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juletheghoul · 8 months ago

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Castaways (Part 1)

AN: Before I get into the notes for this - I want to say a quick thank you to everyone who took the time to send me a message / comment on my post, it meant a lot to me. 💜💜💜 As for this story, I started writing it in Sept of 2022, after watching the Harrison Ford movie, Six Days, Seven Nights lol. I had a lot of it down pretty quickly but eventually, I stopped. Now that new ideas aren't as bountiful as they once were, I started combing through all of the half-finished works in my docs and I fell back in love with this one. Hopefully you enjoy it. I have an ending planned out so there will definitely be a part 2! Shout out to @wheresarizona for betaing and just general wonderfulness, to @just-here-for-the-moment for screaming at me through comments in this doc. Enjoy xox.

Pairing; Frankie Morales x f!reader (Princess as a nickname)

Warnings; C o m p e t e n c y - a very brief snake…encounter?-piv sex (wrap it up), swearing, dirty talk, Frankie eats pussy with gusto (when doesn't he), creampie, longing, yearning, a helicopter crash (nothing too graphic), reader is spoiled at first and generally kind of snobby- enemies to lovers? Bit of a slow burn! let me know if I missed anything.

Word count; 13k 😅

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist

The click of your heels sounded throughout the airy hangar with a purpose, the echoing sound of it heralding your journey to give someone—anyone hell.

A quick flick of your wrist reminds you how late you already were for the retreat booked in your private slice of paradise; the private jet your father paid a fortune for had made an emergency stop in Puerto Rico- some nonsense about a storm.

Unacceptable.

An imperious sigh leaves your mouth -not a single person to lay into anywhere in sight, and it leaves you no choice but to head outside to see if there is a plane you could commandeer.

—

He wipes the grease onto the legs of his well-worn work coveralls, his previous scowl gone and replaced with a triumphant smile - finally got that fucking bolt off-

“Excuse me-” He turns toward the sound and is greeted by a very annoyed-looking woman. “Hi, do you know where I can find a pilot? There’s no one in the hangar.” She drags a very expensive-looking suitcase behind her with one hand, the other holding a ridiculously large hat onto her head.

“Hi, yes I’m a pilot - most of the staff have gone home, a big storm coming soon-”

“Perfect, can I hire you to fly me to this island?” Her fingers flew across the no-doubt latest model of smartphone in her hands - ignoring the shocked expression on his face at being so rudely interrupted. “This one here, I need to be there like three hours ago, and I would be there now if we hadn’t stopped here - you know where this is, right? Can you take me?” She all but shoves the phone into his face.

“No.” He carefully moves her manicured hand away from his face, and a tiny, cruel little part of him enjoys the shock in her expression - he very quickly gets the impression that this girl is not used to hearing the word. “As I was saying - everyone has gone home, a lot of people were grounded here, myself included. There is a big thunderstorm coming. Not safe to fly until it passes. Shouldn’t last too long - a quick squall - come back tomorrow, and I’ll happily fly you there.” He then turns to continue his work.

“Money is no object, but I need to leave now,” she says it through a huffed breath, and his eyebrows raise.

“And yet, my answer is still no.” He’s annoyed now. In truth, it was a fairly quick flight - he knew the island she’d shown him, had made the trip before, and it would be less than an hour, but her attitude was a black mark against her. Her phone trills then, a cheery tone, momentarily snatching her attention from him.

“Hi, Dad, yeah, I know. I’m at the hangar, looking for a ride.” She taps her foot, and it sets his teeth on edge. “There is a pilot here, but he says he won’t fly me.” She narrows her eyes at him when he turns to look at her, listening to the other half of the conversation he wasn’t privy to. “I’ll tell him- Sorry-” She inspects his name tag, “Francisco, my father says if you get me to the island within the hour, he’ll make it worth your while. Name your price.”

“I don’t know what part of it isn’t safe isn’t registering-” She raises her voice and speaks over him.

“He’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.” Her tone is loud but bored. “Besides - the skies are gorgeous - I’m sure we can make it before anything happens.” She waits a moment, “Plus another five grand when you land. And you can have accommodations until tomorrow - room service, the works. Just please - get me there.” Her eyes are hopeful, and for a brief moment, he acknowledges how pretty she is, or - would be, if she wasn’t such an insufferable princess.

He knew he should have said no. Knew he should have turned her down and followed the guidelines, but that kind of money would change his life. Change their lives- it would have been insane for him to turn it down.

“Fine.” He relents, shoving down the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll be your pilot. We’ll be out of here in ten minutes.” She almost jumps with joy, and he can’t hide the annoyed expression on his face.

“Done - okay, I’ll be there soon, Dad! Bye.”

He was covered in grease.

You had to remind yourself not to wrinkle your nose at him. You supposed he could be handsome, in a scruffy, working man way, but that's beside the point. He was your saving grace right now, and that counted for a lot.

He fiddles with the engine of the helicopter for a moment more while he leaves you to wrestle your suitcase in by yourself, thankfully without breaking a nail.

“Alright - just going to perform a couple of checks, and we’ll be in the air.” He got in and began flicking switches, turning knobs, and checking over all manner of gauges while you made yourself as comfortable as was possible in the cramped little aircraft. It was hard, though, with your suitcase practically digging into your back behind you.

It’s fine. I’ll just have to get a massage once I land.

“Okay, we’re off.” He has his headset on, and you are in the air within a few moments. That, unfortunately, seemed to be the end of your good luck.

Whether by some cruel design, by the fates or gods, or whatever entity dictated the events of your life - it didn’t take twenty minutes in the air for the sky to turn a foreboding gray.

“That doesn’t look good,” he says, the words loud enough to be heard over the noise, his eyes quickly scanning the horizon, no doubt taking in the dark clouds flanking either side of the already rickety helicopter.

“It came out of nowhere.” One minute, the sky was blue, and the next, lightning forked the sky in the distance.

“No, it didn’t - I told you a storm was coming. This is too dangerous - I’m going to have to turn around for our safety.” He maneuvers the controls, and you have no choice but to agree despite your annoyance.

It all happened so fast.

Something strikes the aircraft, the sound of it booming in your ears so loud it hurts, and then he’s frantic. Manically pressing buttons and calling through the radio, but from the frustrated and frankly terrified expression, no one is answering.

“Fuck, tighten your seatbelt, we’re going down!” He grits his teeth, and all of a sudden, you are spinning, a scream being ripped from your throat - your heart falling out of your ass. “Impact coming - brace yourself!” he screams before the world goes black.

Someone is making noise, a low groaning noise that pulls him out from the depths of unconsciousness, he’s only mildly surprised to realize it is him.

The helicopter - his helicopter wasn’t making any noise, which was bad.

Under normal circumstances, it would be broadcasting out a signal beacon that would bring in a rescue team, but as it stood right now - without blinking lights or a working radio - it had gone completely silent.

Lighting must have fried it. Fuck.

He took stock of his situation. Luckily, he doesn’t feel any injuries aside from horrible whiplash. No blood, no broken bones. A softer groan comes from the woman beside him; she’s still out, and he couldn’t see any injuries- he’d know when she woke up.

I could kill you right now.

He thought the words, sighing loudly to himself before finding a way out of the cockpit. He’d managed to move most of what he had in the helicopter out onto the sand by the time she woke.

“Jesus Christ - what the hell happened?” She stumbles out, barely managing to stop herself from eating shit in the process, unfortunately.

“What happened is the storm I warned you about many times caught us in the air and grounded us here.” He’s laying out his supplies, lengths of rope, his toolbox, and empty water jugs. He has a small case with a flare gun, an emergency kit filled with first aid supplies, and a massive tarp. There are a few more things to go through, but it is important they find a source of freshwater soon, or they won’t last two days, especially with the heat making his clothes stick to his body.

She sighs loudly, struggling to make her way through the sand in those ridiculous heels she’s wearing

“And now we’re stuck here, on an island when, where I should be, is home with my-“

“Can’t you call mayday or something? My father is expecting me. I’m sure he’ll have an army looking for us.” She’s digging through her purse frantically, ignoring the scathing look he’s giving her.

Spoiled little brat, you only care about yourself, huh?

“Wow. You know what? That’s a great idea! Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” He can’t hold back. “Oh! I know, it’s because we were struck by lightning, and it fried everything, so whatever army your father sends won’t find us -there is no signal to hone in on.” He scowls at her, annoyed that she isn’t paying attention to him even now. “Doesn’t help that a lot of these islands that are usually full of tourists are uninhabited after the hurricane that hit a few months ago.”

“So we’re stuck here???” Her eyes are wild as they look past him, to the beach just beyond, and then to the thick greenery behind them. “This cannot be happening right now,” she spoke to herself.

“Where the fuck is my phone??” She moves and makes her way back into the cockpit, all but ripping the aircraft apart before- “Fuck! You have got to be fucking kidding me! Don’t you have some kind of satellite phone or something??” She’s tapping at the deeply damaged screen, it completely destroyed.

He couldn’t help but bark out cruel laughter.

“I don’t know what planet you’re on. People - regular people don’t just have satellite phones, sweetheart.” He got up from his place in the sand, making sure to put the flares back in the helicopter.

“Great. Just great.” She sighs loudly, “So we’re stuck here. Do you even know where here is?” She fishes into her bag once more, pulling out a bottle of what looks to be sunscreen, and squeezing out some to spread over her exposed skin.

“No. I don’t, but the heat is going to kill us if we don’t find water soon. Grab one of those jugs, and let’s go find water. You might want to change your shoes.” He pushes her suitcase at her, ignoring the shocked look on her face. “Chop chop, princess, let’s move.”

This couldn’t be happening, this could not be happening!

Right now, you should have been mingling with Louis, the gorgeous, billionaire bachelor your father invited to your private resort. You could almost picture it, the classy yet sexy outfit you’d be wearing while you flirted over a drink by the infinity pool. Broadening your horizons and nailing down the rich husband you deserve.

Instead, you’re here - stuck in the sand with the world's grumpiest pilot, trying desperately to get your phone to work, but it’s no use.

You can almost see the frantic look on your mother's face now that it was obvious that you hadn’t made it at the scheduled time, she and your father were probably coordinating with the military right this second, with the Navy.

What the fuck am I going to do-

The jug hits your lap, scaring you half to death.

“Come on, princess, let’s get moving. We have to find fresh water before we die of dehydration out here.” He’s standing a few feet away, staring at you with his perpetual scowl. “Change your shoes, and let’s go.”

“What’s wrong with my shoes?” They were pretty sensible as far as your sandals went, respectable heels, and relatively comfortable. His scowl deepens.

“You cannot stumble around the island in those, you’ll break an ankle, and I am not fucking dealing with that.” His eyes narrow. “Tell me you brought a pair of runners in that giant trunk.”

“Of course I did,” your tone is icy as you get up with a huff. You quickly changed into them, and then you were off.

The terrain got more and more treacherous the further you got from the powdery white sand of the beach. Dirt and bramble gave way to thick, almost jungle-like vegetation, making the trek harder and harder as time slogged by.

The sound of running water greets the two of you like a siren song, spurring your tired, sweat-soaked body to move quicker, and the sight that meets you once you break the dense treeline could've made you moan. You jump into the water to cool your heated skin, ignoring the warning from Francisco.

“You should get out of there.” He’s at the edge of the clearish water, filling the jugs quickly.

He seems to be determined to infuse his sour attitude into everything, your mouth opened to tell him to relax when something brushes past your leg. At first, you think it might be a piece of underwater flora, but it becomes apparent very quickly that it’s something far worse.

“Francisco.” His eyes met yours, “Francisco, something just swam into my shorts, I-I think it’s a snake.” Your voice trembles slightly, hands itching to pull whatever it was out, but his voice cuts through the urge.

“Don’t move- are you sure it’s a snake?” He put the jugs down beside him, moving closer to you, descending slowly into the water.

“Yes, It’s coiling around my thigh, moving up - I need it out right now, I wanna just grab it-“ Your head tilts down, but he stops you.

“Don’t move! It could be venomous.” He wades into the water towards you slowly, too slowly. Your heart’s racing, hands shaking as you wait for him to reach you.

“Help me, get it out, get it out!” your voice is almost manic, desperation colouring every single inch of you.

“Okay, okay, calm - deep breath.” You followed his example as best you could, trying yet failing to ignore the slithering against your skin. “Slowly pull your waistband away from your body, and I’ll see if I can grab it,” his tone had lowered, a soothing timbre reminding you for a moment of how a teacher would speak to a student.

It helps.

You did as he asked, pulling at the waistband of your shorts, all thoughts of propriety forgotten, and within a moment, his hand was shoved down deep - a rather large hand fighting with whatever it was that had made camp in your pants.

He bit his lip in concentration, bodily pulling you towards him as he struggled. A moment later, he was raising it up triumphantly.

A huge shiver went down your spine at the sight of it, spurring you to get out of the water as fast as humanly possible.

“Jesus Christ, it’s just one fucking thing after another,” you spoke as you made it out without incident, ignoring the huge sigh he let out behind you. “Thank you for that.” He was following closely behind you, not interested, it seemed, in having a similar experience.

“Don’t mention it. Let's fill these and get back to the beach.” He hands you a couple of empty jugs, and you reluctantly got to work.

All things considered, they were lucky. Frankie knew that. His helicopter - albeit small - was surprisingly well-equipped to handle being stranded. He had an emergency survival kit, purchased partly under the insistence of his mother but mostly so he never had to relive what had happened to him a few years ago. He’d tried not to think about it, but walking through the foliage back to the crash site had brought it all back. Vividly.

He pushed it away, shoved it down deep where he kept the rest of his issues - instead choosing to focus on what they needed to do. They needed some form of shelter, and soon.

“I am sweltering,” her voice was low behind him, whiny with the distinct tone of someone who had never truly been uncomfortable a day in her life. “Fucking starving.”

“Most likely, you’re dehydrated. Once we get back to the beach, we can figure out the water,” he spoke over his shoulder. “Have to make camp if we’re going to be here for a while.” They broke through the treeline, seeing his helicopter on the beach like a pile of old bones broke his heart a little - his only connection to home, to his little girl. He pushes it all away again.

“So how do we get this water drinkable?” she huffs out the words, dropping the jugs next to his laid-out supplies with great effort.

“We have to set up a purifying system, filter it, and then boil it.” He crouches down towards his supplies, looking for something clean he could use as a sieve. Luckily, he always kept an overnight bag with him, in case of being grounded somewhere, but he only had three shirts in there, he couldn’t burn one since he didn’t know exactly how long they’d be stuck there.

“I don’t have much in terms of clothes - you got anything we could use?” He looks up at her, “Something simple, a cotton t-shirt? Something we could use to strain the water.” He walks towards her trunk, waiting for her to open it up.

She opens it reluctantly, rifling through her things for a moment before handing over a simple white shirt. “Any chance I’ll be able to wear that again?” her voice is vaguely annoyed.

“I’m sure Daddy won’t mind buying you a new one.” She gives him an expression that could curdle milk. He ignores it. Instead, he busies himself, setting the jugs of water somewhere relatively level. He felt her eyes on him, and it compelled him to explain what he did as he worked. “We have to let the water settle for about an hour, let the sediment sink to the bottom, then strain it, then boil it.” Not for the first time in his life, he was happy to have his military gear within reach.

He works fast - you have to give him that.

As much as he grumbles and looks at you like you are the devil incarnate - you couldn’t deny that he was incredibly intelligent. Within a few hours of getting back to the camp, he had built an impressive fire, filtered the jugs of water, and had boiled most of it.

“Tomorrow, we’ll get to work building some sort of shelter,” he spoke after he finally sat down, the first break he’d taken all day. “Have to go about looking for food too, I saw some fruit trees - we’ll grab them on the way back from getting more water.” His eyes are heavy, you can see it in the way he blinked slower and slower.

“We have to make that trek again?” your voice is shrill, he sighs loudly.

“We’ll have to make that trek every single day until we’re rescued. Water is the most important thing. No delivery service here, princess,” his voice is sleepy, the usual bite in his words softened by the need for sleep.

“How will anyone find us?” The worry is evident in your voice.

“I have a flare gun and three flares - we’ll be able to signal someone. Go to bed, we have a lot of work to do tomorrow.” He gestures to the helicopter–lovely, this will be comfortable.

—

The knock on the helicopter window ripped you out of sleep, your heart racing as you clutched at your chest.

“Wake up, princess.” He taps on the glass and through bleary eyes, you take note of the smile on his face as he wakes you up, “We have work to do.” He taps one last time and then leaves you.

You flash him the middle finger as he turns and laughs, annoying you even more.

You join him on the beach a little later, ignoring the ache in your body from sleeping in a half seated position. God I really need that massage.

“I’m going to make the trek for more water, while I do that you are going to gather palm fronds.” He had a jug in his hand as he moved towards the treeline. For a moment you panicked, the thought of being alone causing your heart to sink.

“Wait, you’re leaving me alone?” You moved a few steps towards him, catching yourself before making it to him. “I mean–um,” You raised your chin at the surprised look on his face, ignoring it. “How many fronds?” There was an abundance of them, both on the ground and in the trees just beyond the sand. He paused, giving you a curious look.

“As many as you can, we’ll need way more than you think.” He turned then, and left you to it.

Time crawled by while you were alone, with only your thoughts and the sound of waves to accompany you. Sweat dripped down your brow as you gathered, gathered and gathered some more. Enough fronds that it made a huge pile beside the fire pit Francisco had made. Your stomach growling almost constantly now–the hunger so intense it was making you light headed.

Branches snapped, drawing your gaze towards his form. He had the jug in one hand and a stalk of bananas in the other. It was enough to make you moan.

“This is good, but it’s not enough. We have to gather more - have to cut down a bunch of bamboo too.” He put the jug next to the others before joining you where you sat. “Here, you must be starving.” He ripped off a handful of the glorious fruit and tossed them into your lap.

Nothing had ever tasted so good.

“Jesus Christ, I thought I would pass out.” You knew you had fruit on your face, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. “Thank you.” You peeled another, eating it just as quickly as the first.

“Don’t mention it. Okay, let's get to work.”

Your fingers were sore, your back was sore, every single part of you was sore. Hours crawled by with the sun beating down on you both as you weaved fronds together. He had you create sheets and sheets of it, had you help him cut down enough bamboo to build a house. He did the heavy lifting and made what looked like a crude rope tying together the bamboo in layers strong enough to hold both of you.

Wordlessly, he worked, the sweat dripping down his face, soaking through his shirt like a marathon runner until it was a hindrance and he took it off, used it as a rag that hung limp over his shoulders. This was much worse than a marathon, though, much worse than any workout you’d ever done in your life, and although you’d never say it out loud, you were incredibly thankful he was here.

I probably would have died by now.

It was a terrifying thought that without him, you wouldn’t survive - you shoved it away. It wouldn’t matter soon because your parents would be looking, and they wouldn’t stop until they found you.

“Come lay on this, I want to see if it’ll hold both of us.” He stood over the platform, laying on it as you came closer. It held. “Perfect. We’ll be elevated off the sand, less chance of bugs or crabs biting us, and it’ll be cooler than the helicopter.” He let out a weary, tired sigh.

“You’re expecting us both to sleep on this?” You couldn’t help your tone, and instantly you felt bad. He’d worked very hard on this. His brow furrowed.

“You’re welcome to sleep where you want. I’ll be on this.” He got up, his scowl now back in place, “I’m going to finish here and then go fishing. Keep weaving.”

Quietly, you got back to work.

In all his years, Francisco had never met someone so spoiled and self-serving - even though he’d expected it from her, it still hurt. He didn’t know why - why it would matter that some spoiled rich brat was acting like a spoiled rich brat; maybe it was the lack of gratitude. He was useful, he was smart and he had skills that he knew for a fact she’d die without.

He stewed over it as he swam towards a large boulder protruding out of the water near the shore. A perfect spot to catch the fish that swam around in the reef below the surface.

I should let her starve. Find her own food and her own water.

He wouldn’t, though, he couldn’t. All his life, he’d been taught to be a good person, to help where he could and after what had happened in that jungle - he shook it off, pushed it down. Ignored the cruel, petty voice in his head and set about catching something to eat. All the while keeping an eye on the horizon for a boat - for any sign that people were looking for him. That his people were looking for him.

