to a Christmas dance there, and he had invited Beatriz and Alba along. So for the past week, Alba had been trying to persuade Derwin to join them.

"What on Earth would I do at a dance?" he'd said, gesturing to his cane. "I'd be the laughing stock."

"Nonsense. You danced perfectly well that night with the storm, remember?"

As if he could ever forget. But they had been alone then, and had the entire living room to themselves, and he'd still managed to nearly knock a lamp off a table with his cane. In a crowded ballroom, with other people around? Forget about it.

"Besides, you still owe me a proper date," she added.

It was true. It had been two weeks since their outing on the boat, and although they laughed about it with each other, Derwin still felt a twinge of embarrassment whenever he remembered it.

Not wanting to turn her down outright, he'd only given her a non-committal "I'll think about it." Alba refused to leave it at that and had been asking "Have you thought about it yet?" every day since.

Now, as he was putting the finishing touch to Alba's Christmas present, she burst into the study with a look that indicated she was going to ask that question again. He hid the present in a drawer and looked up sheepishly.

"It's three days away, you know," she said. "If you're not going, then at least tell me, so Frank can give our tickets to someone else."

"You're not going?"

She shrugged. "I don't have a date, do I?"

"Look, Alba," he began, reaching for her hand to soften his words. "I'm really sorry, but I don't know if I can..." He knew there was a very good chance that he would have fun if he went to the dance. He'd always had fun whenever he went out with Alba, not because of anything they did in particular, but because he liked being with her, simple as that. But he wasn't sure if he could face a ballroom full of people just yet, even with her by his side.

Alba peered at him for a moment or two, and a twinkle came into her eyes. She went to the gramophone in the corner, selected a record, and put it on. "This gentleman obviously doesn't believe in making love," she sang along with the music while dancing toward him, a mischievous smile on her lips. "What do you think, Otto?" Alba asked. "Isn't this the perfect song for Derwin or what?" The dog, lying in a patch of sunlight on the floor, tapped his tail in approval. Traitor.

Alba turned smugly to Derwin. "See, even Otto agrees."

Derwin tried to keep a stern face, but he couldn't help laughing at that. "Yeah, because he loves ganging up on me with you," he said.

Alba was now in front of him. "The gentleman obviously doesn't believe in moonlight walks," she continued singing and tugged at his hands, trying to get him to dance with her. He grinned but refused to budge. He was enjoying this too much. "Alone with a girl and he'd faint—"

"That's clearly not true. I'm alone with you and I haven't fainted yet—"

"Yes, that's just what he'd do. He's one of those gents who just hasn't the sense to thrill to a kiss." Here she bent down and gave him little kisses in time with the music. "Like me"—one on his forehead—"and you"—one on the tip of his nose—"and you"—and finally, one of his lips. "Well?" she asked, smiling down at him.

Still sitting in his chair, he grabbed her waist and yanked her close, so their noses and lips met, fitted together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A laugh of surprise escaped her throat and died away immediately when he pressed his mouth to hers. The last notes of the song died away, and a delicious silence followed, broken only by a whisper from Derwin, "OK, I'll go."

***

That Saturday, Derwin felt a bit like Cinderella before the ball as he brushed his best and only suit, brought years ago for his high school graduation, which thankfully still fitted him. Alba was coming by with Frank and Beatriz in Marty's car, and then Alba and Derwin would take their own car and meet up with them at the hotel. Alba had insisted on going in separate cars, and Derwin smiled to himself, knowing it was her subtle way not only to have some privacy to themselves, but to give Frank and Beatriz some as well. Marty and Claudia, unfortunately, had to miss out, as their baby was too small to be left for a whole evening.

He was wrestling with the bowtie in front of the mirror in the hall when he heard the sound of tires on the gravel, followed by voices calling "See you there!", and then the car drove away again. Otto stood by the door wagging his tail, looking a little confused that Alba was arriving at night and coming through the front door instead of the back as usual.

His eyes still glued to the maddening bowtie, Derwin heard the swishing of her dress before he saw her. Then he looked up, caught her reflection in the mirror, and whirled around, dazed, the bowtie forgotten around his neck.

Alba was wearing a yellow dress, the same dress they'd seen in the shop window, the one he'd offered to buy for her and she'd refused. He was right. The dress fitted her perfectly, not just in the way it hugged her shoulders and waist, molded around her breasts and arms, and fell in graceful folds around her hips and legs as she walked, but also in the way it framed her like a golden halo, lit her up both from the outside and inside. It was like a miniature sun had suddenly appeared in his darkened front hall.

While he gazed at her with his mouth open, too stunned to say a word, she walked to him and gave him a peck on the lips, as casually as she had done every morning. "I'm afraid you're on your own with that," she said, nodding at the bowtie still dangling around his neck. "I'm no good at that sort of thing."

Derwin recovered his wits and shook his head. "It's OK, I got it." He finished tying the bowtie, ignoring how lopsided it was, and turned to her again, unable to keep his eyes off her for long. "You look—" Words failed him. "—gorgeous," he finished inadequately.

She smiled, looking both shy and proud. "I told you I'd buy the dress myself, didn't I? Wish I had enough money for the shoes as well." She glanced down at her feet, clad in her old off-white sandals. "But they don't show, so who cares, right?" She fixed his bowtie, then stepped back to look him over with a critical eye. "You look very handsome too," she said. "But something's missing."

"What?"

Alba's eyes landed on the bowl of frangipani flowers set on the side table near the door. She dug in the junk drawer and came up with two safety pins—Derwin was again astonished at her ability to find things in his house that he didn't even know existed. These she fixed to the back of two of the largest and freshest flowers, pinned one to his lapel, and gave him the other to put on her hair, which was swept back in soft waves over her forehead and pulled into a chignon in the back. "No, not that side, the left side," she said, turning her head so he could pin the flower in place.

"Why the left side?" Derwin asked, curious.

"When Raf was stationed in Hawaii, he told me if a woman wears a frangipani flower over her left ear, that means she's in a relationship," explained Alba, a faint blush turning her cheeks pink and making her look even prettier.

"Oh" was all Derwin could say, but his heart leaped and jumped. He looked at the two of them in the mirror and wondered, not for the first time, how he got so lucky.

"Ready?" she said, putting her arm through his.

"Wait." He held her hand. "I have something for you too."

He went into the little broom closet at the end of the hall and brought out the box he'd put there that morning. Inside was a pair of gold shoes, the shoes that had been on display along with the dress. Alba's eyes popped when she saw them.

"How did you—?"

"I had a hunch." It was more than a hunch. After he'd agreed to go to the dance, Derwin had driven back to the shop to look at the dress, hoping Alba would let him buy it for her this time. When the saleswoman told him a young lady had bought it already, he'd known right away that it was Alba. So he had bought the next best thing.

He motioned for her to sit down on a chair. Then, kneeling in front of her, he took off the sandals and slipped the soft gold leather over her stockinged feet.

"Now I know how Cinderella must have felt," Alba said, turning her ankle this way and that so she could get a better look at the shoe.

Derwin smiled. "Cinderella tries on the shoe after the ball," he reminded her.

"How did you know my shoe size?"

