#he had an eventful trip to Norway

[jprgirl]

Dean O'Gorman as Anders Johnson in S2 of The Almighty Johnsons

[dira333]

Hi Dira, if there still that spot for the summer event I'd like to give it s go!

May I have a vacation with Semi Eita (Haikyuu). Maybe somewhere with an ancient town that still has a lot of it's original buildings or structures? Vintage like . I'd like it to be an established relationship, type of comfort thing.

Hope it's clear, thanks a lot ^^

I had a rough time with this, mainly because I'm not doing all too well mentally. This is my first time writing for Semi and I hope you're happy with the outcome. Let me know if not, maybe we can tweak some things.

Old Town - Semi Eita x Reader

The idea of visiting China wasn’t your own, nor did it come from Semi. 

All the perusing of Vacation Deal offerings didn’t seem to help, the two of you no closer to a decision as the day of your vacation drew closer.

“What about Italy?” You ask, holding up the folder to let him see the pictures. Dark blue sea, bright blue sky, and buildings like paintings in between.

“Too hot,” Semi declared with a sniff, wiggling into the small space between you and the backrest of the Couch. “What about Norway?”

“Too expensive,” you noted after one look at the offer. “Don’t forget that Tendou’s Wedding is coming up later this year. We can’t spend that much money if we have to fly to Paris too.”

“Stupid Tendou,” Semi huffed, closing the folder. “How about we throw a Dart at a map and see where it lands?”

“I don’t plan on staying in the Atlantic Ocean for two weeks,” you kiss his cheek as you hunker back down. “Let me look again.”

-

“Oh dear,” you hear from the top of the stairs as you shuffle inside, arms heavy with your grocery haul, “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Sanashita-san!” You call out, “I’ll just put the groceries away if that’s okay.”

“Very well, I’ll put the water up for tea in the meantime.”

You grimace a little at the thought. Sanashita-san’s your favorite neighbor, seemingly half-deaf but incredibly well-hearing when she wanted to, never minding if Semi’s music turned a bit too loud or too long in the evening and always eager to gossip over a snack.

But she preferred her tea bitter and strong, something that could only be outweighed by the right kind of sweet.

“Have you agreed on a destination yet?” She asks as she serves the tea, thanking you again for the cookies you brought with you, your saving grace in the face of her homemade tea.

“Not yet, no. But we’ve narrowed it down to three possible places.”

“Oh, I might have the solution for you. Here,” she slides a folder over. “Look at this.”

It’s beautiful.

A roundtrip through China, exploring eleven famous ancient towns on the way.

“This looks amazing,” you tell her, “but there’s no price. I don’t think we can afford this. There’s this wedding at the end of the year-”

“Ah,” she waves her hand to stop you. “Don’t worry about that. I won this trip. You know how I always send in the little cutouts from the magazines? And how you showed me how much easier it is now with those QP-Codes?”

“QR-Codes,” you correct her.

“Exactly. Well, I won this trip and I can’t go. Not with my hip, no no. And I’ve been to China a few times as a young woman too, my dear husband grew up there. So I’d be more than happy to gift you this trip. And before you say anything, I want to be paid in pictures. Lots of pictures.”

“I…” You hesitate. “Are you sure about this?”

“Very sure.” She tuts her tongue. “Don’t argue with me on it, you won’t get far.”

-

Chauzhuang is quiet and peaceful, a stark difference to the bustling airport you arrived in earlier. 

“Can you take a picture of us, please?” You ask one of the other members of your trip, a young married woman you bonded with over breakfast choices.

Semi pulls you in, backs against one of the famous stone bridges. 

“You’re too stiff,” you whisper, “What’s gotten into you.”

“We can’t send Sanashita-san pictures with us kissing,” he whispers back, his smile forced.

“Fine,” you tell him, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him down. “But we’ve already got a well-mannered picture. So this one’s for us.”

He all but whelps as he knocks into you.

-

There’s Lang Tu and Yangshuo, one calm, the other busy. Phuong Hoang with its Da River and many more attractions that you cannot get enough off.

More than once you fall back into Semi, groaning over your stuffed belly as he laughs, the sound rumbling through you.

Semi, just like you had hoped, grows more and more comfortable with the camera directed at him. His stiff smile grows into something softer, his cheekiness slipping in more often than not. Tipping his icecream against the tip of your nose at just the right time or lifting you up just to pull a gasp out of you at the sudden movement, seemingly ruining pictures only to create memories that will last a lifetime.

“You know what would be nice…” You mumble into his shoulder on your last night, the group of travelers sitting together in something that would be called an Izakaya back home. “Music.”

“Ah, Music!” The older gentleman next to you picks up, clapping. You don’t remember his Nationality, but his broken Japanese is always polite. “Music, Music!”

Before you’ve realized it, a server brings in a guitar, the instrument finding its way into Semi’s hand as if pulled by a magnetic force.

He blushes a little, but he’s almost drunk, the tipsiness fighting any last nerves he could have.

And when he begins to play, you recognize the song immediately…

It’s the one you danced to on your wedding night.

[keybladeciel]

Day Three of @khoc-week and it is about connections.

Day 3: Connections

This is going to be a special case. It is going to be a blip from Ciel's own view from the aftermath of a canon event he broke. It involves Strelitzia.