He let himself think about them, really think about them for the first time since the crash. His parents, his little girl, let himself feel the emptiness of being without them. He let the waves of it crash over him just as the ocean around him crashed into the shore, and then he put it away.

She was still working when he came back with his catch, her face scrunched up in concentration - ignoring her, he went about doing what needed to be done.

“Is this enough?” Her voice cut through his concentration, and he nodded noncommittally - leaving the prepped fish on a relatively clean piece of driftwood he’d found.

“Hold this.” He stood at the corner of the raised bed and had her hold a tall, sturdy piece of bamboo. His plan was to make a small frame around the base, use the tarp in order to waterproof it, and lay the fronds all around to protect them from the winds that blew through here in bad weather.

She watched him work in silence, standing where he told her to stand, holding what he told her to hold and eventually, finally - they finished. It was as solid a structure as he could manage without planks of wood or nails, strong enough to survive against a moderate storm and to keep them off the sand.

He’d used the tarp to cover the roof and three sides, leaving one open for them - him to enter. On top were rows of fronds to catch rainwater and prevent it from pooling in the tarp, the rest of the unused woven sheets she’d made laid inside to use as bedding. With the emergency blanket and his military bedroll this would make a decent bed.

All in all, he was proud of himself, he took the raw materials he’d found on this island, and fashioned himself – themselves a shelter.

His stomach growled. It was time to start that fire.

Your stomach was screaming out in hunger. The bananas had been wonderful, but they weren’t enough.

“Are you sure that’s safe to eat?” You watched him wrap the fish in banana leaves and put it into red hot embers; you couldn’t help but be slightly dubious about eating something he’d just pulled out of the ocean. He sighed loudly before answering.

“You don’t have to eat it,” he sounded tired, and you supposed he must have been with how hard he’d worked. “It’s edible. I’ve caught this fish before.” He wiped at his brow with the shirt around his shoulders, his skin slightly pink from the sun.

You didn’t say anything, still unsure, but when the time came for him to unwrap the blackened leaves, your stomach growled loudly. It looked very good.

He didn’t offer any, instead, he snatched a piece of the steaming, flaky fish and popped it into his mouth, relishing the taste with a loud groan and a big smile. A nice smile, in truth.

“Maybe I’ll try a little bit.” You scooted closer to where he sat in the sand, unable to resist it.

“Here, careful - it’s very hot.” He tore a piece of a fresh banana leaf and gave you a decently sized filet, and with singed fingers and zero patience, you took a bite.

It was, without a doubt, the most delicious thing you’d ever eaten.

“Good?” He ate quickly, his expression amused at your very obvious enjoyment of the ‘dubious’ fish.

“It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever had.” You meant every word, and licked every last morsel off your fingers.

It was incredibly dark by the time the food was eaten, and the fire had died out. Francisco was attaching a piece of netting to the open side, and once he was done, he climbed in without another word.

The helicopter felt safe, enclosed and a space you could lock, but the shelter would have airflow. It would be infinitely cooler to sleep in. You knew that, eventually that helicopter would turn into a greenhouse that felt more like an oven. Not to mention how horrible it was to sleep sitting up.

Every second that passed made the shelter look more and more appealing, and after quickly changing into clean clothes, you slipped in silently, but it didn’t even matter, he was already asleep.

—

He woke to the feeling of soft breath on his back, the air was significantly cooler than it had been during midday, and now, in the early dawn of the morning she was seeking him out for warmth. It was in him to pull away, to deny her, but instead, he stayed motionless. Let her even breath comfort him for a few moments before he eventually rose to bathe in the ocean. Her hand was draped around his middle, pressing herself flat to him while she slept, completely oblivious.

He thought about how scandalized she’d be to know she was being so intimate with him; it almost made him laugh, but soon, that internalized mirth shifted to something bitter, something close to anger. He was only too aware that when she looked at him, she saw ‘the help’; someone like her could never see him as anything other than someone else to pay off, the person hired to do things below her. She shifted in her sleep, burrowing closer, her soft puffs of air ruffling the hair curling at the base of his skull.

Why does that bother me? I don’t even care about this person.

He sighed, confused with himself over these baffling feelings of inadequacy, frustrated that being close to another person felt good. Annoyed that he didn’t want to pull away - no matter how much of a brat she was. If she woke now and saw them tangled, she’d be embarrassed, perhaps even disgusted, he knew this for a certainty. So he left her.

Dawn found you almost frustratingly well-rested, as well as alone. All doubts that may have lingered about the craftsmanship of the shelter evaporated like the morning dew. A long, much-needed stretch is the catalyst that moves you out of the shelter, making sure to close the netting on your way to grab your toiletry bag when he catches your eye from his place in the water. The early morning sun lit up the surface like diamonds. He was running his hands through his hair, wringing out the shirt he’d been wearing the day before. His skin was golden, the high planes of his face kissed by the sun's rays, his shoulders too. You watched him for a time, unable to ignore the breadth of his shoulders - the pleasant sight of his thighs and it was hard not to stare at him when he rose out of the water, the droplets from his golden skin casting a sort of spell on their way back down to earth.

His hands were something else altogether, weaving their own magic the closer he came to shore, from the way they wrung out the shirt easily to the way they adjusted his considerable bulge as he walked, and you looked away quickly, ignoring the curious heat crawling up your chest.

He found you brushing your teeth, pointedly looking away.

“I’m going to go look for more fruit.” He spoke as he put the wrung-out shirt to dry next to some of the other things he’d washed before changing out of his wet boxers behind the cover of the helicopter. “You should gather more firewood, things to burn for tonight.” When he came back around, he was dressed in a clean white tee and a pair of shorts. Looking for all the world like a man on vacation.

“I’m coming with you.” You rose from your place in the sand quickly, shuffling to reach him before he left you. “I’d rather not wait around.”

“Fine, come on then.” With that, you both set off into the trees.

The morning was full of birdsong and sunlight, bright buttery shafts of it cutting through the trees while the former echoed around you.

“This would be a gorgeous place to vacation.” He echoed your thoughts as you followed a faint path in the brush.

“I guess, would need a vast improvement.” Like a hotel, and an actual landing strip maybe. He laughed low, his eyes looking high into the trees.

“I don’t know, I don’t mind it being a bit rustic.” He pointed ahead, a few coconut trees catching his attention.

“This is more than a bit rustic I’d say. God I can’t wait until my parents find me. I should be by the pool right now, mingling with Louis.” Your palm smacks against the first of surely many bites rising on your skin.

“That your boyfriend?” He’s serious now, scooping a couple of coconuts from the floor and dropping them into your arms.

“No, but he should be. He’s an insanely wealthy man my father invited to our private island, where I should be right now.” You sighed loudly, annoyed at the situation all over again. “Soon. Soon, I will be back where I belong. God, my mother is probably worried sick, you know?” You stood there, holding onto the coconuts he stacked in your arms before moving on to find more fruit.

“Sure.” He all but grunts, moving carefully through the brush. “I get it-“

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the military is out searching for me right now.” An image of handsome Louis frantically joining the search with your parents makes your stomach flip.

I wonder if he is worried about me?

“Focus.” His voice rips you out of your daydream. “Let’s grab some more bananas, and head back.” He seems annoyed - he’s always annoyed.

“I hate this.” Your arms ache from holding the heavy coconuts. “Shouldn’t we be building a signal fire or something?” You can hear the whining tone, but you can’t stop it. Must everything be so hard?

“And just what are we meant to signal? Seen a bunch of planes, have you?” His tone is icy, his expression angry. “Cruise ships sailing by us every hour?” He finds a banana tree and cuts down a stalk, his movements aggressive.

“Well no-“

“Exactly. We’re on our own, which means until the military or whoever is looking for you finds this island- we have to work.” He props the bananas against his shoulder and turns back towards the camp, pointedly ignoring the way you struggle to keep up with him.

You’re already covered in sweat by the time you make it back to camp, breathing hard and soaking through your clothes.

“Jesus Christ, I cannot with these things.” You dump the coconuts next to the water jugs, shaking out your aching limbs. He sets the bananas next to them before moving to grab some firewood from the tree line. Your eyes scan the beach, the waves gently lapping at the shore; it would be pretty enough without the eye sore that is the helicopter.

“I cannot wait to be away from this hunk of junk.” His movements stop at your words.

“That hunk of junk was my entire fucking livelihood. I don’t have a rich daddy to just buy me a new one.” He tosses the wood pieces angrily into the pit, ignoring the recoil his tone inspired. “Not everyone has it so easy, princess.”

“No, I guess they don’t, sorry-“ he spoke over you.

“Forget it.” He let out a sigh. “Let’s just do what we can to survive until someone finds us.” His expression was cold, and you can’t help the guilt that blooms in the pit of your stomach.

“Sounds good.” The rest of the day passed by in silence.

—

The days both fly, and crawl by and Frankie works each and every one of them. He works to find them food, he works to reinforce their shelter - to make them as comfortable as he possibly can, all while trying his hardest not to lose his mind. The picture of his little girl burned a hole in his heart when he looked at it each night. He only hoped she knew he’d come back to her.

Being stuck on an island by himself would have been bad enough; the loneliness, the isolation would no doubt be detrimental to his mental health, to his hopes of being found, but this? This had to be worse.

She helped, but only because he pushed her to. He knew that if it were up to her - they would have long since starved. He watched her as he braided more palm fronds to pad the sleeping platform, she was washing some of the clothes she’d worn as best she could, and he couldn’t help but admit that she was pretty. Her face was pleasant to look at when her nose wasn’t turned up. He can’t help but like the shape of her, imagining her skin would be soft and silky - he’d definitely been on this island too long.

Doesn’t matter how attractive she is, she doesn’t want you, and you don’t want her.

He didn’t know if he was reminding himself, or convincing himself.

A noise in the treeline behind him stops him mid-braid and for a moment, he thinks there might be someone else on the island, but he realizes what it is and grabs his knife. If he plays this right, tonight they’d eat like kings.

A new appreciation was born of having to wash your own clothes, for electricity, for washing machines and dryers, for Tide pods. For the maids who did your laundry and for the people who did your drycleaning, for the neat drawers full of clean clothes waiting at home.

For now, these would have to do. They wouldn’t smell like your favourite fabric softener, but they’d be clean enough to wear here at least. Francisco had set up a makeshift laundry line from the helicopter to a leaning palm tree, his things hanging as you added your own, and you briefly considered folding his things for him when his absence caught your attention.

“Francisco?” you called out to him, ignoring the way your heart raced. Usually, when he went off to get water or fruit, he let you know; it was unlike him to leave without a word. There had to be a reason. He wouldn’t just abandon you, would he?

Grab a hold of yourself, where the hell would he even go?

He crashed through the trees, triumphant and laughing, and you shoved away the altogether too-big feeling of relief that washed over you to see him.

“Good news, Princess, there’s wild boar on the island.” It was the happiest you’d seen him, well, ever. “It’ll be hard, but I think I can catch one.” He was making his way towards his supplies, and very quickly, the relief turned to dread. “We’re going to feast-”

“You’re going to kill a wild pig?” It was very hard to keep the worry out of your tone, or off your face.

“What’s the matter, never had pork chops?” He frowned now, his hands on his hips facing you.

“I mean, yeah, but this is a little different than going to a butcher and grabbing a few chops. You’re going to hunt down the animal and kill it? I’m not into that. I don’t know if I could eat it.” He narrowed his eyes at you, no doubt preparing to rip you a new one. “It’s also incredibly dangerous - they have a tendency to gore people.” His expression changed at that, real consequences seemed to get through to him.

“I mean, it’s not that different, but fine.” The wind had gone out of his sails, “I’ll see if I can catch something in the water - you okay with that?” He grabbed his fishing gear, raising an eyebrow, and you nodded before he made his way towards the water. You knew he was probably cursing you for ruining whatever he imagined cooking, but still, you couldn’t help but consider it a victory.

Babe, the pig wouldn’t be dying on your watch, and neither would he. Instead, he returned to the camp a few hours later with a fish, a few crabs, and a look that said you better not have any complaints. You didn’t. None that you’d say out loud anyway.

Dinner was a quiet affair, tasty and filling with the fish and the added protein; you both went to sleep full, and ungored.

Something loud dragged you up and out of the haze of sleep. It was still dark, and the sun had not risen yet. The sound was definitely something loud - probably just a plane. You shot up, scrambling out of the shelter to see if what you were hearing was real, Francisco barely moved.

It was high up, but it was definitely a plane.

“Francisco! There’s a plane. Where are the flares?” You all but barrelled into the shelter to shake him out of his dreams.

“Hmmm, tired baby.” He was out of it but strong when he pulled you closer - you ignored the way your stomach flipped on its ass at his pet name.

“Francisco, let me go, there’s a plane!” You smacked at his face lightly, just enough to wake him up.

“Huh? A plane?” your words broke through his sleep-addled brain, and he shot up. “What kind of plane?” He was out and grabbing at his bag momentarily before he swore loudly, a sigh filling the quiet of the dawn. “You called me for a commercial plane? You didn’t actually fire a flare, did you?” The blood drained from his face momentarily.

“No, I would have, but I didn’t know where you put the flare gun.” You frowned at him, annoyed. “I thought they’d see it.”

“Thank Christ.” He took a deep breath, his hands on his hips, “That Is a commercial flight, and if you’d fired the flare, it would have not only been a waste of a flare, but you could have burned the shelter down, could have ruined our supplies.” He seemed angry, and that, in turn, pissed you off.

“I didn’t think about that, I was trying to help-“ You crossed your arms, ignoring the annoyed look on his face.

“With the altitude that plane has, it wouldn’t matter if we had a thousand flares; come to me before you try to signal anyone, got it Princess?” He didn’t wait for a response, instead, he got back into bed and didn’t mention the incident again.

You got back into the shelter, laying in the pre-dawn glow - conflicting feelings fighting for dominance within you. You stared at his back, at the soft curl of hair he wore like a halo, and the fluttering of your stomach won out for just a moment. The solid press of him holding you close while still asleep was strangely welcome, although you’d never admit it. His condescending tone came to mind then, he had a habit of speaking down to you, and while you could admit you weren’t the most knowledgeable in survival, you still deserved to be spoken to like an adult.

You fell asleep fighting the urge to both press yourself close, and smack him upside the head.

When morning well and truly came, it found you both in a terrible mood.

He was quiet, much like he always was when he was annoyed, so you left him with his thoughts and set off to find more fruit through the path you’d both taken to traveling every few days. Luckily, the island was bountiful, and there were plenty of bananas, coconuts, and even some mangoes, but there was only so much you could take and you decided to venture out a bit further, keeping your eyes peeled for something different.

After a while, you found a berry bush, a small variety you didn’t recognize at once, but they were a very gorgeous, deep purple colour. Thinking he might appreciate a change as much as you, you picked a few handfuls and wrapped them up in a banana leaf before continuing your scavenging.

This was where your luck ran out, however, and if there were other varieties of fruit, they weren’t for you to find. Instead, you picked up a few mangoes and a coconut on your way back.

You found him looking through his things from the helicopter, a scowl on his face.

“Hey, I found some berries-” He looked up at the sound of your voice, his brow furrowed at the smile on your face. “I figured you were probably getting sick of the same fruit we’d been eating. I was hoping to find something else, but no luck.” You set them down in front of him.

“You didn’t eat this, did you?” his voice was curt and you frowned.

“No, I thought we could share them-”

“These are toxic.” He tossed them into the sand, burying them with a heavy sigh. “Do me a favour and don’t grab shit you don’t know for sure is edible. You could have made us really sick.” He turned then and continued with his inventory. Embarrassment and annoyance burned through your veins.

“You don’t have to be such an asshole about it, you know.” The words came on almost by themselves, bubbling up in your throat at the sanctimonious look on his face.

“What?” He paused and turned to look you in the face.

“You don’t have to be so fucking mean to me all the time.” You crossed your arms, holding in the frustration that seemed to expand in your lungs like a horrible balloon. “All you do is talk down to me. I said I was sorry about almost using the flare-” He huffed out an almost amused laugh and it boiled your blood. “It’s not funny! I’m stuck out here with you and all you do is yell, or talk to me like I’m stupid. I’m a person, and I deserve basic human decency-”

“What’s my last name?” He crossed his arms, his voice calm, but his question stole the words right out of your mouth.

“What?”

“You heard me - what is my last name? What do you know about me? Aside from the fact that my first name is Francisco, and that I’m a pilot.” He stood, knocking the sand off his shorts.

“I don’t think you told me-”

“No, I haven’t - do you know anything about who might be looking for me? Do you have any idea if I have anyone waiting for me to get home?” Your stomach sank, the anger slowly bleeding away and being replaced with shame. “Any idea if I’m married, or if I have kids?” He’s angry now, the scowl bigger than ever before.

“No, I-I don’t know.” You took a step back.

“No. No, you don’t. You don’t know that I’m divorced, that my parents are probably worried sick. You don’t know that I have a daughter, that her name is Tatiana, and that she’s probably thinking her dad abandoned her, or worse - that he’s dead.” You recoiled at that.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.” Your voice feels small, and the shame in your belly grows, vines of guilt wrapping themselves around your throat.

“How could you? You’ve never fucking asked me a single thing about who I am as a person! All you’ve done is complain. Complain and talk to me endlessly about how much money your parents have, how you should be on a private island, and how much of a fucking eyesore my livelihood is, and any time I’ve opened my mouth to respond or explain how we’re both stuck here, you’ve spoken over me.” His words cut at you - you don’t know this man at all, and you never ever cared to ask. You don’t respond.

He was well and truly angry now, kicking sand away from himself in his frustration.

“I’m sorry-” He put his hands up.

“Don’t. I don’t need you to apologize. I need you to pull your weight, and maybe realize that I’m also a person, and that all your money means jackshit to me. I need you to treat me like a human being, not just a sounding board.” He walked away, leaving you with your guilt - a sad balloon deflating alone.

They were both quiet that night. With Francisco, it was mostly out of anger. The feelings of inadequacy and frustration he’d been bottling up had finally been spoken aloud, and now he was processing them, all while still being stuck on this godforsaken island.

For her, he could see it was pure guilt. From the subdued expression, from her quiet words and general withdrawal, he knew no one had ever been so honest with her before. He would have almost felt guilty, if he hadn’t been so annoyed and hurt at the way she’d treated him. Instead, they both avoided each other for the rest of the night - a silent shared meal before wordlessly falling asleep in the shelter.

He woke the next morning to the feeling of her pressed against him again.

Her deep, even breaths against the back of his neck were embarrassingly welcome, and he ignored the way his body responded. He let out a low, deep sigh, grateful that he was facing away, a shudder passing through his body at the thought of having to explain why he was as hard as a rock.

His hand traveled down to where her leg was draped over his hip, unable to resist feeling her skin for just a moment before he slowly untangled their limbs, and made his way towards the water.

—

Days passed, and they passed without much conversation. This particular morning was somehow even more quiet despite the constant sound of waves lapping at the shore. The anger had fizzled out, and what was left was more akin to silent resignation. The two of you danced around each other, performing what were now everyday tasks without uttering a single word. The hours slipping by wordlessly, that is, until your scream cut through the silence.

“What is it?” He was at your side quickly, his eyes wide with something that looked suspiciously like worry.

“I think I stepped on a shell-” The sand around your foot was turning pink, your eyes widening at the sight.

“Okay, take a deep breath and sit here-” He guided you with surprisingly soft hands towards one of the logs around the burned-out fire. “Don’t move - try to keep your foot out of the sand.” He stood then, walking away.

“Where are you going?” Your voice sounded strange, almost whiny, and you ignored the little pang of despair.

Get a hold of yourself.

“Just going to get the first aid kit.” The cut throbbed as you waited, and soon he returned with one of the water bottles and a big red case. He walked with purpose, the look on his face shamed you to have been so clueless. This was a man that had obviously dealt with many a scraped knee. “Okay, let's see what we’re dealing with.”

He kneeled on the sand before you, taking your foot into his hands. You hissed when he softly brushed the sand away.

“Tsk, come on now Princess. I know you can be braver for me than that.” His hands were soft, and so was his tone, and it filled you with something, comfort amongst other, less wholesome thoughts. You shook them away, chewing on your bottom lip, watching as he played nurse. “Nothing too crazy, just a little cut.”