"Lucky guess," he said, not revealing that it was the saleswoman who had helped him.

"Thank you."

"Can't you thank a fellow better than that?" he asked, lifting his face to her.

She leaned down and kissed him, softly at first, and then again, not as softly. His hands were still on her ankles, and he slid them up, caressing her legs, until he reached the bare skin between her garter and her stocking. "We really have to get going, you know," she said, but didn't stop him.

"It's called being fashionably late," he murmured, smiling against her lips.

***

"Where have you been?!" Beatriz exclaimed when Derwin and Alba finally pulled up in front of the hotel. "We've been waiting for almost half an hour!"

"Sorry, we got—delayed," Alba said with a conspiratorial grin at Derwin. Beatriz raised an eyebrow at that, but made no further comment.

Derwin shook Frank's hand and saw his own emotions reflected on the other man's face—fluster, excitement, and even pride, as he looked upon his date. Clearly, this was a big night for Frank as well.

"Come on, the band's starting already," Beatriz said, tugging Alba toward the staircase leading up to the hotel's front doors, where the crowd, glittering women in their evening gowns, starchy men in their black and white tuxedos and dinner jackets, was streaming in.

"Relax. It's called being fashionably late," Alba said and winked at Derwin, who couldn't help grinning back. He extended his arm to her, and they walked up the steps, followed closely behind by Beatriz and Frank. Through the double doors, they could glimpse the inside of the ballroom, where a giant Christmas tree stood reaching all the way to the ceiling, dazzling with tinsels and baubles. More tinsels and baubles hung from the ceiling, reflecting the light from the chandelier, making Derwin feel he was outside in the middle of a bright summer's day. Tables with bowls of punch and snacks stood on either side of the vast ballroom, and at the far end, the band sat in front of a brocade curtain, striking up a lively jazz number.

Giggling in excitement, the girls and Frank ran on ahead, but Derwin faltered. It was too bright, too loud, too crowded, and the old trembling feeling in the pit of his stomach was coming back. He paused at the top of the stairs, trying to steady himself by tightening his grip on the cane. Alba turned around and took his hand in hers, concerned.

"You OK?" she asked.

He took a deep breath, finding strength in her hand. "Yeah," he managed to say.

"You sure? We can leave, if you're not feeling up to it."

He would not ruin this for her. "No, it's fine. I'll be fine." He smiled to reassure her, and they went to the door. A man stood there in a black tux and a collar with so much starch that Derwin wondered how he could even lower his chin, taking tickets from the guests.

"Welcome, sir," he said monotonously, taking the tickets from Derwin and Alba. "Welcome, madam." Then his eyes landed on Frank and widened slightly. "I'm sorry, but he's not allowed here," the man said to Derwin, mistaking him for the leader of the group.

"What?" Alba and Beatriz said in unison.

"Indians are not allowed here," the man repeated, a cold edge to his voice.

"But he has a ticket—" Beatriz protested.

"It is our policy," the man said. His neck, if possible, got even stiffer.

"Where is this policy written, then?" Alba asked. "Show me. Is it printed on the ticket? Is there a sign at your front desk?"

"It's an established custom," the man said, inexorably.

Derwin looked at Frank. A flush darkened Frank's swarthy face, and his hands were balled into fists, but he kept his chin up and his back ramrod straight. "It's OK," he said quietly. "You three go ahead. Don't spoil your evening because of me." He turned and started walking down the steps. Beatriz looked close to tears. Alba's nostrils flared in a way Derwin recognized, but she kept close to Beatriz and watched Frank go helplessly.

A sense of déjà vu washed over Derwin. It was like that day at the diner with the black couple all over again. Except back then, he had stood by, not doing anything, only feeling hot shame burning his insides. He didn't know that couple. But he knew Frank.

"Hang on a minute," he said, grabbing Frank's arm. "Frank, where did you serve in the war?"

"The 124th Infantry," Frank said, puzzled. "The Pacific."

"I was in the 82nd Airborne," Derwin said to the man at the door. "Frank Howard and Derwin Grunauer. You can look us up if you don't believe me. And think what it means to your hotel's reputation when words get out that you deny two GIs entrance to your Christmas ball."

The man spluttered. His shirt collar seemed to wilt in front of their very eyes. Finally, after one more look at Frank, and another look at the crowded ballroom behind him, he said, through clenched teeth, "Perhaps an exception can be made for our men in service," and yanked the ticket out of Frank's hand. "Enjoy your evening," he added, with a look that implied he wished they would all drop dead.

"Thank you," Frank said to Derwin, as they walked into the ballroom. "But you didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did," Derwin said. He was sick of standing by the sideline, sick of watching all the injustice, and sick of feeling helpless. No more, he told himself. From now on, he was going to take whatever life threw at him, both the good and the bad.

Next to him, Alba said nothing, only squeezed his hand a little more tightly. When Beatriz and Frank weren't looking, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and that was all the reward he could ever want or need.

The dance was in full swing by the time they entered the ballroom. Beatriz and Frank joined the crowd immediately, busting out some complicated moves to the cheerful sound of "Don't Sit under the Apple Tree." The beat was fast, too fast. Derwin didn't know how he could manage it with his cane. But Alba was prepared. She wove her way through the crowd, leading him to a quiet spot on the edge of the dance floor. Here, she put an arm around him and lifted his hands to her waist, while resting her other hand on his cane, just as she had when they danced together during the storm.

"We don't have to impress anybody," she said. "Just move to the music."

And so they did. They stood there, arms around each other, swinging and tapping their feet to the music, out of the way of the other dancers. Some people threw them curious glances, making Derwin's skin itch like ants crawling all over him, but Alba put a finger on his chin to direct his attention back to her, and he breathed more easily again.

After a few songs, Derwin's leg started to protest, so he got himself a glass of punch and sat down at a table, while Alba, at his urging, went back and danced with Frank and Beatriz. Derwin watched her with the same wonder tinged with wistfulness he always felt whenever he looked at her, wonder that a girl like her would want to be with him, and wistfulness that she was forced to rein in her vivacity to stay by his side. But that night, with his newfound determination, he no longer felt so wistful. Alba chose to be with him. And he would do everything he could to make sure she never had to regret it.

The band was coming back from their break. Though his leg was still complaining, Derwin walked up to the stage and spoke to the band leader. He turned around to see Alba smiling at him. "What'd you just say to him?" she asked.

"You'll see," he said. "Or, should I say, you'll hear."

Her eyebrows went up. She soon got her answer when the band launched into a slow rendition of "Green Eyes". Only when the vocalist started singing, it wasn't "Green Eyes", it was "Aquellos Ojos Verdes", and Alba's mouth dropped open in surprise. Next to her, Beatriz also grinned, delighted with this reminder of their childhood memory.

"May I have this dance, señorita?" asked Derwin, extending a hand toward Alba.

Still smiling, she placed her hand in his. He led her to the middle of the floor, swinging his cane in a wide circle. The crowd parted around them like a current. To hell with those people. Let them stare. Let them see how lucky he was to have such a beautiful girl in his arms. Let them be jealous.