He rinsed the sand carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Okay, this might sting a little.” He rifled through the open case beside him, grabbing a little pack of what looked to be antiseptic. “Deep breath for me.” He watched you then, waiting until you let the breath go before wiping the wound clean. The sting almost slapped you across the face, every instinct screaming to pull your foot away from the mean man.

“Okay, okay - you’re okay.” his hands engulfed your ankle, holding you firmly in place. “Good job, we’re almost done.” he spoke low, opening up a waterproof bandaid and carefully covering the tiny wound. “There we go. All done.” He pressed a small kiss to the top of your foot, his eyes widening after. “Sorry- force of habit.” He laughed awkwardly.

“Thank you. It feels much better.” You felt the heat in your chest and in your ears and ignored it, ignored the whole mess of feelings blooming in your gut for him.

“Yeah, sure.” He collected his things before scratching at the back of his neck and it thrilled you to realize that he looked as flushed as you felt. “I’m going to go catch something.” He got up quickly, moving with purpose away from where you sat, curtailing any further discussion.

He hadn’t expected it, but she’d taken his words to heart. He’d felt terrible after going off on her. The embarrassment on her face at how she’d treated him, although completely warranted, pulled at his heartstrings. He couldn’t exactly say why - it wasn’t something he could explain, not something he wanted to delve into. Whether that was for his benefit or hers, he couldn’t be sure.

She no longer had to be told to fetch fruit, or water. She did her best to keep the camp organized, she no longer spoke about her wealth, or Louis. She was quiet most of the time, in fact, and he wasn’t sure if it was better, or worse.

Where she mostly avoided his annoyance throughout the day, she still clung to him at night. He never told her, convincing himself it was to spare her further embarrassment, ignoring the little part of him that knew it was because he was terrified that if she knew, she’d stop.

Things were different, that was for sure. The days passed and you had to admit to yourself that you’d been such an ungrateful, horrid little - well, Princess. He’d been completely right about you, and he’d had the patience of a saint. You saw him with different eyes now. You saw a competent, strong, intelligent man who up until now, was the only reason you’d survived on this godforsaken island as long as you had. It was well and truly humbling.

Instead of complaining, now you did your best to pull your weight. The goal was to show him that you were grateful, that you weren’t just some spoiled rich girl, that you could be something other than that, anyway. You wanted - needed to prove to him that you weren’t a burden.

It had been a particularly hot day, the sun beating down on the both of you with a vengeance. Sunset couldn’t come fast enough, and once it did, you cherished it like never before.

He dug around in the helicopter while you sat on the log, enjoying the tiny, but very welcome breeze coming off the water.

“Oh wow, I forgot about this,” You heard the smile in his voice, “How would you feel about a drink?” He held a bottle in his hand, making his way over to your place in the sand.

“I’d feel great actually, if you don’t mind sharing.”

“Bottle’s almost full, more than enough for both of us.” He sat next to you, taking a generous sip of the amber liquid before handing it to you. It was warmer than you would have liked, but the burn was pleasant enough that you didn’t care. “Good, right?” His smile is as breezy as the ocean, and just as welcome.

“Very good,” you couldn't help but admit before taking another long sip, “I can already feel it.” You smiled, handing it back to him.

“We’ll be cheap drunks tonight, that’s for sure.” He took another long swallow, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his throat worked. You watched the fire instead, focusing on the embers as the drink settled in your stomach. The heat spreads through your limbs, making you feel heavy where you sit beside him.

You both sat in silence for a time, passing the bottle back and forth until most of it was gone, and your head felt like a balloon barely tethered to your body.

“This would be such a beautiful place…without the whole ‘being stranded’ thing.” He held the bottle loosely, his eyes no doubt taking in the gorgeous sunset.

“You mean you don’t love being stuck out here with me?” You bumped his shoulder, and it vaguely registers how much you missed physical touch. He laughed, full-throated.

“Oh yeah, this is definitely heaven.” His expression is exaggerated, “You know what I mean.” He gestures to where the water laps at the shore. “This is a paradise, just needs a resort, and an airport.” He sighed, his mood is the friendliest you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah, it would definitely make a difference.” You leaned back and listened to the water. “Happy you’re here though, woulda died without you.” You didn’t mean to say it, but it’s absolutely true.

“Oh, I don’t know-” He shrugged, modest and much kinder than you deserved.

“Yes, you do-” You shoved at his arm softly, “You’re the only reason we’re still alive, super nice to me despite the fact that I can be a spoiled little brat.” You laughed.

“Can’t argue with that.” He laughed, “I like brats, though.” He smiled, and something that feels very much like butterflies fluttered around in your stomach. He didn't say anything else, and neither did you, the butterflies lingered, though, well into the night, and they only seemed to get stronger whenever his eyes found yours.

“It’s getting late-” He puts the bottle down, “-we should get some rest.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, instead, you just followed him towards the shelter.

It’s a strange, unfamiliar dance you’re both doing - the polar opposite of how things have been between you. Shy smiles replace cold stares, and a curious longing takes hold of you. It would embarrass you to fall prey to your baser instincts - there’s something in the way his eyes tracked you that says you weren’t alone in your feelings.

Something has shifted, he can feel it in the tense energy between them. A pleasant buzz flowed through his veins, danced along his nerves like a current, beat through his heart, and into his loins. She was so close, he could practically feel her warmth.

She sighed beside him, her legs rubbing together like a cricket and he knew in his gut, she felt the same energy.

“Good night, Frankie.” She whispered the words, as though someone might overhear. His eyes clenched shut at the feel of her breath ruffling through his hair, closer than she’d ever let herself get, awake anyway.

“Night-” Everything in him wanted to turn over, to feel her fingers ruffle through his hair, but something held him back. He stayed still, his body tense despite how relaxed the alcohol had made him.

“It’s a bit cold–” Her voice is a bit closer, so close he felt it in the shell of his ear, “-okay if I scoot closer?” Her hands pressed against his back, her legs tangled with his, and he knows in his bones, it’s just a ploy, but he stayed still nonetheless.

“Sure-get close.” He took her hand and wrapped it around his middle, holding it well above his waist, letting out a deep breath.

“Oh-okay.” She pressed her face into his shoulder, and every cell in his body screamed at him to turn around, to kiss her, bury his tongue in her mouth, and then trail it down, bury it between her legs, but he shook his head, convincing himself she just wants this.

“Night.” His voice cracked, but he said nothing more. He felt her staring at him, letting out a little sigh of her own.

“Night, Frankie.”

—

The days following your drunken night passed by in mostly silence, with a polite avoidance from him, and an annoyed quiet from you.

It was no secret that you had the power to annoy the hell out of him, but you’d thought there’d been something else. The look in his eye when he’d told you he liked brats, the sound of his voice when he’d held you close, the considerable boner pressing against your ass when you’d woken up to him wrapped around you that next morning.

Maybe you’d misread him, maybe it wasn’t flirting, maybe he’d just been stroking your ego, being nice to you, and you’d practically thrown yourself at him only to be.. What? Ignored?

The wind whipped around as you both ate dinner a few quiet days later, the sky dark and pregnant with the promise of a heavy rain, filling you with worry. The shelter was sturdy, you knew that, but you didn’t think it would hold up against a storm like the one that had blown you both onto the island to begin with.

“I don’t think we’ll be enjoying a fire tonight,” His eyes stared at the sky, same as you, “we should bring the clothes into the shelter; it’s going to pour soon.” He got up, tossing his banana peels into the fire pit just as the first few drops of water sprinkled down on top of you.

A nervous current flowed through your body as you made yourself comfortable within the shelter, making you acutely aware of his closeness.

The rain came down in sheets as you both lay there, filling the silence with its rhythmic pattering against the tarp. Lightning flashed, illuminating the space between you. A shiver ran through you at the look on his face.

“You okay?” His hand shot out, landing softly on your arm, raising goosebumps as it slid down towards your elbow.

“I’m fine.” You shudder, but all at once, annoyance springs up at his rejection the other night - you turn to give him your back.

“Are you… angry at me?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Why would I be angry at you? It’s not like I threw myself at you or anything.”

“What?” His voice sounded incredulous, “You mean, when we were drinking?”

“Yes!” You sighed, “I was all over you. I guess I was wrong.” All at once, you’re embarrassed, and desperate to get away from his incredulous expression. The storm, however, holds you both hostage.

“Hm.” He sounded almost amused, and your stomach dropped, “Well, if I’d known that all you needed was to be fucked, things would have been different.”

Your stomach did a backflip onto its ass, shock, and pure adrenaline coursing through your body at his words. You turned slowly to face him.

“Sorry?” It came out almost stupidly, and he smiled a very self-satisfied smile.

“I said, if I’d known, that in order for you to stop being such a brat,” He moved in closer, forcing you to lay back and make space for him between your legs. “All you needed was for me to fuck you, I would have done it sooner.” He hovered above you, close enough that he must’ve surely felt your heart pounding where his chest met yours. It’s with Herculean strength, that you composed yourself, albeit nervously.

“Well, I guess I just thought you were more perceptive.” The bold words were completely at odds with the tremor in your voice; he laughed, full-throated, and it sent a current across every inch of you.

“Or maybe, I thought you’d open that pretty mouth of yours, and say what it is you wanted.” He pressed forward, dragging his lips across your jaw before capturing your mouth in a kiss. It started soft, and for a moment, the storm disappeared, your hands finding themselves tangled up in his messy waves, and then his tongue pressed forward, and it pulled a moan from somewhere deep inside you.

There was no more talking. Only the feeling of your heart racing, your cunt aching, and his comforting weight pressing you into the shelter, that is, before he shifted his hips and the considerable heft of him was slotted perfectly against where you needed him most.

The slip of his warm palm from the trembling skin of your belly raised goosebumps in its wake, and pulled a gasp from your mouth into his when it glided under your shit and landed on your breast. Those deft fingers you’d seen working away on all manner of things on this island, now plucked deliciously at your nipple.

It was almost violent, both the storm outside, and your haste to divest him of his clothes. The need to feel that golden skin on yours was a hunger pang, both terrible and euphoric, that burned as brightly as the flashes of lightning that lit up the shelter. His eyes shone with the same intensity you felt, and instantly, he moved away to help you, too, the two of you scrambling with a ferocity that bordered on anger.

“God, you’re so fucking hot–” He hissed the words onto your face before kissing you again, and any softness was gone, his teeth clicked against yours before his tongue took yours and laid down the law. Your skin burned with want, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back before you moved your hand down between you to finally grasp his cock. He pulled away from your mouth to stare down where you held onto him, drunk with the sight of just how big he looked in your grip.

“Is this what you’ve been wanting?” He held himself above you, watching as you stroked him slowly.

“God, yes, I wanted this - I want you to fuck me–” you swiped your thumb over the head, fat pearly drops of his own arousal making it slippery, “I want you to come inside me, make me feel good-” You didn’t get to finish your sentence before his mouth claimed yours once more and pulled your hand away in order to slip himself between the lips of your sex, coating himself in you for a moment before he finally slipped inside.

“Jesus Christ, man.” You breathed the words onto his face at the stretch, at the way he seemed to have taken up every inch of space inside you, making you overflow with him. He didn’t give you any time to adjust, his hips snapping in a toe-curling rhythm. For a few minutes, there were no more words left, the only thing you can manage is to whimper, then moan in earnest when he ducked his head down to capture a nipple in his mouth. Your fingers like talons in his hair, keeping him close to your breast while your cunt soaked him in your want.

He let go of the perky bud with a pop, his eyes glazed.

“Fuck baby, I’m gonna come so fast,” he almost slurred his words, pussy drunk, “your tight little cunt is gonna make me fucking come–” He sped up, his cock punching into you hard enough to make your breasts bounce, hard enough to make a lewd noise where you’re joined and you desperately wanted him to slow down so you can catch up.

“Wait–” Your legs squeezed where they’d hitched up high on his hips, “Frankie–” His rhythm stuttered for a moment before he thrust again, deep, filling you with his come, and you almost cried at the thought that he might be done so soon.

“Fuck-” He ground himself as deep as he could, milking himself inside you for a moment before pulling away abruptly, hissing through the oversensitivity to look at his handiwork, “that’s so fucking pretty baby, look at me dripping out-” He smiled at you, almost laughing at the look of anguish on your face at the emptiness, “what’s wrong?” His hand rubbed at your belly for a moment before it slipped down, and two big fingers filled you back up. “I know you didn’t come, but you don’t think I’m just going to leave you like this, right?” He pumped slowly, making you keen when he pressed against something holy inside of you. “No, I got you, baby.”

One moment he was kneeling between your legs, and the next, he was flat on his belly, his face pressed up against your pussy, tongue right on the button of your clit.

The moan you let out was obscene. His tongue circled your clit with devastating precision, over and over again, until you were staring down at him with your mouth open, begging and praying incoherently for him to keep going just like that. His eyes were bright, laser-focused on you just like his tongue, and his free hand came up to hold onto your breast, pinching at your nipple, and all of a sudden, the sting snapped, the wave crested, and you practically folded in half, swearing loudly as you gushed around his fingers.

You weren’t sure how much time passed, but the storm got a little stronger, and louder as you both lay in the shelter, quiet and content to hold each other. Lightning turned the darkened skies into day for a moment before the boom of thunder shook you to your core.

“It’s okay, just loud.” He said it softly into your ear with the same patience he’d had when he bandaged your foot, the comforting words dads usually used for their children.

“I know, it just startled me.”

“Force of habit.”

“Your daughter, is she scared of thunderstorms?” You turned towards him, making yourself comfortable in his embrace.

“Only at first.” His smile was wistful, “She always jumps from the first big boom but then laughs,” his eyes crinkled, and it was hard not to notice just how handsome he is, the care and love he has for his daughter shining out through his eyes. “Sorry, I just miss her a lot.” It faltered, that handsome smile, and it made you sad for him.

“Don’t be sorry. I can’t imagine how hard all this must be for you.” Guilt swirled in your chest at the way you’d treated him before, at your general attitude towards everyone up until getting stranded. “I’m sorry about how I was–” He shook his head no, much too kind, kinder than you deserved, and you pushed through.

“No, let me say it. I’m sorry about how I treated you - I was horrible.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“Yes, I was, so spoiled and insensitive, I didn’t even give your situation a second thought. All I cared about was myself and I can’t even believe it now. I’m sorry. I’m really lucky to have you here.”

“Thank you,” he smiled, one of his palms rubbing your back soothingly, “you’ve definitely had a big turnaround.” He laughed, and you smacked his arm playfully. “I’m lucky you’re here too. I would have been miserable by myself.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, and you couldn’t help but sigh at the simple comfort human touch could bring. “Not sure you would have ever agreed to go out with me had we not been stuck here together.”

His words were light, and for a moment, you wanted to protest, but you didn’t think you could, and it shamed you further.

“Oh god, what a moron I was.” You groaned, pressing your face into the warm skin of his neck.

“You weren’t a moron, maybe a little oblivious, and I don’t mean that in a cruel way. You and I are in very different circles. I doubt our paths would have even crossed, but I’m glad they did because as much as you have the power to drive me nuts, I really like you.” His hands continued their comforting sweep across your skin, lulling you into the most relaxed state you could remember being in, in a long time.

“I would have been an idiot to not give you a chance. You’re so sweet and smart, and so strong, so fucking handsome, too. You take care of me and make me laugh, and you have done your best to keep us both safe and sound and I’m just - I’m ashamed that maybe in the past I would have been too shallow and stuck up to notice.” The storm abates as you confess some feelings you’d been harboring.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. I think I probably would have dismissed you just as quickly for similarly shallow reasons. As gorgeous as you are, I most likely would have written you off as some rich trust fund-baby.” He half-shrugged.

“I’m still sorry. It’s because of me that we’re here.”

“I could have said no.”

“I pressured you with money. I pushed even though you’d said it was unsafe.”

“I still could have said no. Let’s just forget it all, everything that happened before we got here. Point is we’re here, and we have to keep it together until someone finds us.” His hand kept its rhythm, sweeping over any and all skin, casting its spell of comfort until both it and the storm lulled you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-----

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#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #francisco morales #frankie morales #triple frontier au #frankie x reader #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales

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harrisonarchive · 7 months ago

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In New York City, Spring of 1970. Photo by Tim Boxer.

“There was a point in my life where I realized anybody can be Lennon/McCartney, you know. ‘Cos being part of Lennon/McCartney really I could see, you know, I could appreciate them — how good they actually are. And at the same time I could see the infatuation that the public had, or the praise that was put on them. And I could see everybody’s a Lennon/McCartney, if that’s what you wanna be. But the point is nobody’s special. There’s not many special people around. And somebody else... If Lennon/McCartney are special, then Harrison and Starkey are special, too. That’s really — what I’m saying is that I can be Lennon/McCartney too, but I’d rather be Harrison, you know.” - George Harrison, interviewed by Howard Smith for WABC, 1970 George was also interviewed by reporter, columnist and editor of The Yonkers Herald Statesman, Gwen Hall. Her son, Mitchell, recalled: “Interviewing a Beatle was cool although she didn’t let me go with her.” (activerain.com) “Meditation — chanting gives me peace and rest, it’s a process to get away from the chaos of the world. New York needs it badly. I walk down the streets — I see so many, so hostile, shouting at each other, causing arguments. It’s all such a waste of time. Inner satisfaction transcends all outer chaos.” - George Harrison, The Yonkers Herald Statesman, May 1, 1970 George stopped by The Beatles Fan Club office, unannounced. “Sandi asked why he wouldn’t smile for pictures and he said, ‘You don’t have to smile outwardly to be smiling inwardly. I’m always smiling.’” (Harrison Herald, July 1970) And lastly, during this NYC visit, George recorded totgehet with Bob Dylan at Columbia Studios (reported by Rolling Stone on May 23rd of that year). (x)

#George Harrison #quote #quotes about George #quotes by George #Harrison spirituality #George and fame #The Beatles #1970 #1970s #fits queue like a glove

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missybee-writes · 1 month ago

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Shadow in the Dark: Chapter One - Cursed

Genre: Sci-fi; Romance; Horror

Warnings: (eventual) sexual content; violence; gore; swearing; alcohol and drug use.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!OC

Summary

In July ‘85, an ambitious realtor sells the crumbling Creel house to a family looking for a new start.

Rose McAllister may be living in a grand and gothic murder house in a small Midwest town, but senior year in high school is the stuff of her nightmares: a last chance at a normal school year without being the odd one out, the sick girl, the weirdo from across the pond. Blend in, make it through the year, and make some friends. Stay unnoticed at all costs.

Hawkins, and one seriously loud-mouthed metalhead, is about to flip that carefully laid plan Upside Down.

---

Chapter two: Munson Magic

Ao3 link

---

Chapter One

Rose was fucked. Some unearthly being had marked her for disaster, she was sure of it.

“This isn’t happening, this cannot be happening,” she chanted over and over to herself. “Hawkins is way too small for us to be lost. I’m cursed. And it’s not even nine a.m.”

Her mother sighed from the driver’s seat. “You are not cursed. I just took a wrong turn at the Memorial Hospital. Maybe if I loop around...”

“How do you explain the alarm clocks? You can’t blame faulty wiring this time, all of the electrics were replaced last week.” Rose gestured wildly.

This morning she had woken slow, bleary-eyed and heavy-limbed, with the gnawing feeling in her bones that something was just wrong. Something beyond the weird disorientation of being in a new bed, and a new house. Wooden beams flexed and creaked - no surprise with half the walls stripped down to boards in the remodel - and it hit her: no radio, no cheery blast of synth or guitar or whatever popular music central Indiana’s finest radio stations had to offer, drifting from the alarm on her bedside table.

One glance at the alarm clock confirmed it; grey pixels where the neon red numbers should be. Dead. Another power cut, she thought. But no, as she sat up, brain-fogged, the light from the floor lamp still glowed buttery yellow, casting a faintly pulsing light on the faces of Simon Le Bon, David Bowie, and the newest addition to the posters that covered the exposed brick wall: Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, his rumpled shirt slightly unbuttoned, fedora askew, whip hooked on his belt.