As they danced to the song, turning and twirling as they had the night of the storm, something strange happened to Derwin. He looked into Alba's green eyes, felt the warmth of her body close to his, smelled the familiar scent of the frangipani in her hair, and let the music flow through him. And the rest of the ballroom faded away. Even the band vanished, leaving behind only the sound of music, like magic. All his worries disappeared. There was no one else in the world but the two of them, there was nowhere else he'd rather be, and more importantly, he knew that there was nowhere else she would rather be either.

Even when the song ended, they remained in their embrace, smiling at each other.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" Alba whispered.

He tilted her face up. "Oh yes," he said. "And here's another surprise for you..."

Before their lips could touch, a voice said behind them, loudly and rudely, "Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

Derwin whirled around. Sauntering toward them was a tall, handsome, dark-haired man in a white jacket, followed by several cronies, decidedly less handsome and less well-dressed. There was something vaguely familiar about the dark-haired man, but Derwin couldn't place that arrogant face.

Beside him, Alba let out a groan.

"Not happy to see me, Allie?" the dark-haired man said. He was coming quite close now, close enough for Derwin to smell the reek of alcohol on his breath. "I've missed you, you know."

Alba tugged at Derwin's hand. "Come on, let's go," she said, but the dark-haired man blocked their way, while his cronies formed a wall behind them. Beatriz and Frank, noticing the standoff, were approaching with concern.

"Now that's very rude," the dark-haired man said to Alba. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your—date? I don't need an introduction to know who he is, though. Grunauer, is it?" He barely even glanced at Derwin, as if Derwin was some vermin not worth his attention. "Really, Allie? Him? You threw me over for a cripple?"

Alba's eyes flashed with the green fire that Derwin had come to know quite well. "I didn't throw you over for anyone, Grant," she said, voice dripping with contempt. "When are you going to get it through your thick head? We are not together. We have never been together. And we're never going to be together!"

As she mentioned the name, Derwin suddenly remembered where he'd seen the dark-haired man before. "You're Gastin Grant," he said. "From Grant's Land. You offered to buy my place."

"That's right, buddy." Grant sneered at him. "And mark my word, I'll get my hand on that place eventually. Just as I'll get my hand on this one—" He reached out and grabbed Alba's arm, wrenching her away from Derwin.

Derwin pushed at Grant's chest. It was rather like pushing at a brick wall, but he did it anyway. "Let her go," he said.

Grant grinned at him. "Or what? What are you going to do about it, cripple?"

A red-hot veil of rage fell over Derwin's eyes. A small crowd was now gathering around them.  Frank stepped in. "Hey, there's no need for that kind of language—" he said. Grant nodded at his cronies, who knocked Frank to the ground. Beatriz ran over to help him up.

Derwin looked at Alba, still struggling to free herself from Grant's iron grip, and tried to swallow his anger. "I don't want to make a scene," he said to Grant. "But if you don't leave right now, I'm going to—"

WHAM! Grant's fist flew out of nowhere. Blindsided, Derwin went sprawling on the floor. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear Grant taunting him, "Going to do what? Think you can threaten me, cripple? Get up! Get up and face me, or are you too much of a chicken shit who can only shoot others when their backs were turned?"

Derwin scrambled for his cane, trying to push himself up, but black spots were swimming in front of his eyes and he couldn't see.

"He's not a chicken shit," he heard Alba's voice say quite calmly. "You are."

There was a sharp thwack, the crowd went "ooh", and something collapsed beside him with a heavy thud. Next thing Derwin knew, Alba was helping him to his feet. "You OK?" she asked.

His eyes cleared, and he saw that Grant was curled up on the floor, a hand clasped to his bleeding nose. His cronies were staring at Alba with something akin to awe as they slowly dispersed, dragging their fallen leader with them.

"Here." Alba led Derwin to a table, where she put some ice into a napkin and placed it on his cheek. That was when Derwin saw that her knuckles were scratched and bleeding.

"You're hurt," he said.

"It's nothing." She tried to pull away, but Derwin held her hand and put some ice on it as well.

Beatriz and Frank came running over. "Alba!" Beatriz exclaimed. "That was—"

"If you're going to say it wasn't ladylike of me, you can zip it," Alba snapped.

"No. I was going to say that was awesome." Beatriz grinned at her sister. "Grant's a heel. He deserves it."

Before Alba could answer, the pompous man at the door came toward them. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said, clearly relishing it.

Alba, apparently still in a belligerent mood, jumped up to protest, but Beatriz held out a hand to stop her. "Let's go," Beatriz said. "This party blows anyway."

"Bea!" Alba looked shocked. "Language!"

Beatriz shrugged. "What? It does." She took Frank's hand. "Come on, Frank, let's go." She winked at Alba, and they all left the ballroom with their heads held high, ignoring the stares of the other patrons.

***

Alba was still shaking with rage when they got into the car and drove away. She knew she shouldn't have lost her temper like that, but Grant had gotten her so angry that she couldn't think straight. She had been looking forward to this night for so long, and now it was ruined. And just when everything was going so well too!

"Are you OK?" asked Derwin. "Do you want me to drive?"

Alba forced herself to breathe normally. No, she would not let Grant's cursed mug darken her moods anymore. "I'm fine," she said. "Do you mind if we drive around a bit before going home? I want to get some air." Frank and Beatriz were going to a club over on Cocoanut Grove, but Alba didn't feel like accompanying them. She just wanted to make sure she and Beatriz came home around the same time, to avoid any awkward questions from Papi.

"I'd love that," said Derwin with a smile.

They drove slowly down South Beach, past the hotels and nightclubs on one side, with their glittering lights and laughing partygoers, and occasional glimpses of the murmuring ocean on the other. The windows were rolled down, and Alba's anger soon melted away in the cool December air. Eventually, they left the swanky hotels behind and came to a deserted stretch of sand. The lights of downtown shimmered behind them like stars, and the causeway, the one they'd taken to Key Biscayne months ago, curved palely across the dark waves like a sliver of the moon.

"I'm sorry we have to cut our night short," Alba said.

Derwin shrugged. "I've had as much dancing as my legs can take, I think. And we're still here. The night is not over yet."

"Are you all right?" she asked. He was still holding the ice wrapped in a napkin to his face, and the melting ice was dripping down his wrist.

"Oh yeah." He put the napkin down and felt about his face. "The swelling's gone down. What about you?" He gestured to her hand.

"It's just a scratch." She took her right hand off the wheel and stretched it across the seat to show him. He took it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it, gently running his thumb over the scratches and massaging her wrist, which was still sore, despite her attempt to make light of it.

"One hell of a right hook you got," he said, grinning. Then he sobered up. "But I can't keep letting you fight for me like that. That's twice now..."

Alba twined her fingers through his, squeezing his hand. "I like fighting for you."

Derwin was still caressing her hand. Then he lifted it and pressed a kiss to her bruised knuckles. Under his soft, fervent lips, the smarting from the scratches vanished instantly, and Alba could feel tingles running up her arm, toward her chest.

"Could you pull over?" Derwin said.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just that I really want to kiss you and I don't want us to crash."

Something in his eyes as he said it made her pulse beat wildly in her breast. "Can't you wait until we get home?" she asked with a teasing smile.

"No, I don't think I can."

Alba had barely pulled over under the low branches of a coconut palm when Derwin drew her to him and started kissing her as he'd never kissed her before, his mouth insistent and demanding, a hand behind her ear, the other running over the bodice of her dress, caressing her side with grasping, impatient strokes. Usually it took some coaxing from her to get him comfortable, and even then he remained shy and hesitant. This passion was new, and just like his confidence when they went out on the boat or when he confronted the doorman at the hotel, Alba found it electrifying. She twisted, trying to get closer to him, but the wheel and the dashboard were in the way.

"You want to move to the backseat?" she murmured against his lips.

His eyes widened, and for a second, Alba's heart faltered. Oh no. What would he think of me now? What kind of girl would suggest such a thing...? But he only said "Yes" in an excited whisper, and was out of his seat in an instant.

Alba scrambled out of the driver's seat. They opened the doors at the same time and fell into each other's arms in the back. Derwin's jacket came off, followed by his bowtie. The buttons on the front of her dress came undone, by his hand or hers, she didn't know, and the dress was pushed down her shoulders, along with the straps of her slip. He fumbled with the clasps of her bra.

"Just pull it—here—let me—" Alba reached behind her, trying to help him undo the clasps.

"Ow," he mumbled as her elbow brushed across the bruise on his cheek.

"Sorry." That set them giggling like two idiots, his face pressed into her neck, his breath tickling her.

"Aren't you going to make it better?" he asked, and she placed her lips to the bruise, just as he'd done for her. Her tongue grazed across his scar, and he moaned softly.

They kissed again, kissed until their lips were bruised, until they had drunk up the lingering sweetness of punch on each other's tongue, until the coolness from the ice evaporated from his cheek, replaced by a warming fire that burned between them. Somehow her bra ended up around her midriff. Then his lips trailed down her throat to her collarbone and her breasts, and her laughter turned into quickening gasps. She lifted her hips, needing some friction, some pressure, something to relieve the building, throbbing heaviness between her legs. The movement only resulted in her sliding off the tiny seat, and she would've ended up on the floor if Derwin hadn't sat up and hauled her into his lap. Laughing, she half-rose to straddle him and banged her head on the ceiling. It only made her laugh harder, and Derwin was laughing as well. Then she sat down, with him fitting perfectly in the dip between her thighs, and their laughs died off as they looked into each other's eyes, breathless, waiting. 

"Are you sure about this?" Derwin asked.

They were in his car, panting like they were both on fire, with his shirt unbuttoned and her dress half-off, and he still had to ask. But she wouldn't want him any other way.

"Yes," she said. "What about you? Is it enough of a proper date for you?"

He grinned. "Well, we've had two half dates, and two halves make a whole." He brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "But—"

"You won't get me into trouble," she said firmly, catching his meaning. "I trust you."

There was that quivering little smile again. "Do you?"

"Yes."

Still he hesitated, his fingers dancing over her spine and shoulder blades and the back of her arms, sending delicious shivers all through her. Then he blurted out, "We can get married."

"What?"

"Not right at this moment. But tomorrow. Or Monday. We don't even have to tell anybody, just go to City Hall and do it quick, the two of us," he said in a rush. Clearly it was something he'd just thought of.

"So you can make an honest woman out of me?" she said, laughing.

"Or so you can make an honest man out of me."

Alba gazed at him in the yellow light of the street lamps. She ran her hand over his features and saw in them not just the face she'd come to hold so dear in just a few months, but also his heart, his kindness, his strength. She thought about how her life had changed since he came into it, and, for the first time, thought about their future. Then she dropped her hand and said, with not inconsiderable regret, "... No."

Derwin's face fell. "You don't want to marry me?"

"No, no, cariño," she said quickly, "it's not that I don't want to marry you. I don't... I don't want to marry anybody. Not yet. You do understand that, don't you?" But even as she said it, she knew he understood. He always did. "Besides, I don't think we should get married just to have sex," she added, her cheeks heating up again. "What if the sex turns out to be bad? Where would we go then?"

"You think it'll be bad?"

"I don't know." She leaned down and whispered, teasing his ear with her lips and her tongue, "Why don't we find out?"

And they did. As their mouths and hands and bodies found each other again, and at last, at last, as ecstasy crashed over her like waves crashing over the sand outside, Alba realized that the night was far from ruined. Quite the opposite.

Chapter 18

Here's the song that Alba sings: The Gentleman Obviously Doesn't Believe (In Love)

Taglist: @kitkat80, @hahahafucku

[pocketwei]

you art is such an inspiration to me. i was wondering if you use references and if so, where do you get them? im trying to improve my art and i find it very hard to find refs.

thank you!

Oughhh thank you anon ;; <3

I do use references!! Tons of it even! As to where I get them, it depends on what I'm looking for.

For very specific references of body parts in different angles or positions, I usually just take pictures of myself using a mirror. It's very useful to act the attitude you want to draw!

For fullbody poses, or other things I can't do myself (animal pictures, enviro refs, props refs etc), I just type very specific things in Google Images (they still have the best referencing in terms of images, but if google doesn't wield results, you can try your usual search engine: duckduckgo, ecosia, or whatever else u use). Very factual and descriptive searches like: "parent holding child's hand", "man in suit tying shoes", "person reclining on chair", "colonial cuban villa", "flamingo feeding baby" etc.

Additionally, when you find a good stock ref pic in the spirit of what you're looking for, click on the link to see where it comes from! Stock photos are taken in series, so there's a chance that you can find a closer match by browsing the site they're hosted on, or that it can give you a better understanding of how it works when moving.

Pinterest used to be very good for browsing inspirations but it's gotten really flooded by AI. I'd advise making boards ready to use (so you don't have to scroll 250 AI images to find a real one), or find boards made by other people

for mood, style or colour references, I usually make boards with PureRef, mixing real life refs from photography accounts/pinterest/my gallery and artworks from my favourite artists. I'm Very Much a "take inspiration and give inspiration" kind of artist. I always get inspired by other artists, I study their compositions, the texture of their artworks, the colour harmonies. And it's ok to do so, as long as what you do with it isn't derivative!

So tldr: your own body and your phone are your bestfriend, and google is a close second!

attaching an example of a pure ref board: anything can be a ref. don't limit yourself. Eventually, your own "mental library" will grow as you gain more experience, and you'll be able to get better at knowing what exactly you're looking for. Finding refs is also a skill! Don't give up, and don't fall into the trap of thinking that you have to pull everything out of the void for it to be legitimate creativity!

[smehur]

Harry Potter and the weed !!!

also @chiquita-3

i'm delighted you asked! 🥰 this one is my absolute favorite atm (tho tragically stalled due to fest obligations). here's a snip!