No time to ogle Indy, she’d thrown herself from bed, a clumsy hurricane tripping, hopping and falling down the winding stairs to the second storey hall. The old clock was just about visible through the walnut bannister, its gold pendulum swinging back and forth and heralding her own personal doom: seven forty six, just fourteen minutes until Hawkins High closed its doors and classes began.

“Bollocks! Fucking hell!” She’d cried out.

One alarm clock dead? Fine, no problem, plausible. But when her mother and Jerry stumbled from the master bedroom, awakened by her foul mouth instead of their own alarm clock - which also happened to be dead, despite the rest of the electrics in the bedrooms working fine - an eerie feeling of the unnatural crept up her spine. After a manic rush to brush her teeth, grab her neatly stacked books and throw on some clothes, she found the washer dryer had stopped-mid cycle, and her carefully planned outfit options all lay in a damp, musty heap in the machine drum. It only confirmed that fate, karma, whatever one might call it, was stacked against her.

“Jerry said it might be a power surge,” her mother said, eyes on the road and foot on the gas pedal. “The plant is running on a skeleton crew until they fix the new conductor...convection...honestly, I don’t understand anything he says, but it sounds important. He’s called in additional engineers from Indianapolis to help.”

Rose chewed her lip, literally biting back the dozen denials and witty remarks that came to her mind all at once. If the power had surged, the old bulbs in the lamps should have been the first to go. But Jerry was no-man’s land in the battleground between her and her mother; though her stepfather’s goofy behaviour sometimes begged for it, he was too nice to mock. After meeting her mother two years ago, he launched an all-out campaign to win her over, bringing her tapes, magazines, and a new VHS player so they could watch her favourite films together. But most of all, he made her prim and proper mother laugh more than she had ever seen, even more than when Dad was alive. Against all odds, Rose kind of, just about, liked him.

“The teachers will understand, Rosebud. It’s your first day. And besides, you’ll only be ten minutes late.”

“Exactly,” Rose’s head thumped back on the headrest of the passenger seat. “It’s the end of the fucking world.”

The streets here were endless, a thick wall of trees speeding past in a blur of green, broken by the occasional driveways of modest one-storey homes. All unfamiliar, and strange.

They turned a corner, passing bright yellow school buses, already empty and relieved of their precious cargo, but were met with oncoming traffic and a chorus of loud car horns.

“Jesus, Mum, you’re on the wrong side of the road. Right, go right!” Rose said shrilly, panic swirling in her gut and sending her voice a few octaves too high.

A sudden jerk of the wheel had the tires screeching and her stomach flipping upside-down; the car tilted as it swerved into the right lane, Rose’s fingers digging into the beige leather interior of the station wagon like a drowning man clinging to a liferaft.

“Oops,” her mother muttered mildly. She had no longer than Rose to get dressed and run out the house, but somehow she looked just as mumsy as always. Hands perfectly positioned at ten and two, not a hair out of place in her blonde bob or a single crease in her frumpy crochet cardigan, despite the chaotic driving. “I don't know if I'll ever get used to driving on the wrong side of the road. Jerry would have taken you, but he has a meeting with the Department of Energy at the plant this morning. About the promotion.”

“It’s OK. I’d rather be here with you. As much as I like Jerry, you’re my mum.” Rose said.

Hawkins High School appeared at the end of the street, its squat, single-storey front building surrounded by bikes and cars. They pulled into the parking lot, taking up a space by the front doors. Only a few stragglers remained in the lot: someone chaining up a bicycle, another girl running through the front doors with cheeks pink from exertion, a teacher with a worn briefcase.

Rose instinctively grabbed her mother’s hand, and they sat for a moment in pleasant silence. It was always like this, when mum drove her to the hospital. A minute of respite before the shitshow began.

“Ready?” Mum squeezed her hand.

Nope. Not at all. American high school, a more terrifying prospect than any hospital ward, or any of the sixth form schools at home where she would be unnoticed and normal...well, perhaps not normal, but only the sick girl, not the new kid with a different accent, with no idea how any of this worked. Too late to turn back now.

She launched herself out of the passenger door, clutching her leather satchel to her chest. “Ready.”

The shiny window of the station wagon reflected her own image back to her, a mess of long, red-brown curls that looked like a bird's nest, no time today to tame it with a brush and half a can of Aquanet. She dragged her hands through her hair in a vague attempt to tidy it up, until something else caught her eye in the reflection.

“We have to go back. The dress...I can’t wear it,” Rose said. It was faded green and floral, with a square neckline, and ending just above the knee. A bit old fashioned, maybe, and not exactly her first choice, but her favourite clothes all sat mouldy and damp in the washer dryer at home. It was bought at least four years ago, before Rose’s last growth spurt, when she really filled out. But it wasn’t the close fit of the fabric or the definite visible cleavage that had her worried.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her mother was leaning over to the passenger side of the car, brows knitted in confusion. But when she realised the source of the panic, her whole demeanour changed. Mum’s hands flew to her own chest, and she unbuttoned her cardigan hurriedly. She flung it off her shoulders and threw it to Rose out the passenger door, who swore like a sailor as tugged it over the green dress, buttoning it all the way to the top. The cardigan was shell-pink with a cream Peter Pan collar. It clashed horribly with the dress, but it covered her all the way to her collarbones.

“I'm sorry, are you Rose?” A sweet voice called out behind her. “Rose McAllister?”

Rose turned slowly. The girl behind her was a foil to Rose, hair styled, blue pastel skirt perfectly matching her eyes. She looked like she’d just stepped from a John Hughes movie in those white leather boots, scarf artfully tied at her neck. Preppy with a capital p.

“Hi?” The girl smiled weakly.

“Hi? Am I?” Rose spluttered. “Hi. Sorry, I am Rose. That’s what I mean to say. That’s me, I am she.”

Oh god. Nought to crazy in under ten seconds. It really was her superpower.

Put-together-girl smiled, seemingly not put off by the bundle of awkwardness before her, and shook her hand. “Great, I thought you’d accidentally ended up at the Middle School for a while there. I’m Nancy. Nancy Wheeler, part of the school welcome committee. If you want to say goodbye to your mom, i’ll take you to register for your classes. Janice in the principal’s office has all the forms ready for you, it shouldn’t take too long.”

Rose gave her mother a final smile. “Thanks Mum. See you at three,” she closed the car door soundly.

But nope, instead of leaving, the drivers’ window rolled down and her mother’s blonde bob leaned out the window. “Just one thing before I go...Nancy, you couldn’t point out the nurse’s office, could you?”

Nancy Wheeler paused for just a second, and nodded toward a small brick building over to the right. “It’s just there, Mrs. McAllister. It’s shared with the Middle School.”

Mum smiled as she got out of the car, and turned to Rose’s guide. “It’s Mrs. Gruber, but thank you, dear.”

“Do you have to?” Rose asked her mother through gritted teeth. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“I won’t be long. I promise, Rosebud.”

Oh god, the shame. She was eighteen, not eight. Nicknames were acceptable at home, but not in public.

“Sorry Mrs Gruber.” Nancy waved to her retreating figure.

Distance. Rose sought it straight away, shiny new sneakers pounding on the cracked pavement beneath the great big tiger poster on the wall, bounding toward the door. Nothing like your mother tagging along on your first day of school to make classes seem more appealing than hanging about outside.

“So,” Nancy caught up quickly, guiding her into hallways striped orange and green. “I should tell you a little about the school. There are almost a hundred students, about seventy per year. We have band, math club, AV club, drama club, and that’s just for starters. Girls have a soccer team. Usual sports, but you should know basketball is bigger than football here. Go Tigers!” Nancy’s little cheer was lukewarm at best, but she seemed genuinely nice. “ I guess it looks a little lame to someone who just moved from England. I mean, the teachers here are good, but you’re probably used to more academic rigour, right?”

“Not really.” Rose eyed her surroundings nervously, big colourful notice boards peppered with hand-drawn signs about pep rallies, someone offering French tuition, and a whole list of dates and match times. “School is school, but I don‘t think we had as many extra curricular activities at home. Except hockey, and the pub.” And definitely not so many weird ones. In one corner, a wad of chewing gum was stuck on the board, pinning up a strange devil-like drawing, letters H E L L interrupted by a pastel yellow flyer advertising auditions for A Streetcar Named Desire. She desperately wanted to lift it up and find out what kind of hell Hawkins High School was hiding.

“Still, must be hard joining in senior year. You must miss your friends.”

“So much.” Rose lied, plastering on a smile. “I’m just calling and writing to them all the time.” Surely her gran counted. And she did call her friend Elaine from the hospital ward, when Elaine could breathe well enough to actually talk back. One benefit to being new? No reputation to overcome. A new slate, a chance to shine. If only shining didn’t involve being so visible. “Thank you for doing this, I know you probably have to, but it’s nice to not be faced with a thousand faces at once, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nancy shrugged it off with a wave.

Janice in the principal’s office gave her a stack of forms, and she went through them one by one with a freshly sharpened pencil whilst Nancy filled her in on the school.

“People here are friendly, most of the time. If you want, I could hook you up with some clubs. I run the school paper and the yearbook committee. It’s a lot, but I plan on early application to colleges - i’m in this fight with my mom and dad about applying to any Ivies - and then i’ll have a lot of time in the second half of senior year. That should tie in nicely with the production of the yearbook.” Nancy was in full flow, working through all the things on her clearly enormous brain. Rose handed back some of the papers to Janice and got a schedule in return, and Nancy led her into a maze of hallways,

“Here’s your locker.” Nancy smiled, patting a metal grill whose beige paint was flaking away. “Your combination is 2-2-6-2, but you can change that anytime. Your first period is English with Mrs O’Donnell. This semester they’re working on classic short stories. Oh, you should know that homecoming is next week. I’m on the committee for that too, since Heather and...uh...a couple of the members left over the summer. And that means I’m probably on the hook for prom committee too, unless Jennifer P shapes up and actually orders the decorations. I know it’s really soon bearing in mind this is your first day, but I could probably get you a homecoming ticket, if you wanted? My boyfriend moved to California a few weeks ago, so i’ll be there stag, manning the punchbowl probably. What I mean is, I don’t know if you have a boyfriend or anything, but girls go stag all the time. Guys too.”

Rose’s face was flushing warm just listening to it. She followed Nancy with her head buzzing, her smile cracking as they stopped halfway down the hall.

“Nancy, I'm going to level with you. I only understood about half of what you said. I have this very vague understanding of the word homecoming from watching a couple of John Hughes films, but what is the difference between homecoming and prom? Isn’t it all just dancing to shit music without alcohol - something which I'm pretty annoyed about, by the way. At home the pubs will serve you from about fourteen, even in your school uniform if the police aren’t about.”

Nancy was shocked, frozen as Rose started rambling. And once she started, it was like a broken pipe, overflowing without any sign of stopping.

“What’s a yearbook?” Rose continued. “Why do you need a committee of people to make a book? College is University to me, but I couldn’t tell you if it’s early to apply, because I have no idea when people actually apply. And you said basketball instead of football, but then you also said girls play soccer...soccer to me is football, so now I'm thinking to myself, McAllister, have you been living under a rock? Do Americans call it football for boys and soccer for girls? Or do the girls get to play football, but the boys don’t - and by that I suppose I mean soccer, not your football where you have to strap on a helmet and thirty pounds of foam padding just to play a bit of bloody rugby. Because at home, girls play basketball, only we call it netball. But not the tough girls, they play hockey. God, when I think about it, everything about sports is so unbelievably stupid, isn’t it? I have no idea why it's life or death to some people. Sorry, I don’t know if you are big on sports.”

Rose laughed hysterically, “You seem really nice, and I can’t believe I'm already proving that I'm a lunatic with no social skils. I feel like I'm trapped in a film or a play and I don’t know the lines, but everyone else does. And at some point, I'm going to end up naked in front of a chalkboard whilst everyone laughs at me, and then hopefully wake up sweating in bed at home in Oxfordshire. Except this isn’t a bad dream, this is fucking real.”

Nancy covered her hands with her face, blue eyes wide with horror. Her gaze drifted from Rose to a point behind her shoulder that suddenly seemed to be interesting.

Rose’s stomach did another flip upside-down. “Someone’s right behind me, aren’t they.”

Nancy nodded. At some point during her unhinged rant they had arrived at an open door. A door to a class full of open-mouthed teenagers gawking at her, like she had three eyes or an extra head.

“Miss McAllister.” A bespectacled woman in a tweed pencil skirt and addressed her, “How nice of you to join us. I’m Mrs O’Donnell, and it seems I'll have the dubious honour of teaching you English for your senior year. Now I don’t know how you do things in Britain, but in America, we arrive at our classes on time.”

Yep, that checks out. All those years wishing for a clean slate, and within moments she’s covered it in dirt. So much for a new start.

“This is my fault.” Nancy bravely interjected. “I’m the reason she was late, Mrs O’Donnell. I just babbled on and on about school, and I didn’t even think about what I was saying. Truth is, the welcoming committee doesn’t really do that much welcoming. We’ve had one new student in the last year, and he was from Illinois. Not counting Billy...” her face clouded over for a second. “Please don’t punish her for my mistake.”

“Hmm.” O’Donnell hummed, fiddling with her tortoiseshell spectacles, clearly swayed by the appeal on Rose’s behalf. “I don’t like tardiness, and I don’t like disrespect. But perhaps I can let you off this time, Miss McAllister. Why don’t you come in and introduce yourself to your classmates?”

With a nervous apology to Nancy, Rose clutched her books and papers, and stepped into English class as gingerly as if it were Dante’s seventh circle of hell. Thirty teens sat expectantly at their tables, books spilling over desks, bags on the floor. They watched her every move , and at least half of them in some kind of sports gear. Which she just insulted, of course. If only the ground could swallow her up, or make her invisible. Anything to take her away from the thirty pairs of eyes that prickled across her skin. Yup, cursed.

A guy with a mullet and one of those fancy green jackets sniggered behind his fist. “Chalkboard’s right there. You gonna take your clothes off, or what? We can do it elsewhere honey, I wouldn’t mind a more private show, if you know what i’m talkin’ about.”

“Nice cardigan,” someone mocked. Rose’s closed her hands in fists, to stop herself from fidgeting with it. Laughter spread across the class like wildfire. Great. Just fucking great.

“Andy, I will not tell you again,” O’Donnell pointed at the lewd-mouthed jock, chalk in hand. “Talk back once more and you’ll join Mr Munson in the principal’s office. Go on then, introduce yourself Miss McAllister. I’m sure the class is just dying to hear more about you.”

Dead. She was dead alright. Deceased. Six feet under. Nancy Wheeler can write her obituary and put it in the school paper. Rose McAllister, gone, and totally forgotten. Cause of death: foot in mouth.

“Hello.” Her voice cracked. “I’m Rose. I moved to Hawkins a month ago, after my stepdad got a new job. Or, he got his old job back at the power plant. He grew up here. As for me, I Iove to read, classics mostly-”

“Nerd alert.” Quipped a girl in a polka dot blouse, just under her breath enough for the teacher not to notice. Cue more laughing from the sporty side of the class.

“I speak French, I, um, I saw Live Aid this summer in London, just before we moved out here.”

A silent pause. A peppy blonde cheerleader clapped her hands together. “Oh my god, that is so bitchin. Who was the cutest? Was it Spandau Ballet? They’re British too, right?”

Relief washed through her, almost as intoxicating as the cranberry and vodka mixers all the cool girls at home drank in the Nag’s Head. Not that Rose was often in the popular crowd, not since she got sick. “I’m more of a Queen or Bowie girl myself. Freddie was unbelievable, couldn’t take your eyes off him. Status Quo and The Who were amazing too. But...uh...Spandau Ballet, yeah. Martin Kemp is cracking to look at, isn’t he?”

“That’s enough, that’s enough,” O’Donnell quietened them down. “I see we’ve devolved into cute musicians or whatever you young people class as music these days. Settle down. We have a lot to work through before this assignment. And before you ask, Andy, it’s due next Friday, despite the interruption.”

Andy, that wonderful mouth-breathing specimen of idiot found in schools everywhere, flipped off the teacher as soon as her back was turned.

“Was Edgar Allen Poe on your curriculum at home, Miss McAllister?” She said, whilst writing on the chalkboard.

“No. I haven’t read any.”

“That’s alright, just take a seat and listen. You can get caught up over the weekend.”

The class returned to their books, and Rose fled the front of the classroom for an empty desk at the back of the room. At least this way she could wallow in eternal shame without eyes on her back. Her bag deposited on the floor, she collapsed quietly into the wooden desk, shrinking down as far as she could in the arse-numbing seat. Pencil tapping nervously on her book, until her neighbour took mercy on her and passed over a dog-eared copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories, pages folded over at The Tell-Tale Heart.

Shit. Not one she was familiar with. Give her Shakespeare, give her Hardy or Dickens or any of the Bronte’s - hell, even Tolkein or McAffrey or Pratchett - and she’d be talking a mile a minute about them. Poe, not really in her wheelhouse.

Minutes passed as the class read passages aloud, and talked about the imagery. She scanned the story, reading it through as quick as possible, scribbling down some notes as the class discussed it. Rose flipped over a page and found the story was over already, five punchy pages of compact gothic imagery. Concise. That was a blessing, for her first day.

Behind the battered book, something on the desk caught her eye. A grim reaper in a hooded cowl, hand clutching a gruesome looking scythe. The lines were clean, and it wasn’t just inked on the desk, it was etched, scratched into the wood with a pen or a pin or something sharp. It was good. Clearly someone found O’Donnell’s class so riveting, they turned to the visual arts instead.

“OK.” O’Donnell sighed heavily. “So what do we think about the themes? Someone? Anyone? Becky, how about you?”

Polka dot shirt girl ummed and ahed. “I guess, madness?”

“Yes, Becky. Well done. The concept of madness. Anyone else?”

A hand shot up. Jock number two, sat next to his mullet-haired buddy Andy. “I don’t know about the class, but I have some concerns.”

“What a surprise. I would ask you to share them in private, Mr Carter, but that would be a foolish hope, wouldn’t it.”

“That’s right. Mrs O’Donnell. I think my fellow classmates are counting on me to speak the honest truth, and say what we’re all thinking. I’m shocked that impressionable young minds are being asked to read this explicit material. The narrator killed someone in cold blood, and we’re being told he’s not insane, because he was careful and calm whilst doing it?” Blonde jock paused and looked around, working the crowd like a pro. “I mean, to commit murder, to hack a guy to pieces and bury him under the floorboards...that’s the worst kind of evil.

“And don’t we all deserve to spend our formative years studying something that shows the best of humanity? I don’t know about you, but I turn my mind to Psalms 141: Do not let my heart be drawn to what is evil so that I take part in wicked deeds along with those who are evildoers. Mrs O’Donnell, I say we remove this book from the curriculum. My father supports the idea, and he’s willing to take it to the school board next month.”

“Yeah, what Jason said,” Andy piped up, bumping his friend’s fist. “Let’s throw it in the trash, and the assignment due next Friday. I did like the haunted house part though, with the ghost stuck under the floorboards. Don’t know how a ghost has a heartbeat, though. Weird.”

Rose stifled a smile, and turned back down to the grim reaper on the desk. At some point in all the talk of beating hearts her hand had settled over her chest, over the cardigan covering her dress. still buttoned up. A sudden impulse had her grabbing for a red marker pen, and drawing a heart onto the desk, in the path of the grim reaper’s scythe. She was careful not to overlap the original, so the artist could scrub it out if they didn’t like the random addition to their work.

“I’m sure the school board will give it serious thought, Jason,” O’Donnell grumbled, already ground down before second period. “Any more themes in the work? Come on, come on. This will help in the assignment. Miss Buckley, are you with us?”

A girl blatantly napping on her desk in one corner jolted awake at the prodding of a neighbour, her eyes wired, and hair tousled from lying on the desk. “Themes? Right, yeah. Themes. It’s got haunted houses, and death.” The girl turned introspective, eyes glazing over. “There’s guilt, for having lived through something so scary, right? Like he did all these terrible things, and survived. He kinda wants to get it off his chest and admits to murrder straight away, which is a stupid move for someone who calls himself smart, a lot. Reminds me of a dingus I know. He’s so desperate to talk about all the creepy stuff that happened in that house, even though it will get him in trouble. Guilt just eats away at you. Yeah, definitely guilt.”