The goods are kept in a false-bottom drawer of his trunk. A Notice Me Not charm is weaved around it subtly enough to pass the detection by Auror search spells. Draco takes stock during lunch break, when there’s no one in the dorms. There are three baggies of weed in the stash: one Cuban, reserved by some Ravenclaws, and two Algerian, as yet unsold. It’s decent stuff. Draco makes sure to sample the goods before selling, so he can give accurate recommendations. Cuban goes in smoothly, with gorgeous smell and taste, but makes one restless and irritable, and has a rough comedown; not his favorite. Algerian has a thick odor and burns the throat like spicy food, but it’s very sweet and mellow afterwards and puts one down gently. Between the two, Draco would definitely choose the latter. But for Potter—and he still can’t quite believe it, though there’s nothing too strange about it, only that he hadn’t dare hope—for Potter, nothing but the very best would do.

After rummaging through the wares, Draco puts down an order for a full batch of Sicilian Gold. His absolute favorite, honey-scented and sweet on the tongue, it has never once made him cough; and it stirs such a complex bouquet of emotion: a dash of nostalgia and a pinch of melancholy with a generous serving of hope and something akin to love. A full batch holds ten baggies. One he’d take for himself.

He scribbles a few other requisitions: amortentia, veritaserum, dreamless sleep—always in high demand—gin, vodka, ecstasy, and for himself, a six-pack of lemon-flavored Muggle butterbear. Almost 50 galleons, altogether. But he’ll make thrice as much.

The order and the money go into the bottom drawer of his trunk: the one he’s enchanted as a vanishing cabinet. Usually it takes no more than a few hours for the supplies to come through, shrunken to 1/8 scale by the charm he’s installed on the other end. But this time he added an “Urgent!” to the foot of the order, just to be sure.

😏

[msmercury84]

"George Luz Performs at the Easy Company Reunion of 1947"

"I Double Dare You-A Rendezvous With Destiny "

*Author's Note * Babe's quote about the reunions came from the book he wrote with Bill, as did the story about the 'tattoo' of an eagle on Guarnere's wooden leg. Gene Guarnere mentioned in a podcast that Bill hated the wooden leg. Gene also told the story about the stinky cheese on the same podcast series. Everything else came from my imagination.*

Bill wasn't able to attend the first Easy Company reunion due to his ongoing physical therapy and getting acclimated to using his wooden leg. He hated the leg due to the fact that it was heavy and cumbersome, but he resolved to make the best of his given situation.

By 1947, Guarnere attended the reunion with Leigh and he also took over all preparations for reunions for the next 60 years.

He kept meticulous records of the men's addresses and telephone numbers. Babe Heffron once said,

"He took care of everything. You didn't need to lift a finger."

Bill started a habit for which he was known at all ensuing reunions. He brought a large stick of pepperoni and some provolone cheese. His son said in a podcast,

"Dad always brought stinky cheese to the reunions. When someone asked why he brought pepperoni, he'd say, 'man can't live by provolone.'"

Leigh had agreed to perform at the reunion in Pittsburgh. The orchestra from the CBS affiliate in Philadelphia volunteered their services free of charge. She had an idea for a humorous number that would involve George Luz's talent for mimicking voices.

Luz agreed to dress up and sing like Patty Andrews. He convinced his wife, Davina, to complete the trio, since she could sing. Leigh, George and Davina rehearsed during several telephone calls.

They were performing a popular Andrews Sisters' song, "I Want My Mama", that tells of a man over 50 who wants kisses and attention from his wife. The song had a Spanish/Cuban rhythm and style.

There was no way to keep the song a secret from Bill, since he heard Leigh singing. He promised to not tell his former brothers in arms about the upcoming surprise.

The night of the show, a few hours before the reunion began, George, Leigh and Davina rehearsed some basic dance steps. Davina helped George get makeup and a blonde wig applied. Then, Luz donned a floral print dress, stockings, a garter belt, a slip and a bra stuffed with stockings. He decided to wear his usual shoes for a more humorous look.

Once he was attired as Patty Andrews, he modeled his outfit for Davina and Leigh. Both women laughed until tears ran down their faces. After their makeup was retouched, they were ready for the show.

Leigh wore a cranberry colored wiggle dress, black stockings and her black open toed high heels. Bill wore the charcoal gray suit made by his father that Leigh gave him for their first Christmas together, a white shirt and black shoes.

Prior to leaving their house to attend the reunion, Bill showed Leigh an eagle that was sketched in blue ink on his wooden leg. He got an artist with whom he worked to draw the eagle.

"Wonder what the guys will think o' my iggle (eagle) tattoo, Baby?"

"It will be interesting to see their reactions."

Later that evening, the reunion was underway and the trio of Leigh, Delvina and George took their places onstage. Audience members laughed at the sight of Luz in his costume. The normally austere Colonel Sink was laughing at the spectacle. Bill laughed loudly at his friend wearing a dress, makeup and a wig.

The wannabe Andrews Sisters did an excellent job of singing and dancing. Remarks and cat calls, along the lines of,

"How about a date, Luz?" and "What are you doing after the show, Doll?" were heard as George performed. In the middle of the song, Luz stepped up to the microphone and delivered a flawless impersonation of Patty Andrews singing,

"I want my momma. My, my, my momma." During an instrumental section of the song, Luz went to the center of the stage. He placed his hands on his hips and sashayed back and forth, shaking his hips and his behind in time with the music.

Bull Randleman guffawed at George's antics until his face turned red. Buck Compton laughed until tears ran down his face. Shifty Powers told Don Malarkey and his wife,

"I declare, I've seen it all. Luz has really outdone himself." Lewis Nixon was sitting by Dick Winters. He laughed and told his friend,

"There's not enough Vat 69 in the world to erase the image of Luz in drag from my mind."

The performers received enthusiastic applause. Some special guests were about to join them. Leigh didn't tell Bill, George and Davina about this surprise.

A collective gasp was heard from the audience as the Andrews Sisters appeared onstage. Maxine and Laverne were frowning. Patty moved a microphone stand close to her and tapped Luz's shoulder.

George turned around and his mouth dropped open in shock as he saw the famous sisters. Davina wondered what George was looking at, so she turned around. She was as stunned as her husband. Patty Andrews asked,

"Sir, do you think it's funny to mock me?" Luz stared at her for a few minutes more until he was able to reply,

"No, Miss Andrews." She hugged George, who was greatly relieved to hear,

"My sisters and I think you did a great job. We loved it!" Davina was happy to hear that her husband hadn't upset the famous trio.

Unbeknownst to the audience, the Andrews Sisters appeared free of charge and they paid for their own transportation and lodgings, telling Leigh it was the least they could do for some veterans who helped win the war. Laverne Andrews told the audience,

"We spoke with your Songbird a few months ago and she mentioned this reunion. We wanted to thank some of the finest members of the 101st Airborne for their service." The audience applauded enthusiastically.

The sisters and Leigh performed several songs before a very appreciative audience. After the show was over, the sisters graciously signed autographs.

Leigh sat with Bill and enjoyed chatting with their friends as the CBS radio Orchestra continued to provide music. She had another surprise in store for Bill. During a telephone conversation she had at the CBS radio station office with Luz to provide privacy instead of talking at home, Leigh asked to borrow his jump wings.

Luz eagerly mailed the wings to her after hearing her plan. She was going to re-create Bill catching the jump wings in his teeth, the way he did during the party at Camp Toccoa when he said,

"Heigh-ho, Silver!" She requested that the orchestra play Glenn Miller's "American Patrol," the same song playing during Guarnere's iconic stunt. Luz assured her that he would immediately begin counting,

"One one thousand, two one thousand..." as soon as the music started. When the jump wings arrived in the mail, Leigh began practicing catching the end of the pin in her teeth as she drank a small glass of water.

She drank slowly, at first, until she felt that she had everything under control. Leigh then practiced drinking a medium sized glass of water until she mastered the stunt. A large glass of water proved to be too much of a challenge since she couldn't drink it within ten seconds.

The orchestra began to play the song. Leigh took the jump wings out of the pocket of her dress and dropped them into her glass of water. She abstained from having a mixed drink until after her performance because she wanted to be in complete control, since the stunt had the potential to be dangerous.

George began counting and soon, all the men counted with him. Bill realized what was going on and he immediately became concerned about Leigh. He blurted out,

"Holy God, Baby!" His remark was drowned out by the men counting. Guarnere tried to remain calm, realizing Leigh was sober and that she wouldn't be careless. She quickly downed the water, caught the pin in her teeth, proudly held it up and said, with a beaming smile,

"Heigh-ho, Silver!" The men applauded loudly. Bill gave her a passionate kiss. He broke the kiss to tell her,

"You scared the hell outta me, ya little fireball. I gotta admit you done a good job an' I'm proud of ya. If you woulda done that (he pronounced the word as 'dat') at the party, I woulda proposed on the spot."

"Now, you tell me!" Guarnere grinned and playfully kissed the tip of her nose. She then returned the jump wings to George Luz.

As the evening progressed, Bill rolled up the right leg of his trousers to expose his tattoo. It was a hit with the men. Luz told him,

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Wild Bill." He then told Leigh, with a fake expression of deep concern on his face,

"It's so sad, Leigh, you used to be a sensible girl. Bill's wild ways rubbed off on you." Luz laughed as both of the Guarneres good naturedly replied,

"Shaddup, ya moron." Bill and Leigh danced the rest of the evening. When the reunion ended, they took a taxi to their hotel room. After making love, Bill held Leigh in his arms.

"Baby, ya went all out to make this reunion a good time for everybody. Promise me that ya won't jump from an airplane wit' a parachute for the next reunion." She laughed,

"Honey, I guarantee that will never happen. There's no way I'd even consider doing something like that."

"I was thinkin' I'd like to take over gettin' everythin' ready for the reunions. Whadda ya think, Sweetheart"

"I think you'll do an excellent job, Bill." Guarnere kissed the top of Leigh's head. Since the lights were turned off in preparation for sleep, he didn't see the mischievous glint in Leigh's eyes when she asked,

"Do you still have your parachute? I was thinking..." Bill laughed loudly,

"You little devil! You're somethin' else." He decided to call her bluff, adding, "I bet Winters would know somebody who could give ya lessons in skydivin'." Leigh giggled, knowing Bill wouldn't go along with that idea.

"OK, smart ass, you got me with that one. You're somethin' else, too." Then, they settled down to sleep.

[canmom]

hi cuba i'm dad

I watched I Am Cuba, whose not-so-recent restoration was playing at the GFT. insanely well shot film, like the level of choreography to pull off those long takes and supercomplicated crane shots with no steadicams or anything is just mind bending. absolutely wild that the soviets didn't say "wow we have a banger on our hands here comrades" and play it everywhere - as a propaganda film, it did its job! definitely leaves you fired up to fight the Cuban revolution.

it is certainly a very didactic film, with the lesson of each vignette being pretty clear. but it is able to lend enough depth to the archetypal characters - the struggling sex worker from a slum who has to hide her relationship serving american visitors at a jazz club, the salt of the earth sugarcane farmer whose land is sold out from under him, the student revolutionary who hesitates to pull the trigger, the other farmer who only wants peace - to get you really engaged, though definitely the revolutionary characters (probably closest to the experience of the filmmakers) feel like they're the most fleshed out.

the third act, in which a revolutionary student plans to assassinate a regime cop (unnamed) but hestitates when he sees the man with his family, only to see that same cop murder first his friend and them himself, is maybe the most spectacular, with huge scenes of rioters getting blasted with water cannons, or the incredible funeral shot...

but it's not just these flashy huge shots; it's a gorgeously lit greyscale film (absolutely crazy detailed looking with the 4k scan, so cheers for that one Scorcese), ingeniously augmented by infrared photography in places to make it extra stark. more than that and so many shots have really elaborate blocking and camerawork, with the camera drifting from actor to actor, effortlessly sliding between closeup and longshot like it's in the hands of Ichirō Itano, which is wild for live action.

one relatively simple scene towards the end I noticed had a revolutionary arriving at a farmer's house and sitting down for the meal; the men argue, and the farmer goes to stand at the door, allowing the camera to perfectly frame the two of them and almost nothing else in the shot.

it is otherwise very happy to linger on a musical sequence, such as the intense club scenes at the beginning, in a way that feels way more modern than you'd think for the 60s.

the architecture of revolution-era Cuba is just as striking - some buildings, like the rooftop where Enrique tries to line up his shot, look like they could easily be modern buildings. compared to the romantic picture of something like Chico and Rita, of course, this is a film determined to remind you how bad things are, not just show you the touristy bits of Cuba. much of the film revolves around the question of violence - certainly from an agitprop angle, like act 3 is sorta should you hesitate (no), and act 4 is like will you be OK if you keep your head down (no); many of the revolutionary songs are in major part about how it's good and righteous die for the country.

when first shown, it was criticised in Havana for stereotypical depictions of Cubans - which doesn't entirely seem unfair, they are kind of stock characters for the most part, although portrayed with a lot of humanity. in the Soviet Union, meanwhile, it got criticised for not being propaganda-y enough, which is wild because to my mind it works better at getting its emotional message across than most oldschool propaganda films I've seen. that said, I definitely need to watch more critical Cuban films from the same period like Memories of Underdevelopment, or recent ones like Strawberry and Chocolate, for some contrast.

all in all cool film, big shoutout to @hamiltonianflow for suggesting we watch it together <3

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Kevin Robillard at HuffPost:

As President Donald Trump drives the stock market down, and his approval rating along with it, by implementing massive tariffs on China and potentially the rest of the world, Democrats across the ideological spectrum have largely stuck to the same script: The tariffs are chaotic, damaging, unnecessary and ill-advised. But small deviations have revealed the latest phase over the party’s seemingly never-ending ideological clash, as moderates have complained about Democratic politicians’ use of qualifiers when condemning tariffs, arguing it gives unnecessary credence to one of the Republican president’s most unpopular ideas. Those politicians have often, but not always, come for the party’s progressive wing. “Trump made a world historic, substantive and political mistake, and caveating your attack on him for this catastrophic error, it makes no sense, either substantively or politically,” said Matt Bennett, the co-founder of the center-left Democratic group Third Way. Progressives, however, see a bigger issue at play, suspecting moderates are trying to enforce ideological purity and reverse influence the left gained over the party’s economic agenda under former President Joe Biden. Biden’s administration used tariffs more aggressively than his Democratic predecessors — though at nothing close to the levels Trump is deploying them at. Progressives and unions have argued smartly-targeted tariffs can help protect critical industries like clean energy and prevent outsourcing. “The intra factional debates are all about who gets to be the ideas person for next time around,” said a progressive strategist who requested anonymity to speak frankly about intra-party splits. “And what wing of the party gets to beat up on the other wing. And I think that’s what you’re seeing from a resurgent middle.”