The teacher looks almost surprised. “Very astute, Robin. If you can keep awake for the rest of your senior year, you might just get an A in this class.”

“Nice,” Robin smiled. “The previously mentioned dingus will be hearing about this later. So much for the senior slump.”

Rose had little time to ponder what on earth a dingus was, as O’Donnell was talking again. “What about comparisons to other work? Does it remind you of anything we studied last year?”

Silence. It was nice and quiet in the back of the room, and being thrust into the spotlight was the last thing Rose wanted. But this was books, this was her element. Something compelled her to raise her hand.

“Miss McAllister, I realise you won’t have covered last year’s work either, i’ll set you up with a reading list.”

“I had some thoughts about this part,” Rose held up the book. “‘There came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart.’ There’s something so gothic and logical about the prose. It reminds me of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Sir what-now?” Polka dot girl muttered.

“Uh, Sherlock Holmes,” Robin added, feigning holding a microscope to her eye and pulling a funny face. “You know, its elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Yes, exactly.” Rose grinned, delighted. “Sherlock Holmes. And Lovecraft too. I think they both came after Poe, so he might have been an influence.”

O’Donnell looked like she’d sucked on a lemon, her thin lips pursed until they almost disappeared. “I thought you hadn’t read the material?”

“I just did.”

“Just now?”

“Yes.”

“And you came to that conclusion within the space of a few minutes?”

Rose eyed her suspiciously. “Yes?”

The teacher looked down over the rims of her glasses. “It would not look good for you to lie on your first day, would it.”

“I assure you, Mrs O’Donnell, I am not a liar. Just a quick reader.”

Snickering floated through the air, disturbing the silent battle of wills stretching across the little classroom. “See? Nerd,” Becky in the polka dots said. “But I thought you weren’t supposed to be smart. My mom said you’re eighteen already, and she works in the office at the power plant. You’re a super senior.”

Desks shuffled, heads swivelled, and now everyone was staring at Rose again. Great, just bloody great.

“In case you were wondering,” Andy said mockingly. “A super senior is someone who repeats the year, cause they failed.”

“Strangely enough, I could deduce that,” Rose said bitterly.

“Enough, class,” O’Donnell tried to regain control, throwing her hands up in the air. “We are not going to discuss the intricate personal lives of our students. Save that for the cafeteria. Back to the book.”

Where was that hole in the ground when she needed it? Rose blocked it all out as best she could, focusing on the cool grim reaper on the desk. Whispers and titters floated across the room again, until Jason the preacher-in-training spoke. “Wait. I know who you are. Your dad - or stepdad, whatever - is Jerry the Goober, right?”

“It’s Gruber, not Goober,” Rose mumbled.

He slapped his jean-clad leg. “Yeah, I knew it. He was class of ‘60, same as my dad. You guys bought the old murder house on Morehead.”

Even O’Donnell stopped, making no further attempt to hold back their stampede of questions

“The creepy old place opposite the playground? Jesus, that place is definitely haunted.” “How many people died there?” “Is there still blood in the floorboards? I bet there is...gnarly.”

Her new home was five times the size of her house in England. Hell, ten times. A wrap around porch, original fireplaces in half the rooms, enough space to swing a family of cats. Three floors and a basement, each room panelled in walnut and grander than the last. True, it was a little...different. Grant, gothic, pretty much in ruins. And yes, Rose had heard there were some horrific acts in the house’s past, something she’d rather not dwell on. But it wasn’t haunted.

“Haunting isn’t real, dumbass.” A guy in a plaid cut-off shirt actually said in her defence, aimed at the one of the jocks. “People watch a lot of Ghostbusters and horror movies, it doesn’t make that shit real.”

“God damn freak,” Andy retorted under his breath. “How’d that place even get sold? Isn’t the old dude that owns it still alive?”

“Someone broke into it last year and cut themselves on a pane of glass,” Rose explained. “The Roane County Housing Board declared it unsafe, so they forced the sale. They said it was a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

The bell rang out and made Rose jump, each and every teen grabbing up their books and fleeing for the door. Except Jason Carver, who stayed back for a few seconds to glare menacingly.

“Assignments. Friday.” O’Donnell cried out the door. “And will someone find Mr Munson, he needs to pick up his...never mind, why do I bother.”

---

The crush of students in the hallway moving to their next classes provided Rose with a little anonymity, and the map pushed into her hands by Nancy Wheeler, plus the small size of the school, meant she could navigate to her Chemistry class without asking for help or accidentally pissing off an entire class of peers.

Mr Kaminski’s class was far less traumatic. She said a simple hi to the room and sat down at the back once again, working diligently on a hydrocarbon pop quiz that kept the class mercifully quiet, and focused on something other than the new girl. Chemistry was hardly her favourite, but it was material she had learned long before, schoolwork splayed across the sterile white sheets of a hospital bed, one eye out the window on the world below.

Then the bell of doom rang out again, and the most nerve-wracking forty-five minutes of the day dawned. Lunch. She marched to the cafeteria like a soldier to battle, scouting out the exits, the seating hierarchy and potential to hide from enemy combatants in a corner or behind a pillar of a room.

Yes, the student body of Hawkins High School stared at her. No, they did not approach. Either the students didn’t care about the new girl, they hadn’t worked out who she was yet, or her episode this morning had spread so widely throughout the school that no one wanted to talk to her. So she swiped a tray of congealed looking meat in grey sauce and green beans, and found a spot on an empty lunch table in the corner of the room, poking at the food until her stomach calmed down enough to eat it.

The basketball team entered the cafeteria to a round of applause, their green and white uniforms lurid under the harsh fluorescent lights, smiles brittle as they cheered for some kind of game tonight in the gym. She supposed this was what happened when your first day of school was three weeks into September, on a Friday. Novelty worn off by early afternoon.

Justin from her English class held court in the centre of the room, holding a bright orange ball as he worked the room. She heard a thump, thump, thump as he dribbled it up and down by the cheerleaders’ table. They all preened as he spun it around on his finger, and it looked so ridiculous she almost choked on a slimy green bean.

Another thud, another voice, this one louder. White sneakers hit a different tabletop and plastic lunch trays bounced, an earthquake of dark hair, denim and leather, upending some poor kid’s apple and carton of milk. The guy on the table pranced about, spitting out words so quickly she couldn’t make them out. Whatever it was, his friends laughed. His voice dropped mockingly, arms flailing at the jocks dribbling balls across the room.

Denim rocker guy squatted down with the awkward grace of an alleycat, a jean chain smacking against the table, and dragged his knuckles around, grunting like an ape. His friends laughed harder, each one looking up at him as if he hung the moon.

“Eat it, freak,” Jason shouted across the cafeteria.

Denim guy grunted and beat his chest with his fists. It only enraged the jocks; the more they cursed and shouted at him, the more he responded like a monkey. Rose snorted with laughter. His confidence was off the charts, no fucks to give, shame completely absent. It was kind of hard to look away from. Magnetic, really.

“Brutal, but effective,” a voice agreed at her side. “I think that’s the longest I've seen Munson go without talking.”

Robin from English class casually leaned on her table, with a ‘I care so little about this that it's cool’ vibe about her tousled hair, check shirt and an honest-to-god tie tucked into high waisted trousers. Very Annie Hall. “Sup, new girl. What are you doing on the ghost table?”

“Ghost table?”

“The one place in the cafeteria that’s hidden from the view of the jocks table, great exit path to the doors. Yeah. I see your attempts to hide, new girl. Is it OK if I call you that, or is that totally presumptuous? God, it is, isn’t it. Stupid Robin. What about McAllister. Has a nice ring to it, kinda like a detective’s name. McAllister. Buckley and McAllister, one’s a straight-laced pencil pusher, the other’s a beat cop with a dark past who doesn’t play by the rules, together they must solve a murder...or no, old fashioned detectives like Holmes and Watson,” her accent changed to a strangled attempt at a posh accent. “The curious case of the Hawkins High murder.”

Rose beamed, watching Robin’s elbow slip off the table, the girl reeling backward and clumsily righting herself.

“Mystery solved, partner,” Rose joined in. “Victim, one Jason Carver, brutally killed in the cafeteria, bled of his dignity in front of a hundred witnesses. Suspect, one suspiciously intelligent gorilla wearing a curious sleeveless denim jacket. Murder weapon, a crude, yet cleverly executed, parody of his bestial behaviour. And in front of the cheerleaders too.”

“I knew it,” Robin slapped the table. “I knew you’d be cool. I could just tell. And I may have slept through the incident in the hallway, but several reliable sources have since told me it was crushing to the fragile male ego. I love you already. Come and sit with us, you’re not languishing here all alone.”

A flood of warmth spread through her chest. “Really?”

“Really. Come on, partner. And by us I mean Beth and Linda, we’re over here.”

Rose snatched up her tray, led by the frenetic Robin to a table by the stage, walking right around the table of jocks. Jason Carver shot her a look of...disdain? Intrigue? It was something weird, anyway.

Beth and Linda were leaning over the table, whispering in hushed voices when they arrived.

“Buckley and McAllister, reporting for duty,” Robin dropped onto the bench with a thud, saluting at her friends. “This is the legendary new girl I mentioned earlier. Rose, this is Beth Wildfire, retired goalie, with a leg so full of metal she can’t ever go near a magnet,” she waved at a brunette who sat stiffly, with her leg propped on the bench. “And this is Linda Chen, our fearless leader and captain,” she poked the lunch tray of a girl in a numbered sweater, dark hair pinned back with bubblegum-purple barrettes.

“Football girl,” Linda said appraisingly. “We heard about you. So soccer is for wimps, huh?”

Rose winced and choked on a sip of juice from a carton. “Technically, I didn’t say that. I said the tough girls at home played hockey. But everyone plays soccer at home. It’s clearly the superior sport.”

It got a little awkward after that, each of the girls finishing their lunch wordlessly.

Robin cleared her throat. “Oooh, I forgot to mention we’re the girls’ soccer team, didn’t I...” she trailed off. “All the drawbacks of using the sweaty locker rooms, none of the perks of having a letterman jacket or a sweet spot on the social hierarchy. Hey, did I mention Rose went to Live Aid this summer? In London?”

Robin’s contagious smiles and easy banter made it almost easy; the four of them spoke for half an hour and more, Rose cross-examined on her thoughts about every band from the last ten years (Wham was so overrated, obviously) to movies (anything with Harrison Ford) to fashion (in her head, a slightly more punk version of Princess Di. In reality, whatever looked passable at the time). Having the spotlight on herself was not entirely comfortable, but by the end of the lunch hour she may have just avoided being a complete social pariah.

“So,” Robin drummed her hands on the plastic lunch tray. “I admit, I had an ulterior motive in bringing you here.”

Rose braced herself. “Which is...”

“Soccer tryouts,” Linda interjected, rolling up her sleeves. “We’re seriously down on numbers this year. Two of our team were killed in the fire a couple months back...I don’t know if you heard about that.”

“Shit,” Rose said. “I’m so sorry.” The mall had devastated Hawkins just before she arrived. No small place could lose that many of its people without touching the lives of everyone in the town.

“And Veronica’s parents pulled her out of school over the summer; they moved to Maine. Said this town was cursed, which it probably is,” Linda admitted.

“Ha.” Robin croaked. “Yeah, cursed. Like...like that magic shit’s real. Nope, just a regular old mall fire. Nothin’ to see here, except a whole lotta pain and sadness. And ash. From the totally natural fire.”

Linda eyed her suspiciously. “After Beth broke her leg, we’re down to four players. I don’t think we’ll be able to field a team this season, not unless we find another player for a five-a-side. We have tryouts tonight, would you wanna maybe come?”

“Oh,” Rose’s brows raised. “I’m not sure I can. I can’t do gym this year.”

Beth looked confused. “What do you mean, you can’t do gym?”

“I have a note that gets me out of gym for the whole year. I have free periods instead.”

Robin squealed and stood up. “There’s a note to get you out of gym? For the whole year? It’s senior year...that’s all of gym, gym forever, gym never again. That’s an option? What does one have to do to get one of these notes?”

“Major health issues,” Rose said. She didn’t elaborate. It would be nice to go one full day without being sick girl. “Mum had the note signed by three specialists at the hospital, and I think the school nurse.”

Robin sat down again, flushing and averting her gaze. “Okay then, permanent gym-pass is a no-go. Damn, I was excited for a minute there.”

A thousand questions ran around in Rose’s head. “So you like soccer, but hate gym?”

“Yes, and yes,” Robin blurted out. “I can’t face that rope climbing thing one more time. I might be fast, but I have the arm strength of a cabbage and I fall over like a lot. Wait, does that mean you can’t run or move around quickly or do anything strenuous? Should we be watching you carefully?”

“Not really. I’m better, or at least I should be. It’s just my mum, she’s over protective.”

Cogs were turning in Linda’s head, and she chewed and swallowed a forkful of carrot before speaking. “So technically, you can’t do gym. But what about sports teams outside of school hours?”

“Yeah,” Robin clicked her fingers and pointed them like guns. “I love a good loophole. If it’s out of hours, it doesn’t count.”

Rose hummed noncommittally.

“Oh come on,” Robin whined. “None of the other girls want to come, and I won’t even have to explain the offside rule to you. That takes half the tryout! Otherwise it will only be me and Linda.”

Did she want to throw herself into sports on her first day of school? Probably not. In fact, she didn’t really like soccer, and she only pretended to understand the offside rule when the lads in the pub screamed at the telly, cig in one hand, pint in the other. But the vague promise of a friendship group was too strong a lure. “OK. I’m in, i’ll come to tryouts. But I don’t have a change of clothes, i’m completely unprepared.”

“Yes, McAllister!” Robin punched the air, tie coming loose from her pants. “Come to the girls locker room after last period, i’ll find you something. You know where the gym is?”

Rose hung her arms like a gorilla, imitating the rebel rocker raising hell on the table earlier. “If I get lost, i’ll follow the monkeys in letterman jackets.”

“See?” Robin walked backwards out of the cafeteria, tripping over a bench and recovering swiftly. “Knew you’d be cool.”

---

A quick call to her mother on the school payphone by the front door set it in stone. “Pick me up at seven instead of three please, I have an after school club, think I made some friends, love you, bye.” She said it quickly and slammed the receiver down, so her mum couldn't draw breath to argue or question the change in plans.

Rose nearly skipped to her first free period, immersing herself in the library like a drunk stumbling into a bar after a dry spell. She was in school full-time finally for the first time in a couple of years, and she had a year of uninterrupted studying to look forward to. Her fingers skipped over the spines of Chaucer, Austen, Shelley, until she found the works of Hawthorne, Twain, Fitzgerald and Salinger. Most of them were new to her, one of the benefits of moving across an ocean and beginning a new curriculum. The librarian Ms Miller just about died on the spot, having an avid lover of literature to speak to for an hour. Things for Rose McAllister were looking on the up.

History went by in a blur; most of her classmates were not in Mrs O’Donnell’s English class of misery this morning, so she got to introduce herself all over again, without fucking it up with an epicly bad monologue. Her other classes were fine, turns out mathematics pretty universal and if you’re good at it there, you’re good at it here too.

Two forty-five. The home stretch. Her pencil tapped the desk in agitation, thinking about soccer tryouts. Yes, she might be rusty, but she wasn’t half as weak as her mother made her out to be. And she did know her way around a football pitch, even if it was from watching the boys from the sidelines on the rare occasion she was in school and had a few friends to tag along with. This madcap plan of Robin’s might just work.

When Mr Fitz let the class out ten minutes early so he could make an appointment, she was out of her chair like a shot, peering at her school map. Right past the tiger mascot painted on the wall, through the double doors, and into a room...that was dark, and full of shelving. Ah. Definitely not the locker room.

“I just don’t know, Rob.” Linda Chen’s muffled voice sounded on the other side of a cupboard door; clearly the locker room was just next door. “She pissed off every sports team in the school within five minutes of arriving. Basketball, football, soccer...the cheerleaders just by association. If it wasn’t so damaging to me socially to be seen with her, i’d be kind of impressed.”

“Come on,” Robin whined. “I’m a grade-A klutz and I have verbal diarrhoea, and you guys like having me around, right?”

“That’s different,” the other one, Beth, reasoned. “You’re our friend. I know you’ve been a little off since Starcourt, but-”

“Off? Of course i’ve been off. I saw shit you wouldn’t believe, Beth. Forgive me if i’m not as peppy as I used to be.”

“I know you were there, Rob, but we all lost people that day. And I don’t think I have the energy to be all fake nice to this new girl, when i’m just sad and tired, you know? It’s senior year, its too late for that kind of bullshit.”

“Yeah, well clearly this was a bad idea, Forget it.” Robin spat out. “I just wanted you to be happy, but I won’t be making the same mistake twice.”

Doors slammed and voices faded. The darkness was kind of foggy and Rose couldn’t see far ahead of her, but she stood in the dark for a few minutes, still processing what she had just heard. Hopes crushed, balloon deflated. Can't say she was surprised. Don’t want too much of a good thing, that would break a lifelong pattern. Yes, she could tell that Linda and Beth were hesitant, but Robin too? The one person she formed a connection with on her first day?

She crept out of the janitor’s closet, marching toward the front doors of the school...where her mother wouldn’t be for hours, because she had just called to change her pick up time. Shit.

Rose was not above admitting she considered getting back in that closet for a moment, but that would be completely absurd. Instead she trudged back to the library, where tall bookshelves might keep her hidden and their contents keep her occupied for a few hours on a Friday evening.

A steady trickle of people were heading her way, going from classes to the gym for whatever ball-in-hoop sports stuff she had mocked and derided by accident earlier, clearly alienating the more popular half of the student body in one fell swoop.

Head down, with a notebook covering the bottom half of her face, she inched through the thickening crowd and found the welcome fortress of the library doors...closed. Open hours, eight til three.

“Motherfucker,” She mumbled.

More people streamed toward her, but Rose couldn’t face another witness to her shitty day, and ducked behind the lockers.

An unknown guy’s voice floated through the halls. “...I bet Tommy will break up with her, now he’s at community college in Cartersville. Pretty faces are a dime a dozen in college, and Carol P is yesterday’s news.”

“Carol’s hot.” Meathead Andy from English class offered. “I’ll pick up the pieces if her ass gets dumped.”

“You are such a dick.”

“Just saying what we all think, man. But i’m not counting on it. Maybe I should make a move on the new girl. She might be a nerd, but she’s got a couple of redeeming features, if you know what I mean. Probably hotter than Carol.”

“Did you ever think you just have a thing for redheads? Besides, the new girl is irritating as fuck. And she’s not exactly cheerleader material. I thought she was kinda fat.”

Andy sniggered, his voice fading as he walked away. “Nah, she was just standing next to Nancy Wheeler. Wheeler’s built like a broom handle. And I don’t need a girl to be a cheerleader, just give good head.”

The jocks slithered away to the gym, and the garish orange and green walls began to feel suffocating. She pushed hard on the library door hoping it might somehow be unlocked, but it didn’t budge. Her chest was aching, skin flushing and breathing hard. She tried another. Classroom after classroom, door after door, all fucking locked. What is this, a prison?

Her feet pounded the hallways, pushing blindly until one of the doors yielded and she burst into a darkened space. Content there was no one else around, she flung her back across the room like a discus, crashing into some kind of clothing rack, almost exploding in a puff of red velvet and pink taffeta as it dragged some costumes to the floor.

“Aaah,” the roar came out before she could stop it. Some kind of drama room, filled with dark curtains and crowded rows of props, dominated by a big table. She slammed her fist on it impulsive,, scattering some of its contents to the ground in a metallic crash.

This was as good a place as any to wither away and die, so she walked to the far corner, leaned back and slid down the wall, knees folded beneath her.

There was something comforting about defeat. At least, sitting on the floor in a dishevelled heap, she’d hit a literal rock bottom. Nowhere to go but up.

Yes, she could call home and get a ride back home within the next fifteen minutes. But that meant admitting defeat, reliving the entire experience over and over, prodded and poked by an interfering mother. She couldn’t even hope that Jerry would answer. He was far too honest to keep a secret. Nope, she was stuck here amongst the stage lights, costumes, and decaying dreams of Midwestern theatre kids until seven, which was three and a half hours away.