[...] For what’s it worth, noting some tariffs can be useful is far from the worst message Democrats could be deploying, even if it’s not the ideal argument. A memo prepared by the Democratic pollster Blue Rose Research and obtained by HuffPost found arguments emphasizing “responsible” tariffs were in the middle of the pack in terms of messaging effectiveness. The most effective arguments pointed out tariffs were a tax hike on the middle class, and tied them to broader trends in Trump’s administration, including his threats to Social Security and Medicaid and proposed tax cuts for wealthier Americans. Less effective arguments focused too much on the stock market or on personally insulting Trump. (The two worst-testing arguments were comments put forward by two centrist figures: Never-Trump Republican David Frum and billionaire Democratic surrogate Mark Cuban.) Regardless of what Democrats are saying, the tariffs — and the resulting increased risk of a recession and chaos in financial markets — are taking a clear toll on Trump’s approval rating, which has hit new lows this week, driven in particular by new lows in his handling of the economy. Clear majorities of the public oppose the tariffs in public surveys, and consumer confidence is dropping precipitously. “[Trump] is underwater on the economy, he is underwater on trade,” the progressive strategist said. “It’s not like a couple of Democrats going out and saying that they think tariffs are a good tool but Trump is not using them well is having much impact on that.”

There are also a handful of Democrats and aligned groups who are absent from the conversation entirely, or are even directly praising Trump. And those voices come from both of the party’s ideological wings. Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-N.Y.) has been relatively subdued on the issue, as has moderate favorite Rep. Marie Gluesenkamp Perez, whose district could benefit from Trump’s tariffs on Canadian lumber. And both Rep. Jared Golden (D-Maine), another moderate, and the United Auto Workers, led by the progressive Shawn Fain, have outright praised the tariffs, though Fain backed off some of his prior praise in a livestream on Thursday night. “We support the use of some tariffs on automotive manufacturing and similar industries,” Fain said. “We do not support reckless tariffs on all countries at crazy rates.” Progressive and moderate operatives alike viewed both men’s support as both sincere and as a clear effort to appeal to Trump-supporting constituencies: Golden’s district voted for Trump by a 7-point margin in 2024, and Fain’s union has a significant number of Trump supporters in its ranks.

The Democratic Party’s response to Trump’s tariff tax hike has largely been oppose his tariffs, and as we’ve learned with the Gretchen Whitmer White House appearance debacle, each other.

[ms-spkhd]

thinking about a Blast From the Past steddie au tonight. like, think about it for a second--steve as the sweet, well-meaning himbo raised in a fallout shelter and eddie as the cynic who shows him the world as it is:

The year was 1962, and an atomic bomb had just dropped on top of the Harrington household.

Okay, not really. It was actually a fighter jet that suffered a mechanical failure just above the little plot of land the Harringtons called their home, but Walter Harrington took it differently. Far differently.

See, the thing was that the man was living in a state of paranoid delusion over the Cold War--terrified of the possibility of an outright nuclear holocaust over the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Soviet Union. He had been carefully building a fallout shelter under his home for his wife and possible children to live in with the works--canned food, running water, and even a working television.

And one day they went in and simply never left. The explosion right when they closed the door was tangible proof that the nuclear war was happening right above them.

A few years later, around 1968, a baby boy was born in a fallout shelter with no one but his mom and dad to keep him company.

They raised Steve the best they could, even if Walter Harrington was a mad genius and Madeline Harrington was a borderline alcoholic. Even if the boy was living in a perfect little time capsule of the fifties and early sixties. Walter made sure to educate him right and teach him how to be a sociable gentleman--even if he had no idea what swear words or the concept of sex were. That was for another time. Although, twenty-four years came and went for Steve Harrington, his father still owes him 'another time'.

Steve Harrington grows twenty-four years in perfect seclusion, but that changes at the flick of a switch.

The year is 1992: supplies are dwindling Walter is growing sick, and Steve is tasked to bravely set foot in the nuclear fallout to retrieve more material. (The only reason why Walter assumes they can even get more stuff is because he observed the outside world when the shelter unlocked and mistook it as a post-apocalyptic mutant society.)

The moment Steve made it outside his little bubble, he was utterly fascinated by the world--how different the people were outside of his television and his little books, how bright the sky was outside, how the irritable man on the bus wouldn't accept the money he tried to give him, how the bus moved and didn't fling him right off his seat.

(He even saw an adult bookstore. Dad told him that those things were filled with poisonous gas. How were they even to operate if they were filled with poisonous gas? That's dangerous and totally inconsiderate of the general public's safety.)

Anyway, he tries to follow the grocery list that Mom and Dad gave him the best he can, stocking up on poultry and tissue paper and the works. But by the end of the day, he doesn't know where he came from. Not a single sign or building or person can give him a single clue where to go.

After a few hours of wandering, suitcase in hand, he comes across a store with WE BUY BASEBALL CARDS written on the window.

Golly, Steve loves baseball cards--could look at Dad's collection for hours, and with the collection he has, he could make a pretty penny selling them for supplies. Despite the little hobby store being beside an adult bookstore with poisonous gas, he scampers right in.

"I see you're looking to buy baseball cards," he says breezily to the gruff, scary-looking man behind the counter.

"That I am," he replies.

Steve pulls a few from his jacket's inner pocket. "Well, these are a bit old, you see, but I was hoping you still might be interested."

The gruff man yanks them from his hands, a spark in his eye. He looks delighted to see them, and it fills Steve with an excitement he hadn't felt at all today. Nobody has been this happy over something he's done today. "Woah," he gasps, then covers it with a cough. "Mickey Mantle rookie season...how much do you want?"

"I was hoping to sell all of my cards, actually!"

The man sputters incredulously. "All of 'em? Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not sure what that means, but all I have are hundred-dollar bills and I need something smaller. Like, uh...ones, tens, fives..."

"Tell you what, I'll give you five hundred in small bills for all you got."

Steve smiles brightly. "Oh, that would be wonderful, sir--"

"Five hundred for a case-full of rookie season Mickey Mantles, Rick, are you fucking joking?" A deep voice cuts through Steve's thanks from the other side of the small store. He turns around to find a man leaning against a magazine rack, arms folded sternly.

The man is unlike Steve's ever seen before. Long, long limbs and big brown eyes that look traced with black and smudged around the edges. Pretty lips, too almost girl-ish, in the way they were big and plush like the women he'd see on the television. The strangest thing about him, though, was the curly hair that tumbled past his shoulders.

He looked mad, though. Madder than mad.

"Tell the poor guy you're fucking with him," long-hair-pretty-lips says to the man behind the counter, who bristles.

"Were you raised in a fucking barn, Munson? Who told you to interrupt on business?" Rick counters. Steve was really not appreciating the amount of f-words dropped in the conversation, it was uncouth.