Plastered on the stage curtain was a sign coloured in orange and red, a cool drawing of a horned demon that looked eerily familiar. Just like the flyer from this morning. Sprawled in bold letters: HELLFIRE. Interesting.

Her velvet-lined, backlit refuge from the high school world didn’t last long. Deep voices bickered passionately in the hall, footsteps squeaked on linoleum, and the door was flung open with so much energy that it nearly popped off its hinges.

“...i’m telling you, man, the frozen lair of Iymrith is just a warm up campaign. I needed to test the mettle of you sheepies before the good stuff next semester. I had to see if you knew your ass from your elbow.” Someone breezed into Rose’s view, a mop of dark frizzy hair, just visible over the huge wooden table that dominated the room.

A squeal of laughter followed, a younger guy’s voice. “Or our class from our elbow. Get it, our class? Our characters’ class?”

“Oh my god, stop Dustin,” a third person protested. “He gets character classes. He’s probably been a DM since we were, like, toddlers.”

“Jesus, Wheeler. Crit hit. I’m not that goddamn old.” The older guy spoke, coming into Rose’s view. He stumbled backward with his hand over his denim and leather jacket combo, as if punctured in the heart. The menace from the cafeteria, gorilla boy, now sentient and walking on two legs. “But the DM in me does thrive on this servant-master dynamic, so keep the subservience coming. My ego could do with a little stroking.”

“Ew...” The ‘Wheeler kid’ moaned; he was lanky, with a grown-out bowl haircut and a grimace peeling apart his lips.

Their leader was unperturbed. He leapt onto a heavy carved chair, wobbling, arms outstretched as he balanced on the makeshift throne. “Bow down, minions. Kneel and pledge obeisance. Damn, I could get drunk off this power. I should get a crown, or something.”

“You already have a throne, isn’t that enough? Or have we birthed a tyrant?” A dark skinned guy with braces shook his head, a trace of envy in his narrowed eyes.

Rose froze like a rabbit in headlights. Her position on the floor was hidden by the clothes rack, but not hidden enough. There were more of them, a hurricane of teenage hormones, awkward haircuts and matching Hellfire shirts swirling about the table and taking off their leather jackets, setting up the table with boards and boxes and...game pieces? She had no clue what they were doing, but they had wider grins and more buzz than the all manufactured cheer in the cafeteria put together.

“Uh...Eddie?” One of the older guys says, holding up something beige and cylindrical. “Drama kids have been messing with our stuff again. I can’t find your goblet, and a couple of the candles are broken.”

“Goddamn thespians,” the rocker Eddie’s voice dropped, all gravelly and menacing. “Completely out of touch with the real world, acting out bullshit stories for the man, nothing but corporate message after corporate message. Harris is gonna know about this the next time he wants to buy off me. Touch Hellfire’s stuff, and i’ll add ten dollars to the going rate. S.A.S. Special asshole supplement.”

“I thought you had to be a girl to be a thespian. If Harris is a guy, does that mean he likes girls, or other guys?”

A kid in an eye-wateringly bright shirt over his Hellfire top, and a cap covering his curls, held up his palms in desperation. “He said thespians, not lesbians, Jeff,” he lisped, pent up with manic energy. “Thespians are lovers of the theatre, not girls who like other girls.”

“Ha. Lesbians.” Someone giggled. Laughter erupted. It might appear to be a weird cult, but they were teenage boys after all.

“Silence,” Eddie the rocker snapper. Commanded, even. One word and the group shut up, watching him warily. He dropped to his ripped-denim kees and crawled under the table. “First Sinclair shakes us off for tryouts - I don’t know how big shiny balls have a greater lure than the harsh, yet beautiful, plains of the Icewind Dale, but hey, critical thinking doesn’t really kick in until you at least finish puberty, freshies - and now my goblet has vanished? It’s all stacking up against me, man. I don’t know, i’m not feeling good about this.”

“Careful Dustin,” one of the group warned. A voice she knew, the one from her English class with the torn up plaid shirt. “You do not want to mess with Eddie’s ambience. I did that once in sophomore year. Set up a session in my garage during the holidays. Let’s just say, the more immersed the DM, the nicer he is during the campaign. You guys don’t want to see him grouchy.”

Wheeler scoffed. “Come on, Gareth. This isn’t grouchy?”

“Not. Even. Close,” Gareth crossed his arms over his plaid-covered chest. “Your buddy Lucas really messed up, skipping out on the third Hellfire night of the year. It’s not even October, and we’re gonna have to bring out a secondary character or something. At least the place could look good.”

“Gareth the Great is right, children. Ambience is a key part of storytelling. It’s all about the mood,” Eddie replied, dragging out the last word. He manhandled the bags on the floor, peering into nooks and crannies, nosing around like a stray dog looking for scraps, completely beneath the table, facing away from Rose. Until, abruptly, he wheeled around on his knees.

Doe eyes met hers, liquid dark and wide, framed by frizzy rocker hair. His manic, dynamic presence froze perfectly, like a VHS tape on pause, cogs in that brain working overtime. He stared blankly at the interloper in his domain, who was scrunched up on the floor, hiding all along in the corner. And right in front of her feet, his shiny pewter goblet.

Rose held her breath. She waited for it. Cursing, shouting, orders to leave. Instead, his lips curled up in a grin, one so contagious and earnest that she couldn’t help but smile back. He raised a finger to his mouth, silver rings pressing against his lips, asking for her silence. She nodded back once. Permission sought: request granted.

Ten seconds passed by without either of them breaking eye contact; Rose hadn’t appreciated just how long ten seconds really was, when you were caught in someone’s gaze. Snared like a rabbit, unable to move, unable to look away. Bordering on weird, but not necessarily bad weird. A standoff, destination unknown.

“Eddie,” The Wheeler kid moaned and kicked his chair leg. “Can we find your goblet later? My sister’s leaving school at seven, and she’s not above ditching us if we’re late.”

“Mike’s not lying,” Dustin backed him up. “She has totally done that before. Ruthless. And every minute we lose searching for goblets is one minute less in the frozen wastes of the Icewind Dale. Just think of how much storytelling you can fit into a minute, Dungeon Master.”

That phrase hit her in the chest. She maintained eye contact, and mouthed Dungeon master?

Eddie, still beneath the table, gave her a wolfish grin, split from ear to ear, teeth shining pearlescent white in the light of the candles. He tried to motion something to her, but knocked his head on the underside of the table in the process.

“Earth to Eddie,” the bigger of the guys called out.

The man in question rubbed the back of his head, snapped out of some deep thinking. “Right, goblet. We have a problem. A naughty nymph must have snatched it and run back to her lair.”

He winked at her, dimple etched into his cheek, and she had to stop her shoulders from shaking with laughter.

Jeff sighed a second time. “What the hell’s keeping you down there? I cannot sub again, I was a terrible DM last year when you had mono. I let you guys defeat Asmodeus in fifteen minutes. Asmodeus, ruler of the Nine Hells. It took me five times as long to plan the damn campaign!”

Rose and Eddie conversed in gestures as the guys above them spoke. A full blown wordless conversation captured with a tiny shrug, a smile, a raised eyebrow. He was clearly trying to tell her something, and wouldn't give her up to the group.

A theoretical light bulb flipped on over Eddie’s head, and he flapped his hands wildly, pointing at the rack of costumes just to her side. Implication clear - get behind it. Wait, what? This wasn’t an escape plan; duck back there would lead her further from the door. Did he expect her to stay there until seven?

“Eddie!” Jeff called out.

Eddie’s shoulders sagged in defeat, and he addressed the group above. “Yup, that’s me. But as Wheeler so kindly pointed out, i’m an old man now. Knees aren’t what they used to be.”

Rose peered behind over her shoulder, checking out the fully hidden spot behind the clothes rack. Target acquired. Unfortunately she couldn’t make it without being seen by the minions at the table.

She nudged her chin toward it and Eddie caught on. Another grin, another gleam in his dark eyes. He rolled out from under the table, groaning theatrically, arm held out.

“Give us a hand, Henderson.”

The freshman smiled so wide his braces almost popped out and complied immediately. It was endearing, actually. He stepped forward, forearm grasping Eddie’s, planting his feet on the floor firmly. But not firm enough.

Eddie grabbed him and tugged him hard, toppling the kid on top of his stomach, wind knocked out with a dramatic groan. They landed in a heap of tangled limbs, with the kid’s neon cap flung across the room.

“Oh my god!” He cried out.

“Sorry, Henderson. Shouldn’t have had that second tray of mystery meat at lunch.”

“You only ate half a bag of pretzels, dude.”

They were distracted, backs turned. She sprung into action, launching behind the clothing rack, cursing under her breath as she nudged the goblet accidentally.

A pink costume became her refuge, layer upon layer of taffeta, the size of a small sedan. She felt hot and itchy just looking at the scratchy fabric. A dress for a princess, or maybe the good witch in Oz?

“This is hazing, isn’t it? Mom told me all about it.” Dustin lisped, hands on hips. “Keep it up, Dungeon Master. If you think a little rough housing will deter this halfling bard, you are seriously mistaken.”

But just as the guys finished helping Dustin to his feet, Mike shooting forward to grab his hat, the goblet where Rose just sat began to roll.

“Gentlemen!” Eddie roared, even more maniacally than before, diverting them again. “Before we begin I propose a detour. A side quest, if you will.”

Rose inched out her hand, slowly enough not to attract wandering eyes, and retrieved the goblet, just as they took their seats, wooden chairs scraping heavily on the linoleum.

“What kind of side quest?” Gareth from English class asked.

“Your party is weak. Your ranger Lucas the Fickle-hearted has abandoned you upon the road-”

“That’s not his name!” Dustin protested.

“Yeah, well, i’m rebranding him,” Eddie declared. “Like I said, Lucas the Fickle-hearted has fallen prey to the cheap thrill of a local tourney, drawn to test his mettle upon the melee ground and take his place as a totally righteous, totally boooring knight of the Kingswatch. But you, good sirs, you make it to a humble tavern on the edge of the forest. There you are greeted by an old companion, Eddie the Bard. Tears streaming down his face, he tells you his cherished goblet is gone, a ring of dried crimson wine staining the table where it once sat.”

He sprung forth, grabbing the back of Mike Wheeler’s chair and narrating directly into his ear. “What’s that, you say? Tis merely a pewter cup, worth nothing more than a couple of coppers on the open market? No, gentlemen. This cup is the secret to the bard’s otherworldly music, spelled to give the bearer great luck and fortune. Charisma off the charts, baby. A Goblet of Rock.”

She had no idea what this Hellfire club was actually doing, but it seemed like a cross between a board game and a storytelling exercise. And this Eddie was...good. Really good. But a knot wound tight in Rose’s stomach as he belaboured the importance of the cup in her very hands. A cup he was no doubt trying to work back into the story.

“I say we retrieve the goblet,” Gareth folded his hands under his chin. “Our party is one man down, and we need all the help we can get if we’re going to defeat the storm dragon Iymrith. Maybe this bard will owe us a favour, and give us a companion or an artefact to slay the dragon.”

“Hear hear,” Dustin thumped the table, shaking about some small pieces Rose couldn’t see. “I walk into the tavern at the head of the party-”

“Hey,” Jeff protested, shooting Dustin a jealous look. “I’m the senior member here. I should lead the party.”

Eddie raised a hand. “No one disputes your position, Jeff. But let the little halfling make his move.”

Dustin took a deep breath. “I open the tavern door, toss my hat onto the table, and flag down a serving wench. Our throats are dusty from the road, so I take a few of our silver coins from the last dungeon crawl and purchase six flagons of mead. Eddie brings them to us.”

Eddie leapt onto his chair, squatting on his heels. “Welcome, patron. I would stay and sup a flagon of mead with you fine warriors, but my troubles overwhelm me. Without the Goblet of Rock, my charisma remains too low to wield my mighty Warlock, and shred to my heart’s content. No guitar, no revellers, no coin for Eddie the Bard. I'm in need of help to keep bread on my table and patrons in my tavern.”

Chris chuckled low and ominous. “If it’s steel you’re after, I, the dwarf Thordus Boulderbash, will take my battleaxe and face any man who dares take the Goblet of Rock.”

“Thordus has a fearsome reputation in these parts, my chaotic-good friend,” Eddie pats him on the back. “But this cup thief is no warrior. A nymph of seriously high stealth crept into the tavern as the guests slept, and made away with the cup before dawn’s light woke me from my slumber.”

For a moment, Rose was too captivated by the story to absorb her supposed leading role in it.

Gareth cleared his throat. “This nymph, she pretty by any chance?”

Eddie leaned in, weight on his elbows. “Fairer than the sunrise over the Greypeak mountains.”

Rose’s brain tripped, lights out, power surged. Even someone with her abysmal track record could recognise the flirtatious tone in his voice. Wait...was this just part of the game? Was he like that with everyone? She wished another girl was in the room, so she could get a sense of normality, something to compare this to.

“Niiice,” Gareth drawled.

“Wait, how would you even know it was a nymph in the first place?” Dustin asked, twirling a pencil between his fingers. “She was gone before daybreak, we have no evidence.”

“Well, gentlefolk, I happen to have an enchanted mirror in the tavern. Caught a glimpse of the wild little thing just as she booked it out the window, leaving behind a lock of auburn hair. And we all know that a nymph cannot be slain by steel alone, so break out your charisma, boys, we’re gonna have to find her, and convince her to return the Goblet of Rock.”

They whooped and applauded, more revved up than a crowd of football hooligans, and Rose had to fist her hands in her crochet cardigan to stop herself from joining in. Something was about to happen, and she was hopping around on the scales between terror and excitement, brimming with a nervous energy.

She couldn’t see the table close up, but she heard dice roll and gasps from the guys at the table, Eddie narrating something about scores, determining the outcome of a battle, or perhaps a decision. It was hard to tell, without any context. It took a few minutes, and her brain didn’t take much of it in.

“Adventurers,” Eddie addressed them after a brief burst of action. “The forest glade beckons, a sea of autumn-gold leaves rustles in the wind. You’ve fought hard to get past the elemental spirits, and emerged bloody, but victorious. Now place down your swords, for the final hurdle is one of wit, not one of might.”

“As our party’s bard, I step toward the tranquil pool,” Dustin says gravely, as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders. “I take out my lute, and play a tune of such beauty that the nymph hiding in the forest must-”

“Hold on there, halfling,” Eddie silenced him. He looked on edge, his silver rings tap, tap, tapping against the wooden table incessantly. “There are some things a guy’s gotta do himself.”

Mike gawped. “DM’s don’t join in like that, man.”

“You’ll live, sheepies,” Eddie said, dripping in sarcasm. “I, Eddie the Bard, thank the halfling for his admittedly awesome lute playing, and step toward the glassy surface of the forest pool.”

He took a deep breath, stood up suddenly, and turned toward her hidden lair behind the costume rack. Oh god. She was going to die on the spot, she was going to combust from embarrassment if he brought her out. But somehow, even stronger, was the fear that he wouldn’t. He stepped slowly toward her hiding spot, eyes scanning the piles of clothes for a rough idea of where she might be.

“Lady nymph,” he began, voice cracking a little. “You fled my tavern before we could meet, my goblet in your clutches. If you would honour this humble bard with your name, we might determine what you desire in return for the Goblet of Rock.”

“Dude, please don’t make me do a girl's voice again,” Gareth begged. “My vocal cords can’t take it.”

Fuck it. This was the most entertained she’d been all day. All year, probably. Rose swept aside the hangers of clothes with a flourish. She stepped out, to a chorus of shouts and an ear-splitting scream.

Dustin shrieked like a banshee, his hat lost yet again as jolted out of his chair and into Mike’s lap.“Jesus! What the hell?”

“Get off me, man.” Mike said, pushing him away.

“Oh my god, a plant?” Jeff roared. “This is fucking unprecedented Eddie. It’s without precedent!”

“I must be high right now,” Gareth mumbled. “You guys see what I see, right?”

Eddie was right there, tall and frizzy-haired and only two steps away, eyes as wide as saucers. Rose barely had time to notice how tall he was before he dropped to one knee like a chivalrous knight, hand outstretched toward her.

Rose gripped the goblet hard, fight or flight kicking in hard. Ten paces and she’d be out of the door, into the night. Or, at least, into the bleak corridors of Hawkins High.

“Hey,” Eddie said low under his breath, ignoring his friends’ drama behind him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

He held out his hand again, palms wide, sleeves rolled back, ink snaking up his forearm. Close up, he was even more intense, with a jack o’lantern grin. He spoke again, this time loud enough for the group to hear.

“The nymph dares to emerge from the forest pool, bearing the goblet. But will she tell a humble bard her name?”

Brain whirring quickly, Rose realised she’d need a story. Her social skills? Dubious. Eclectic book knowledge, and rambling profusely at the worst of times? Proficient. She couldn’t just use her real name, could she? Nymphs...nature, mythology, natural places. Might just be enough to go on.

“Lady Thorn,” she said, doing her best to imitate his dramatic narrative voice. She placed her hand in his; skin warm, rings cool, surprisingly gentle. “But you, good sir, can call me Rose.”

The group were whooping, chaotic energy rolling off them in waves. Dustin was still hyperventilating, and the guys were giving him shit for reacting like a ten year old girl.

“Lady Thorn,” Eddie clutched her hand in supplication. “We seek the return of the Goblet of Rock. Name your price, fair maiden.”

An hour ago, she’d name a one way ticket back to the Shire. Now, the road to Rivendell was starting to look a little interesting. Question is, was this the Council of Elrond, or a table of leather-jacket clad, hormonal, teenage Nazgul?

“Is that his girlfriend?” Mike asked, face scrunched up in confusion.

“Nope,” Jeff answered. “We have sighted a UFO: unidentified female object. Contact made, presence yet to be explained.”

Rose frowned at being called an object, but there was too much going on in the room to be distracted by it. She held the goblet in her free hand up to the stage light, pausing for dramatic effect, and to figure out what on earth she might say. “I am new to the land of...”

“Icewind Dale.” Dustin supplied quickly, braces sparking in the spotlights as he grinned.

“...to the land of Icewind Dale,” Rose continued nervously. “I was torn from my simple hedgerow in the Shire and cast to these frozen forests without hope or expectation of returning home again. I seek...uh...I seek a guide to help me navigate these new lands.”

“A guide, huh?” Eddie pondered, turning to the table behind him. “Can we do that, gentlemen?”

Mike was the first to respond. “No traveller walks the road alone on our watch. But first, we roll. She has to have a skill check.”

Eddie threw back his head. “Uh, kid Wheeler, remember what I said about my omnipotence earlier? Don’t forget who the DM is here. Me, buddy. I call the shots.”

Gareth sighed dramatically. “Besides, what are you even rolling against? She has no stats, no abilities, just a name and a goblet!”

Chris shuts his gaping mouth just long enough to ask her: “You don’t happen to have a character sheet, do you? Do you have any thoughts on your alignment? I’m sensing lawful good, but nymphs are pretty wild. Maybe chaotic good?”

Rose was at a loss. “Wait,” she said, brandishing the goblet. “I can’t believe i’m about ramble at completely unknown people again, because it worked out so well for me in English class this morning, but I have no idea what you are talking about. What’s an alignment? A character sheet? Stats?”

“I truly hate to use a sports term, but time out, people,” Eddie declared. He stopped, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, weighing up something behind his dark doe-eyes. “Sweetheart, either that is a world class fake accent, or you’re not from these parts. Have you ever played Dungeons and Dragons?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are Dungeons and Dragons?”

“What?” Eddie let go of her hand and paced up and down, hands on his hips. “Really? Like, never? Not heard of a dungeon master...the D20...the ‘we’ll sacrifice your firstborn’ brand of satanic panic troubling the hearts and minds of parents all across America? ”

She thought about it. “Is D20 a band? I don’t really watch much MTV, though my stepdad did just get cable. Are they any good?”

He reeled backward until he hit the table, arms flailing in the air. Anyone else would have left it there but Eddie threw himself backward, rolling on top of the table like an invisible hand was dragging him. “No way. No way. That can’t be happening. But you just played along like a pro!”

She burst out laughing. He was really hamming it up, knocking over everything on the table - the candles narrowly snatched by the guys, whose quick thinking prevented the drama room going up in a puff of smoke.

“It’s not a band, it’s a twenty sided dice,” Mike said slowly, like he was talking to a toddler. “There are other numbered dice too. Not just six.”

“Yeah, we use them to make decisions on our actions, the success of our attacks...you know, it’s just how we roll.” Dustin squealed a laugh. “I said, how we roll...’cause it's a dice.”

Groans echoed across the room, second hand embarrassment so strong you could cut it with a knife, but the corner of Eddie’s lips still turned up into a smile. Their teasing clearly stayed on the right side of friendly.

He vaulted off the table clumsily, and staggered back over, approaching Rose gingerly, like she were a flight risk liable to run at any second. “Wait, wait. Before we return to the Icewind Dale I have to ask. Who are you, and how in the nine hells of Asmodeus did you appear in the centre of Hellfire on a Friday night?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Dustin interrupted. “You two really don’t know each other?”

“We go a long way back,” Eddie boasted, chest puffed out. “All the way back to that table incident thirty minutes ago. And trust me, if I'd seen the lady before, I would have remembered.”

That feeling bubbled up again, like warm whiskey coursing through her veins. “I’m Rose. It’s my first day of senior year. My first ever day of high school since we moved. So naturally I've pissed off half the school, some of the teachers, and got trapped in a supply closet whilst the nice girls talk behind my back. My social life has withered and died in a single day, like a fragile desert flower.”

Eddie nodded along. “So a quiet Friday, then.”

“Just fucking fantastic. I found a dark corner to hide my shame, only to find myself in the middle of a satanic cult. Those two John Hughes films that I watched over the summer did not prepare me for this American high school experience.”

“Yeah. It’s less Sixteen Candles, more Nightmare on Elm Street.” He smiled a dopey, lopsided smile, and fidgeted with his hands. “I’m Eddie, by the way. Munson. First days suck, I would know, I've had more than my fair share. The gentlemen behind me here are fellow D&D enthusiasts and members of Hellfire: Jeff, Chris and Gareth are long-time members, and we have some new little sheepies, Dustin and Mike. Lucas too, if he can drop his shiny rubber balls long enough to commit to the campaign.”

A chorus of Hi’s and waves introduced the players to her, but watching them from the corner of the room had given her a decent sense of their personalities and dynamics.

“Come on, guys, shuffle round the table and make space for the lady,” Eddie commanded. He dashed over to the wall and manhandled a heavy wooden chair into place, directly on the right side of his ornate throne. He bowed and gestured at the empty seat, then the colour drained from his face. “I didn’t even ask if you wanted to join, did I. It's not an obligation. You can walk right out of here having nailed the best side quest in Hellfire history.”

“We should warn you,” Gareth imparted wisely, “if you’re looking to be popular around here, this is the wrong place to be. We’re not exactly tight with the jocks or the party kids.”

Eddie pointed to himself with both thumbs. “They don’t call me Eddie the Freak for nothing.”

Her decision was already made, the moment Eddie spotted her from under that table and smiled. Here was a group of strangers going out of their way to make her feel welcome, without knowing a single thing about her.

Rose felt a lump in her throat. “You would put up with a complete idiot who doesn’t know her class from her elbow?”

Dustin’s fist pumped the air. “Yes! Puns are totally cool, I knew it.”

“I don’t mind,” Mike said. “I taught my girlfriend D&D, she had to start somewhere.”

Eddie did a double take. “You have a girlfriend, freshie?”

“She moved to California just before the school year.”

“Ah,” Jeff drew out the syllable knowingly. “Out of state. Convenient excuse.”

“I wouldn’t call it convenient,” Dustin disagreed. “My girlfriend Suzie is in Utah, and that totally sucks. It’s been forty-six days since Camp Nowhere finished, which means two hundred and ninety-nine before I see her again next summer.”

Gareth groaned. “Come on, man. Both the freshmen have girlfriends? How is that even statistically possible?”

Dustin leaned forward intently, “Well if you look at the number of D&D players, profile them by age and cross reference them with the number of-”

Eddie’s hand smothered Dustin’s mouth. “Shh, halfling. He did not mean literally. Besides, the lady hasn’t given us her answer. Sweetheart, do you wanna help us take down Iymrith, the storm dragon? I have a feeling these novices will need a helping hand. It is going to be brutal.”

Rose took a seat at Eddie’s right hand side, and picked up the many-sided lump of red plastic on the board. “I suppose I could join you. Do you know why?”

He fell for it, hook, line and sinker. “Why?”

She dropped the D20 on the table. “Because this is how I roll.”

Dustin dislodged the Dungeon Master’s mouth; fuse lit, laughter exploding from his chest like a stick of dynamite. Groans turned to laughs.

Eddie smiled, and opened his arms wide. “Welcome to Hellfire.”

#stranger things #stranger things 4 #eddie stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson/oc #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #fanfic #fan fic #fan fiction #fanfiction #fic #eddie munson fluff

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newyorkthegoldenage · 8 months ago

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My Fair Lady opened at the Mark Hellinger Theater on March 15, 1956. It was an immediate smash. "A triumph" said the Post's Richard Watts. "Miraculous," proclaimed the Herald Tribune's Walter Kerr. "It has everything," said William Hawkins in the World-Telegram. Robert Coleman of the Daily Mirror called it "a masterpiece of musical comedy legerdemain." The Daily News's John Chapman wrote that it was the first musical since Guys and Dolls in which all the theatrical elements had been "blended so artfully and so enjoyably." Kerr also noted that when Julie Andrews, Rex Harrison, and Robert Coote let go in "The Rain in Spain," there was "no controlling the joy in the theater."

The show ran for a then-unprecedented 2,717 performances. Above, Julie Andrews as Eliza Doolittle in the opening scene.

Photo: Bettmann Archive/Getty Images/CT Insider

#vintage New York #1950s #My Fair Lady #vintage musicals #vintage Broadway #March 15 #Julie Andrews #musical theater #15 March #musical comedy #smash hit

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transparentgentlemenmarker · 8 days ago

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La liste des stars de la musique, du cinéma et de la télévision qui ont soutenu Kamala : Oprah Winfrey, Taylor Swift, Jon Bon Jovi, Tyler Perry, Bruce Springsteen, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Beyoncee, George Clooney, Robert De Niro, Barbra Streisand, David Letterman, Jennifer Lopez, Samuel L. Jackson, Spike Lee, Julia Roberts, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kerry Washington, Tessa Thompson, Bryan Tyree Henry, Scarlet Johanson, Robert Downey, Jr., Don Cheadle, Mark Ruffalo, Paul Bettany, Chris Evans, Dania Guria, Ben Stiller, Andy Cohen, Harrison Ford, Jack Black, Billie Eilish, Anne Hathaway, Whoopi Goldberg, Billy Porter, Jennifer Lawrence, Eminem, Jason Bateman, Julia Louis Dreyfus, Bryan Cranston, Jennifer Garner, Jessica Alba, Patton Oswalt, Emmy Rossum, Glenn Close, Kumail Nanjiani, Jason Alexander, Kevin Smith, Steven Colbert, Larry David, Morgan Freeman, Cher, Nick Offerman, Michael Keaton, Jeff Bridges, Josh Bag, Sean Aston, Bradley Whitford, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Michael Kelly, Paul Schreer, Misha Collins, Mark Hamill, Lance Bass, Josh Groban, Matt Damon, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Will Ferrel, Billy Eichner, Alicia Keys, Usher, Dave Bautista, Jimmy Kimmel, membrii formației Mumford & Sons, John Legend, Pink, Maren Morris, Keenan Thompson, Lil John, Eva Longoria, Mindy Kaling, Tony Goldwyn, D.L. Hughley, Lizzo, Martin Sheen, Sigourney Weaver, George Lopez, Howard Stern, Cardi B, Megan Thee Stallion, Marc Anthony, Sam Elliot, Keegan Michael Key, John Stamos, Ed Helms, Ken Jeong, Jon Hamm, Cecily Strong, Tiffany Haddish, Ike Barinholtz, Rosie O' Donnel, Kathy Griffin, Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, Anthony Anderson, Sally Field, Rob Reiner, Jamie Lee Curtis, Julianne Moore, Cynthia Nixon, George Takei, Mia Farrow, Alyssa Milano, Sandra Bernhard, John Cleese, Michael Ian Black, Piper Perabo, Stephen King, Michael Moore, Jane Fonda, Bette Midler, Marisa Hargitay, Sheryl Lee Ralph, GloRilla, Padma Lashmi, Matthew Modine, Aubrey Plaza, Fat Joe, Christina Aquilera, Dick Van Dyke, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, LeBron James, Jennifer Aniston, Bad Bunny, Ariana Grande, Ricky Martin, Chappel Roan, Martha Stewart, Steph Curry, Sara Bareilles, Olivia Rodrigo, Tina Knowles, Shonda Rhimes.

📍Les journaux nationaux et les chaînes de télévision qui ont soutenu Kamala : CBS, NBC, MSNBC, abc, CNN, New York Times, The Economist, The New Yorker, Houston Chronicle, The Boston Globe, The Seattle Times, Las Vegas Sun, The Philadephia Inquirer, Rolling Stone, Daily Herald, Times Union, Newsday, Lincoln Journal Star, Vogue, The Republican, The Sun Chronicle, The Atlantic, The Guardian, The Observer et d’autres plus petites.

#presse #kamala harris

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rivyuus · 27 days ago

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The Beatles - Please Please Me (Song Review)

"Please Please Me," the opening track of The Beatles' eponymous debut album released in 1963, serves as a monumental cornerstone in the landscape of popular music. Written primarily by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, this song not only encapsulates the youthful exuberance and raw energy of the early 1960s but also presents listeners with a captivating blend of simple, yet emotionally resonant themes. The track is a quintessential representation of the band’s iconic sound, setting the stage for their unprecedented global influence.

From the outset, the song immerses listeners with its brisk tempo and driving beat. The rhythmic pulse, propelled by Ringo Starr's lively drumming, establishes a sense of urgency that immediately captivates. The instrumentation features jangly guitars, a hallmark of early rock and roll, that perfectly complement the upbeat nature of the vocal melodies. George Harrison’s sharp riffs add a vibrant layer that not only enhances the song’s dynamic but also showcases the distinct sound that The Beatles would come to define.

Lyrically, "Please Please Me" conveys a sense of longing and desire framed in a way that resonates with youthful innocence. The theme reflects a universal experience—the yearning for connection, which is treated with a freshness that invites listeners to engage emotionally. The song employs a straightforward structure that juxtaposes catchy hooks with direct language, rendering it accessible and catchy. The repetitive nature of the chorus effectively reinforces its central message, creating an infectious sing-along quality that would later characterize many of The Beatles' most memorable hits.

One of the standout elements of "Please Please Me" is the harmonious interplay between Lennon and McCartney's vocals. The blend of their distinct voices not only showcases their individual strengths but also highlights their remarkable chemistry as songwriters and performers. This track foreshadows the multi-layered vocal arrangements that would define much of The Beatles' catalog. The call-and-response format in the verses serves to engage the listener actively, drawing them into the narrative of the song. This vocal interplay captivates from the very first listen, establishing a dynamic connection that remains a hallmark of The Beatles' work.

Interestingly, "Please Please Me" was not the band's first recorded single; however, it became one of their defining anthems. The song’s dual writing credit is a testament to the collaborative nature that underpinned The Beatles' creative process. The balance of pop sensibility and rock energy reflected in the song hints at the multitude of genre influences that would later permeate their music. Elements of skiffle and rhythm and blues coalesce seamlessly, showcasing The Beatles' ability to transcend simple categorization.

The production quality of "Please Please Me," though characteristic of the early 1960s, displays a remarkable clarity that captures the band's raw energy. Produced by George Martin, who would become an essential collaborator throughout their career, the song was recorded in a single day, which adds to the live feel and authenticity that listeners have come to appreciate. This frenetic recording session captures an authentic atmosphere akin to a live performance, a rarity in the studio recordings of that era.

The impact of "Please Please Me" cannot be overstated. As the title track of their debut album, it set a standard for subsequent releases, demonstrating that pop music could be both commercially successful and artistically significant. It heralded the arrival of a band that was not only able to write infectious melodies but also capable of deep emotional resonance, paving the way for the pioneering work that would follow in the years to come.

In retrospect, "Please Please Me" stands as a vital precursor to The Beatles' evolution and their eventual domination of the music scene. It’s a song that encapsulates a moment in time – a snapshot of youthful enthusiasm and heartfelt yearning that resonates with audiences more than half a century after its release. Its inclusion in the pantheon of rock music is not merely due to its catchy hooks and buoyant energy but also as an emblem of transformative musical artistry.

In conclusion, "Please Please Me" is a vibrant number that skillfully combines lyrical simplicity with exquisite musicality, establishing The Beatles as a formidable force in popular music. It remains a vital piece in understanding the band's early sound and foreshadows the innovation that would characterize their subsequent work. The track is a brilliant blend of youthful spirit, lyrical depth, and melodic skill, affirming its place as an enduring classic in music history. As listeners continue to discover or revisit this track, it serves as a reminder of the incredible journey that The Beatles embarked upon, one that still inspires and influences artists to this day.

#the beatles #paul mccartney #john lennon #george harrison

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dynared · 9 months ago

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IDW is heralded as a pioneer for queer representation for Transformers but it was the start and not be treated as the standard, one should always continue to strive to do better. People are likely afraid that any valid criticism towards IDW will conflated with its queer representation and scare off Hasbro from including it in future installments. However, the people doing that to appear to be associated with IDW itself such as Harrison who deflected to homophobia when faced with criticism, as if IDW didn't inherently cater towards homophobes (whether intentional or not) by having their canon queer characters and relationships be largely made up of lesser known characters opposed to legacy characters because it would be more palatable...

I don't want to throw out the proverbial baby with the bathwater, and I want to make it clear that the issue isn't queer relationships in and of themselves. I've seen plenty of metas from other creative minds that pointed out how you could write queer relationships with the cast of characters in such a way that it would make more sense in context, and not grind the giant transforming robot action to an absolute halt. But it's much harder to defend "romance is taking up way too much time" than "miss me with that gay shit," hence going with that stereotype with any and all criticism.

Then again, James Roberts was also the guy whose fanfic novella I keep making fun of literally had a scene where Soundwave has sex. And even he has claimed that it was too much in hindsight.

That and let's be honest. Between IDW tanking, WFC tanking, and now Earthspark's woeful underperformance, if anything would scare Hasbro off from hiring LBGTQ+ writers and inserting those relationships into Transformers going forward, it's those commercial failures, not the complaints of a few grifter Youtube channels who think making fun of Nightshade will get them a few extra ad dollars.

#transformers #transformers idw #idw publishing #transformers earthspark #earthspark

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itsalwaystomcruise · 1 year ago

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"Harrison Ford is a legend; I hope to be still going. I’ve got 20 years to catch up with him, I hope to keep making Mission: Impossible films until I’m his age."

— Tom Cruise for The Sydney Morning Herald, July 2023

Happy birthday, Harrison Ford 🥳

#tom cruise #tomcruiseedit #tcruiseedit #harrison ford #photoshoot #*

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psalm22-6 · 9 months ago

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The Exhibitors Herald, June 1926

The first of the deluxe presentations was at the Forrest theatre, Philadelphia, Thursday evening. The audience was composed largely of members of the Advertising Clubs of the World, which was holding an international convention in the Quaker City, and the members of the Poor Richard Club. There were also present a large turnout of society, official and judicial life of Philadelphia. The other audience, which included Mrs. Coolidge, members of the diplomatic corps and Washington newspapermen, as guests of the National Press club, viewed the picture at a special screening Friday night at Poli’s theatre in Washington. General W. W. Atterbury; Senator-elect [and notorious political boss] Wm. S. Vare; Senator [and law professor] George W. Pepper; Lieut. Commander Geo. B. Wilson, U. S. Navy [not to be confused with the character from the Great Gatsby] ; Mrs. Barclay Warburton [civil rights supporter and journalist] ; Major Norman MacLeod; E. T. Stottsbury; Paul Thompson; Alexander Van Rensselaer; Mrs. Charlemagne Tower; Dr. H. J. Tily [department story owner, mason] ; Mr. and Mrs. Theodore W. Reath; Frank Smith; Mr. and Mrs. Jos. N. Snellenburg [merchant in clothing trade] ; Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Block; Mr. and Mrs. Jules E. Mastbaum [movie theater and department store magnates] ; George Nitsche [possibly an affiliate of U. Penn]; Josiah H. Penniman [Provost of U. Penn] ; J. Willis Martin [a judge]; H. S. McDevitt; John J. Monaghan. Judge Buffington, of Pittsburgh; Thos Finletter [could be one of a a number of lawyers with this name]; Mr. and Mrs. A. L. Einstein; Maurice Paillard, French consul; Robt. Von Moschzisker [justice of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania]; Mayor W. Freeland Kendrick; Geo. H. Elliott, director of public safety; Chas. B. Hall, president of City Council; Dr. Charles Hart; Rev. Wm. H. Fineschriber; Chas Fox, district attorney [could be a coincidence but Charles Fox III and IV are both currently lawyers in Pennsylvania]; John Fisler, president Manufacturers Club [golf afficianado]; Albert M. Greenfield [real estate broker and developer]; Jos. P. Gaffney; Mr. and Mrs. Ellis Gimbel [department store owner]; Daniel Gimbel [brother and co-owner along with Ellis]; J. D. Lit; Richard Gimbel [son of Ellis Gimble]; Benedict Gimbel [brother of Ellis and Daniel]; Colonel Robert Glendinning [banker]; Benjamin Golder [member of the Pennsylvania State House of Representatives], Agnew T. Dice [President of Reading Railroad]. Dr. Leon Elmaleh [founder of the Levantine Jews Society of Philadelphia]; H. Gilbert Cassidy [a judge]; Utley E. Crane [author of Business Law for Business Men]; Cyrus H. K. Curtis [magazine publisher]; Chas. S. Caldwell; G. W. Cole; Hampton L. Carson [lawyer, professor, state Attorney general]; A. Lincoln Acker [Philidelphia port collector]; Max Aron [lawyer]; Eugene C. Bonniwell [a judge]; Chas. L. Brown; Edward Groome; Chas. L. Bartlett; Edward Bok [editor of the Ladies Home Journal]; Mr. and Mrs. Geo. H. Lorimer [editor of the Saturday Evening Post]; Edw. Bacon; Chas. Curtis Harrison [a judge]; Samuel S. Eels, Rev. J. J. O’Hara [future Archbishop of Philadelphia], and Bishop Thos. J. Garland, D. D. [Episcopalian bishop]

There were a bunch of Universal employees in attendance too but that's less interesting to me. Let's see who went to the Washington show

Both showings were under the auspices of Ambassador Henri Beragner of France and Marcel Knecht, French publisher and trade representative. Dr. Ferdnand Heurteur, leader of the orchestra of the Paris Opera House, came to the United States to conduct the orchestras at these two showings. Among the distinguished guests at the Washington showing were: Don Juan Riano, Spanish ambassador; Senor and Senora de Mathieu, Chilan ambassador; Raoul Tilmont, secretary, Belgium embassy; G. H. Thompson, second secretary, British embassy; A. J. Pack, British embassy; Eduardo Racedo and Madame Racedo, first secretary, Argentine embassy; Conrado Traverso, Argentine embassy; Dr. and Senora Velarde, Peruvian ambassador; Dr. and Madame Santiago F. Bedoya, secretary, Peruvian embassy; Senor and Senora Tellez, Mexican ambassador; Senor and Senora Castro, secretary, Mexican embassy; Ambassador de Martino, Italy; Colonel Augusto Villa, miltary attache, Italian embassy; Count and Countess Sommati di Mombello, Italian embassy; Signor Leonardo Vitetti, Italian embassy. Baron and Baroness Ago Maltzan, German embassy; Mr. and Madame Matsuidaira, Japanese embassy; Mr. and Madame Gurgel de Amaral, Brazilian embassy; Senor and Senora de Sanchez Aballi, Cuban embassy; Senor Don Jose T. Baron, secretary, Cuban embassy; Brigadier General Georges A. L. Dumont, military attache, French embassy; Mr. Jules Henry, first secretary, French embassy; Major and Madame Georges Thenault, French embassy; Captain and Madame Willm, French embassy; Mr. A. Konow Bojsen, secretary, Danish legation; Mr. and Madame Marc Peter, Swiss ambassador; Mr. Andor de Hertelendy, Hungarian embassay; Senor and Senora Ricardo Jaimes Freyre, Bolivian embassy. Mr. and Mrs. Timothy A. Smiddy, minister, Irish Free State; Mr. and Madame Simoposilis, Minister from Greece; Mr. and Madame Prochnik, Austrian ambassador; Mr. and Madame Charles L. Seya, Latvian embassy; Mahmoud Samy Pasha and Madame Samy Pasha, Egyptian embassy; Mr. Zdenek Fierlinger, Minister from Czechoslovakia; Mr. Simeon Radeff, Bulgarian embassy; Mr. and Madame Jan Ciechanowski, Polish minister; Senor don Manuel Zavala, Nicaragua embassy, and Mr. and Madame Bostrom, Swedish ambassador.