"Sure I was!" Munson saunters towards the counter and Steve's eyes follow him like a moth to a light. "But my morals go past your business practices at this point. You remember the ninth commandment, yeah?"

"You shut your Goddamn mouth--"

"Excuse me sir, but I really don't appreciate how you're using the Lord's name in vain like that," Steve says firmly.

"See?" Munson smiles. It's like sunlight. "He gets it."

He plucks the baseball card from Rick's hand and holds it over his head when he tries to reach for it again. "See this little thing?" He says to Steve sweetly. "This guy costs six grand alone."

"Get out of town! Really?"

"Oh yeah, big guy. Selling the thing would give you a small fortune, and Rick over here is trying to con you out of it."

Steve frowns. "Is that true?" He asks Rick.

"Nothing but," Munson says in place of him. He slips the card back into Steve's hands and gives them a pat.

"The Hell is even keeping you here, Munson?" Rick sneers. "Did the gig you won't shut up about fall through like they usually do? Better to bum it out here than in your shithole apartment? Stop loitering in my damn store and make like a fucking tree. You're banned."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Munson says rolling his eyes. He looks at Steve, then the door, gesturing at it with a flick of his head. "I'll see you out, Beaver."

He walks them both out the door, stopping to gesture at Rick strangely--hands balled into fists with only his middle fingers up--before stepping outside onto the sidewalk.

"Well merci, Monsieur," Steve says appreciatively, because Dad taught him French was always to be used on such occasions.

"What, you're French?"

"Oh no, I'm"--he thinks back to what Dad told him if a mutant asks where he's from. Gosh, he thinks he's supposed to be--"out on business."

"And you don't even have a clue about the little business trick that Rick tried to pull?"

"No...no, I--"

"Yeah, doesn't matter." Munson shrugs. He smiles sympathetically at Steve before turning on his heel and walking off. Oh boy, what would he do without him?

He follows him like a lost puppy, that's what.

"...You going the same way?" Munson asks incredulously. Steve shakes his head.

"Well, I'm following you."

Munson stops in his tracks, blinking, and Steve almost runs into him in his state. "Me?"

"Well yes! Where are we going?"

"We?" Munson asserts. "I'm going back to my shithole apartment, and judging by that jacket you're wearing, you should be taking the next left and hop-skipping straight to the barber college."

"Oh, I'm lost, though."

"Aren't we all?"

"Say, did you just get banned from that hobby store because of me?" Steve says to change the subject.

Munson sighs. "Seems like I did, sailor. The place was shitty anyways, with that dickhead running the operation. Wayne could get better cards from a different joint."

...dickhead? Steve's never heard that leave the seams of anyone's lips before. "Dickhead?"

"Yeah, he's a real fucking loser. A walking talking penis capable of human speech."

Steve gets queasy at the image he's concocted in his head. He leans against the nearest brick wall, his suitcase tumbling to the ground as he drops into a contemplative squat.

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

"Well, the mental image that I..."

Munson's eyebrows scrunch before he reaches out a hand to Steve. He takes it, letting the man haul him upward. "Look, man, where'd you park your car?"

"I came by bus."

"Aren't you full of surprises."

"I am?"

"Okay look." Eddie raises his hands, palms splayed in the air. "It's your first time in Los Angeles, right? Everyone wants a taste of it, I know, and you're out for business and fucking famished. You got the opportunity to see the great big world outside of your little bubble and you got excited--but you took a bus and got mixed up in the middle of San Fernando Valley without a clue in the world. Am I correct?"

Steve listens in wonderment. So far, Munson's been correct in a way. He's convinced he might be psychic. He nods slowly and seriously just to see Munson flash that lighting-strike smile.

"Great, great. Which brings us to here. Correct again?"

"Oh yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

Nowhere, at the moment. Steve opens his mouth to say so, but Munson interrupts quickly. "Holiday Inn?"

"Yes, the Holiday Inn!" Steve says totally truthfully.

"Okay, cool. Cool." Munson claps his hands together with finality and starts walking. "The nearest bus station is a couple of blocks away if you take a right--"

"Don't you have a car?"

Munson stops in his tracks again. He turns to face Steve once again. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Something warm pools in Steve's gut at the pet name. Something about the way those pretty lips form that word sends blood rushing to his cheeks. "Steve," he says.

"Alright, Steve." Oh boy, his name sounds even better when Munson says it. "Rule number one in Los Angeles? Never let a stranger drive you anywhere."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve says sweetly, "I don't have a gun."

Munson pales, then starts running.

"Hey!" Steve cries and makes haste to follow him. "I must've said something wrong, please forgive me!"

"Nope, nope--get the fuck away from me, man!"

He grabs Munson's wrist to pull him back, which is a bad move since the man starts writhing around in his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, sir!"

Steve drops Munson's hand and raises his in surrender. "See?"

"...Just let me get to my car."

"I'll give you a Rogers Hornsby if you take me to my hotel," Steve reasons.

Munson stills. "...That's like four grand, don't bullshit me."

He pulls the card from his jacket and presents it as evidence. "See? I was holding it back." He wants Munson to feel safe. "I got two." He reaches for the other cards in his pockets and pulls them out. "And-and all these other ones, too!"

"Okay, okay. You'll give me four thousand dollars if I drive you to your place?"

"Uh-uh!"

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"And I don't have to give you a quickie in the backseat or anything?"

"Yes sir--wait, what?"

Munson blows past his question like it didn't even leave Steve's mouth. "Can you stop with the sir crap?"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir--"

"My name is Eddie."

Eddie...Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Wow, what a name. It's almost like something he's heard on the television.

"Why, it's nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Tolerable to meet you too, Steve."

Steve smiles shyly, then asks, "So are you a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well it's just your hair...it's so long." Steve points at his as an example. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Dude, it's 1992, every other guy looks like this--have you been living under a rock or something?"

Something like that. Steve shrugs.

"Well guys having long hair doesn't mean that they're girls, Steve, that's a given. It's not 1962 anymore." Eddie backtracks. "Well, I mean, dudes can have long hair and be chicks and chicks can be dudes too but that's not--"

"Oh, wow, my dad told me about one of those the last time he went here!"

"Oh that's fantastic, sweetheart," Eddie says, sugary-sweet. "But how about I drive you home?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Eddie."

[dertaglichedan]

Cuban: Kamala’s Capital Gains Tax Plan Would ‘Kill the Stock Market’

Billionaire investor Mark Cuban warned Thursday on CNBC’s “Squawk Box” that Vice President Kamala Harris’ capital gains tax plan would “kill the stock market.”

Cuban said, “What I told them is if you tax unrealized gains, you’re going to kill the stock market, and it’s going to be the ultimate employment plan for private equity because companies are not going to go public because you can get whipsawed.”

He added, “Based off the unrealized gains, I would have had to borrow money and I effectively would have been in hawk just to pay my tax bill instead of trying to run my company and a thousand other reasons. They realize that is the issue. I can’t repeat it enough. Even though she is not directly conflicting the Biden tax plan, to her her value proposition is, we need to tax everybody fairly.”

***Just waking up Mark?