#les miserables #lm 1925 #fans through the ages #the longest fucking list #losing my mind

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fibula-rasa · 2 years ago

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Lost, but Not Forgotten: The World’s Applause (1923)

Direction: William C. de Mille

Scenario & Titles: Clara Beranger (more about Beranger at the Women Film Pioneers Project)

Camera: L. Guy Wilky

Sets & Costumes: Paul Iribe

Studio: Famous Players-Lasky (production) & Paramount (distribution)

Performers: Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone, Kathlyn Williams, Adolphe Menjou, Brandon Hurst, Bernice Frank, Maym Kelso, George Kuwa, James Neill

Status: presumed entirely lost

Synopsis (synthesized from magazine summaries of the plot):

Corinne D’Alys (Bebe Daniels), f.k.a. Cora Daly, is a theater star who has “taken the Rialto by storm.” Unfortunately, Corinne also has a desperate hunger for publicity. Her manager, John Elliott (Lewis Stone), who also happens to be in love with her, advises her to be more sensible about her career. A famous artist, Robert Townsend (Adolphe Menjou), has become enamored with Corinne, and wants to paint her portrait. Despite John’s warning that Robert wishes only to “see more of her,” Corinne sits for the portrait.

Robert plans on throwing a party to celebrate finishing the painting but declines to invite his wife, Elsa Townsend (Kathlyn Williams). Elsa comes to her husband’s studio anyway and finds the portrait and a pearl headdress that Robert is going to gift to Corinne. In a jealous rage, Elsa takes a knife to the painting and then to her husband—fatally stabbing him. Elsa also happens to be John’s sister and she calls him in a panic to help her. John arrives at the studio in secret and helps Elsa escape the scene. Meanwhile, Corinne and the guests begin to wonder where their host is, and Corinne then finds the body of the painter.

John convinces the police that Corinne is innocent. Corinne leaves town to avoid the storm. Unfortunately, John then becomes the primary suspect, as he had a notable fight with his brother-in-law months prior. When John is arrested, Corinne returns and confesses to Elsa that she feels morally responsible for Robert’s murder. Elsa then confesses to committing the murder herself. It’s implied that Elsa commits suicide via “the watery route.”

Now that both John and Corinne have been cleared of suspicion, they are free to marry and Corinne has lost her appetite for publicity.

Transcribed sources & annotations below:

Moving Picture World, November 11, 1922

News from the Producers

Conducted by T.S. da Ponte

Changes Titles of Two

Three new titles have been chosen for as many forthcoming Paramount pictures.

William de Mille’s recently completed production from an original story by Clara Beranger, in which Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone, Kathlyn Williams and Harrison Ford have the important roles, has been permanently titled, “The World’s Applause.” “Notoriety” was the title originally chosen, but when it was found that another company had a prior claim, it was changed temporarily to “Paths of Glory,” which in turn has now given way to “The World’s Applause.”

Mary Miles Minter's latest picture, just completed under the direction of Charles Maigne and adapted from Stephen French Whitman's novel, "Sacrifice," is to be called "Drums of Destiny."

"Racing Hearts" is the title chosen for the new picture Agnes Ayres is just starting under the direction of Paul Powell. This is a story by Byron Morgan, author of the Wallace Reid automobile racing pictures, and Miss Ayres has the role of a race driver who goes in and wins a thrilling speed contest when the regular driver fails to show up.

Both "Drums of Destiny" (titled "Drums of Fate" on release in 1923) and "Racing Hearts" are also lost films.

Exhibitor’s Herald, January 20, 1923

REVIEWS

BEBE DANIELS IN

WORLD’S APPLAUSE

(PARAMOUNT)

A fascinating story of the life of an actress who unwittingly becomes involved in a murder mystery which almost brings about her downfall professionally. Lavishly presented, very well acted and directed in William deMille’s best style. Length, 6,528 feet.

An original story by Clara Beranger provides Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone, Kathlyn Williams, Adolph Menjou and others with a suitable vehicle in which to display their talents. There is good story interest for the most part, with good surprise value and considerable dramatic suspense in the contest of wits between the detectives and John Elliott and his sister.

Lewis Stone plays the role of Elliot and gives an unusually convincing and consistent characterization. The director, author and producer are to be congratulated upon securing Mr. Stone’s services for this part. Miss Daniels appears in the role of an actress who is a hound for publicity, and the moral of the story shows how ready the public is to condemn these children of the stage. Kathlyn Williams has the role of Elsa Townsend, wife of an artist in love with the little actress, who in a fit of jealousy kills her husband. A difficult role, but played with restraint and conviction. Adolphe Menjou is the artist. Bernice Frank was the maid; Mayme Kelso, secretary to the actress, and George Kuwa, valet to Townsend. James Neill was Elliot’s valet, while Brandon Hurst played James Crane, owner of a string of newspapers.

Corinne d’Alys, popular Broadway star, poses for Townsend while he paints her portrait. On the day he is to display the painting he gives a party at his studio. As the guests assemble, Mrs. Townsend comes to the studio, discovers a valuable pearl headdress which her husband is to give to Corinne, and the portrait of the actress. In a fit of jealousy she strikes him down and leaves the studio with her brother, John Elliot. The discovery of the dead artist throws suspicion upon the members of the party. Corinne telephones to her affianced husband Elliott and he succeeds in convincing the police that she is innocent. Crane takes a hand in the investigation, however, and dogs Elliott’s footsteps. A confession from Mrs. Townsend finally clears Elliott and the little actress, and she no longer seeks the world’s applause, but is content to settle down with John.

The Film Daily, February 2, 1923

A Typical DeMille Entertainment With the Usual Atmosphere

William DeMille Prod.

“THE WORLD’S APPLAUSE”

Paramount

DIRECTOR…William DeMille

AUTHOR…Clara Beranger

SCENARIO BY…Clara Beranger

CAMERAMAN…L. Guy Wilky

AS A WHOLE…Consists of situations and atmosphere intended to provide visual appeal but that is as far as it gets

STORY…Artificial and quite theatrical; flavored with sensational bits that will make it popular with a certain crowd

DIRECTION… Very good as far as production goes and usually handles story with good judgment but ending is too long arriving

PHOTOGRAPHY…Excellent

LIGHTINGS… Good

PLAYERS… Lewis Stone and Bebe Daniels featured with Stone doing his usual good work and Miss Daniels a suitable but not beautiful Corinne d’Alys; others Kathlyn Williams and Adolphe Menjou

EXTERIORS…Few

INTERIORS… Many elaborate settings

CHARACTER OF STORY…Star seeking publicity is cause of man’s death at the hands of his jealous wife

LENGTH OF PRODUCTION… 6,526 feet

Probably because there is a moral to it the unpleasant bits in “The World’s Applause” will have to be excused but it does seem unfortunate that they have to wade so deeply into scandal and sensation providing incidents in general, to get to it. Before you finally learn the lesson of this film—that success is not measured by the amount of prominence you attain—you are treated to some mighty intimate scenes in which a popular stage favorite is the sensuous, central figure. She is very deliberately sought by a famous portrait artist, a married man, who plans his seduction in elaborate style. Of course he has a studio establishment which figures prominently in his scheme and the very innocent young moth runs headlong into the flame heedless of the warning of her manager, who really loves her. The aggravating thing about these petty publicity seekers is that you are expected to accept their sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-their-mouth attitude for the real thing.

But this Corinne d’Alys spoils it all, or the title writer does it for her, when she admits that her would-be lover will give her everything but “a narrow gold band.” The titles, incidentally, are very bad. There is one in which the true lover warns the girl that the artist wants her to pose for him so that “he can see more of her.” The titles are quite off color in many similar instances. This one particularly seemed to strike the Rivoli audience as a thoroughly fine humorous touch.

William DeMille is following closely in the footsteps of his brother, Cecil, when it comes to making pictures with plenty of pictorial appeal and colorful atmosphere. In this respect the picture is interesting and should satisfy. From a story angle, it is all a matter of taste. Where they like theatrical, sensational stuff, it is all very nice but where they want clean, wholesome stories, it may be different.

Bebe Daniels handles the role of Corinne adequately but she never gives the impression of being sufficiently beautiful to have “The World’s Applause.” Lewis Stone is always capable but deserves a more sensible role. The cast, on the whole, is suitable.

Story: John Elliot’s new star, Corinne d’Alys, is swept off her feet by sudden success. She accepts the attentions of Townsend, an artist, the husband of Elliot’s sister, who paints her portrait. Townsend is accidentally killed by his jealous wife and Elliot is arrested. His sister, realizing Elliot loves Corinne, commits suicide, leaving a confession which clears Elliot and cures Corinne of her craving for publicity.

One of those negative reviews that makes you want to watch a movie more, eh? Moralizing and misogyny on full display! Phew.

The Moving Picture World, February 1923

“World’s Applause” Released January 21

William de Mille, Paramount producer, departed temporarily from his custom of filming stage dramas when he made "The World's Applause," which was on the Paramount release schedule of January 21.

This is an original story by Clara Beranger, who has written the scenario of all of Mr. de

Mille's recent photoplays. Bebe Daniels and Lewis Stone are the featured players in a cast which Mr. de Mille considers one of the best he has had in his long career as a producer.

An ultra-modern note is struck by Miss Daniels in her costumes, it is reported. In each succeeding scene she wears something different from the preceding one, and although Mr. de Mille never allows his photodramas to descend to the level of mere fashion shows, this feature of "The World's Applause" is certain to intensify every woman's interest in the picture, Paramount says.

Variety, February 1923

WORLD'S APPLAUSE

Paramount picture presented by Adolph Zukor. William DeMille production, featuring Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone and Kathlyn Williams in story by Clara Beranger.

At the Rivoli, New York, week of Jan. 28.

Corinne d'Alys..........Bebe Daniels

John Elliot........Lewis Stone

Elsa Townsend...Kathlyn Willams

Robert Townsend, her husband…Adolphe Menjou

James Crane...Brandon Hurst

Maid to Corinne...Bernice Frank

Secretary to Corinne.........Maym Kelso

Valet to Townsend..George Kuwa

Valet to Elliot......James Neill

“The World's Applause" is a screen treatise on theatrical publicity and exploitation with a twist that a certain theatrical personage's craving for newspaper "notices" and the desire to be the talk of the town boomerangs viciously when she is indirectly implicated in a murder mystery.

The theatrical personage is Corinne d'Alys (born Cora Daly), who has "taken the Rialto by storm," but who is counselled by her manager-lover (Lewis Stone) to cease her craving for the world's applause and deal seriously with her work. This is momentarily disparaged by her

with ensuing developments taking the audience rather interestingly through the usual five-reel span.

It starts with Robert Townsend, an artist who has "arrived" (Adolphe Menjou), becoming enamored with the favored and favorite footlights beauty and honoring her with painting her portrait for the annual Parisian exhibition. Townsend is married to the sister of John Elliot, the impresario, and a parallel situation develops of Townsend slighting his wife for Corinne, and

Townsend interposing himself between the actress and her suitor, Elliot.

At a studio party in Corinne's honor to which Townsend did not invite his wife, the latter enters

through the private studio door and, enraged at her husband's nonchalance, slashes the portrait and stabs the artist fatally. She telephones for her brother, who also enters unbeknown to the guests in the outer rooms. Both slip away, but not without being seen by a newspaper

publisher, whose testimony implicates Elliot, who shields his sister. Elliot is arrested on first degree murder charges, but is absolved when his sister confesses to Corinne. The sister runs away, and there is a suggestion she commits suicide via the watery route.

Not much to the story, but rather deftly handled by DeMille in his customary pretentious manner—never lavish but always in good taste. The captioning is pithy and bright, and such leaders as "the public always believes the worst about an actress" is good lay propaganda for the profession.

Miss Daniels sports a nobby collection of clothes to excellent advantage. Mr. Stone is a sincere opposite, who also has the ability of really acting when called upon. Miss Williams, too, accounted for herself handily.

The picture pleased at the Rivoli

Abel

Cine-Mundial, April 1923 p. 218 & 239

EL APLAUSO DEL MUNDO

(The World’s Applause)

“Paramount” — 150 metros

Intérpretes principales: Bebé Daniels y Lewis Stone. Colaboradores: Kathryn Williams, Adolphe Menjou, Brandon Hurst, Bernice Frank, Maym Kelso, George Kuwa y James Neill.

Argumento de Clara Beranger. Dirección de William DeMille.

Argumento

Corina, actriz, tiene sed insaciable de publicidad y se muere por ver su nombre en letras de molde, bien grandes, aunque sea a costa de escándalo, sin escuchar los consejos de su empresario, Elliot, que la ama. Los periódicos mezclan a la joven en un lío en el que ver un famoso pintor que le está haciendo su retrato. La noche en que el artista va a celebrar con un banquete la terminación del cuadro, se presenta en escena su mujer, disputan, y en un acceso de rabia, la consorte se apodera de un cuchillo para destrozar la pintura y, accidentalmente, mata al artista. La homicida es hermana de Elliot y éste trata de salvarla a to-

(Continúa en la página 239)

NUESTRA OPINION

(Viene de la página 218)

da costa del presidio. Llega hasta a asumir la responsabilidad del delito, cuando las sospechas recaen en su contra, por causa de un disgusto tenido, meses antes, con su cuñado. Pero, justamente cuando la policía va a detenerlo, la hermana confiesa su crimen y Elliot y Corina, sus nombres limpios de mancha, se casan.

Tengo debilidad por Lewis Stone como actor. Quizá por eso me haya gustado tanto esta película, de impecable dirección. Por causa de la reducción de los escenarios, se concentra el interés en el tema y eso añade fuerza dramática a toda la obra, aunque el argumento no tenga, ni con mucho, excesiva novedad. Si se sujeta la película al análisis, se corre el riesgo de dejarla maltrecha. Prefiero, pues, dar sólo idea de lo que a mi me pareció. — Guaitsel.

Translation:

Lead actors: Bebe Daniels and Lewis Stone. Supporting actors: Kathlyn Williams, Adolphe Menjou, Brandon Hurst, Bernice Frank, Maym Kelso, George Kuwa and James Neill.

Scenario by Clara Beranger. Direction by WIlliam DeMille.

Scenario

Corina, an actress, has an insatiable thirst for publicity and would die to see her name in lights, even at the cost of scandal, without listening to the advice of her manager, Elliot, who loves her. The newspapers mix the young woman up in an imbroglio with a famous painter, who is painting her portrait. On the night that the artist is going to celebrate the completion of the painting with a banquet, his wife appears on the scene, they argue, and in a fit of rage, the wife seizes a knife to destroy the painting and, accidentally, kills the artist. The murderer is Elliot’s sister and he tries to save her from prison at all costs. He goes as far as assuming responsibility for the crime, when suspicion falls on him, due to a disagreement he had with his brother-in-law, months before. But, just as the police are going to arrest him, the sister confesses her crime and Elliot and Corina, their names clean, get married.

I have a soft spot for Lewis Stone as an actor. Maybe that’s why I liked this impeccably-directed film so much. Because of the limitation of settings, interest is concentrated on the theme and this adds dramatic force to the whole work, even though the scenario isn’t very excessively novel at all. If you subject the film to analysis, you run the risk of dealing damage to it. I prefer then to give only the outline of how it seemed to me. — Guaitsel.

Photoplay, April 1923

THE WORLD’S APPLAUSE—Paramount

CLARA BERANGER seems to have dramatized the recent newspaper headlines. An idol whose fame has been built upon publicity gets involved innocently in a murder and the aforementioned publicity turns out to be a boomerang, demolishing said idol. Tritely told by William de Mille, who isn’t living up to early expectations. Bebe Daniels is pleasant enough as the idol.

Presumably, this writer is alluding to the Mary Miles Minter / William Desmond Taylor scandal from February of 1922. Kind of an interesting assumption given that, at the time, Minter was still under contract with Famous Player-Lasky, the same company that produced The World’s Applause.

The Story World and Photodramatist, April 1923

The World's Applause

With the excellent theme of regeneration after a terrifying experience, William De Mille slices his emphasis a bit in the story of The World's Applause; though he presents a warning to all actresses or public servants who, in their greed for applause, get themselves talked about in the wrong way, he misses the hole by a few inches because Corinne D'Alys is not the one to pay the piper most heavily. Even though she claims she is morally guilty of the murder, I found it

difficult to believe her regeneration more than skin-deep, possibly because the suggestion of the suicide of the physically guilty but wholly justified wife fades so quickly into the scene of Corinne's future happiness.

In lieu of convincing plot to express his theme, Mr. De Mille has resorted for public appeal to the tinsel more often found in a C. B. de Mille production—to lavish sets and to gowns for Bebe Daniels as daring and gorgeous as any of Miss Swanson's. For admirers of this young actress, the picture will doubtless be more or less satisfying, but contrary to dramatic principles, to the opposition have been given the histrionic opportunities

It is many pictures since I have seen such an amusing lothario as the unfaithful husband; but pushed too far by his desperate wife, he rises to the breaking point very naturally. The development of the battle of their wills into one of physical violence and murder deserves high

praise as an example of loss of mental control at the moment of physical contact. The stellar role from the dramatic angle is that of the neglected wife—excellently portrayed by Kathlyn Williams. The story revolves around her problem of protecting her home and retaining her

husband's love. It is she who struggles and suffers through her hasty deed, and in the end sacrifices herself that her brother and the foolish enticer of her husband may be happy.

The weakness of the plot is early evident for the first big dramatic scene does not include the supposed lead. While Corinne is in another room with the guests, the artist's wife declares to her husband her intention of being present at the dinner to celebrate the completion of his portrait of the actress. When her husband urgently remonstrates, she seizes a knife and in the old sensational manner slashes the portrait. He seizes her hand, the exasperated animal rises in her, and she plunges the knife into his side. Horribly frightened, she phones to her brother; he assists her to escape and later denies all knowledge of the crime.

Meanwhile the supposed lead, growing tired of waiting, opens the door on the body of the artist. The guests, sensing a scandal, leave Corinne to enjoy the notoriety her desire for applause has brought upon her. The brother is suspected and his and Corinne's financial backers withdraw their support. Instead of remaining to fight it out, Corinne leaves town. The brother is arrested, and his sister is torn between her love for him and her fear of prison bars for herself. When Corinne returns, she goes to the wife and claims the moral guilt.

In a rather confused manner the story rushes through the confession of the wife and the suggestion of her suicide to the inferred regeneration and future happiness of the actress with the recently bereaved brother. Odd thing, poetic justice! Frankly this picture is not up to the De Mille standard; its appeal is to the more superficial emotions and through the eye rather than through the intellect or heart of the discriminating spectator. It is not the clean, wholesome picture I had anticipated.

Picture Play Magazine, May 1923

The Screen in Review

“The World’s Applause.”

If you are a young actress who will do most anything for publicity, this film will be a lesson to you. Otherwise it will be sheer entertainment, cooked up by William De Mille and charmingly acted with Bebe Daniels as the publicity-mad star and Lewis Stone as her manager. The story has really original twists in it and is directed with humor and restraint. Its only flaw is the incredibly silly subtitles. I don’t understand how Mr. De Mille let them get by in one of his productions which always bear a certain imprint of good taste and sophistication.

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