I present you an excerpt from short story called Date Night at Twilight Town.

Content Warning: Contains mild language

The Twilight Town Bistro had been a hot spot for couples ever since it opened. While the only food was French cuisine from Remy's home world from Paris, France, he worked his tail off to gather the ingredients to create some of the tastiest dishes you can think of. Everyone in Twilight Town calls him 'Little Chef," but thanks to a spell by the Fairy Godmother, Strelitzia and I can understand him clearly, since he's a Norway Rat who tends to cook. You'd be surprised that a rat can make a damn good meal from what he does. Regardless on what I can say, I had to resist the urge to gush about this in my report so I can find a table for two. I haven't gone on a date with Strelitzia ever since the Datascape Apocalypse and I owed her a date night once we both got our crap together.

I waited for Strelitzia to show up at the table, reflecting on what I did to save her from that untimely end she would have faced if it wasn't for a chance encounter that the Book of Prophecies nor the Chronicler saw coming when I saved her from a fall in Daybreak Town centuries ago, despite it being two years for us. The memories were fond, ranging from the time she found me by chance during my trip to Wonderland (and subsequent speedrun to save Alice from an execution by the pettiest queen and tyrant I have ever seen, let alone had the pleasure of chewing out for some bullcrap despite risking the death penalty for pissing off the Queen of Hearts, not like I cared if it meant doing the right thing) to the ball in Castle of Dreams when we ensured Cinderella had the time of her life and even the Balamb Garden High School Homecoming Dance. Despite having dated before, we haven't gone on one in a while and she was the one who suggested it to me, hoping that it will cheer me up and give me a well needed break in my search for a means to save Celeste, who is probably off fighting for her life in Quadratum unless I use a portal to get there. For now, the rescue can wait as the Guardians of Light give Kairi some practice on the field and my achievements as the Rebel of Fate reap some good rewards.

Strelitzia arrived after me wearing a white dress that is familiar to me. I then realized it was similar to the dress she's worn during the Daybreak Town years, just more appropriate for someone entering her junior year in high school. She has her hair down rather in her usual twin tails style and she doesn't have the detached sleeves on. Her boots were replaced with heels similar to her footwear during the ball in the Castle. Fittingly, she seems to have known I would shave and straighten my messy hair up for the date night this time around, despite being a Miqo'te. We both sat down and ordered our food before discussing what we have done to get here.

[ainews]

The strange and mysterious tale of the Parakeet of Pleural Fluid is one of the most intriguing and remarkable events to have ever taken place. The story centers around a strange bird made of pure pleural fluid that was found by a shepherd in Rogaland, Norway in the year 1495 BC.

This curious bird had a long thin body, long talons and was drawn to the shepherd’s flock. It wasn’t something he had ever seen before. Initially the shepherd was afraid of the bird, but then he had a vision that this bird was to be his protector, so he adopted the parakeet and named it “Hippokles”.

The bird was then taken into the care of King Loar, who was the ruler of Rogaland at that time. King Loar was so delighted by this remarkable bird that he commanded it be put on display next to his throne. He also proclaimed the bird a sign of good luck and protection.

Every morning when the king entered his throne room, Hippokles was there to greet him. And when the king took trips away from his kingdom, he always brought the parakeet with him, as a symbol of luck and comfort.

It is said that the parakeet of pleural fluid remained a faithful companion to King Loar until his death in 1185 BC. His final wish was that the parakeet to be kept safe and continue to stand as a symbol of good luck and protection throughout the kingdom of Rogaland.

This remarkable story has become part of Rogaland’s folklore and a reminder of the mysterious power of nature. To this day, parakeets of pleural fluid are believed to bring good luck and protection, and are seen as symbols of hope within the region.

[scarlettlillies]

Hetalia- Selfoss

What's this? Lilly posting a new fic so soon after the last one? It's more likely than you think.

This was an old Nordipalooza submission from 2020 that I ended up discarding during the event. The prompt from this was 'Sweden, Iceland - Folklore'. Back when I was researching for this prompt, I ended up on a tourism website that talked about how a town called Selfoss was supposedly haunted by ghosts so I knew immediately that's where I wanted to set the story. I was having a hard time getting started though and after two incomplete drafts, I tossed them and picked a different prompt. This weekend I finally decided to finish them off.

Sweden and Iceland sadly don't have a lot of interaction but I get the feeling that Ice is most comfortable with Sweden just on the sole fact that he doesn't treat him like a child. Therefore he gets to be a bit more relaxed and not always cool and reserved like he is with the rest of the Nordics. I hope Hima expands on their relationship in a future strip.

Also, I hope I'm not the only person who headcanons both Ice and Nor as photographers! They've got some of the best places for a hobby like that. :D

If you'd prefer to read this fic on Ao3 instead, you can check it out here.

Hope you all enjoy it! Summary: During a trip to see the northern lights near the Icelandic town of Selfoss, Sweden couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

----

No matter how much he tried, Sweden couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

He questioned if it was all in his head. Hundreds of people, mainly avid photographers, were gathered here by the river near the town of Selfoss to catch a glimpse of the northern lights. Iceland stood across from him and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. He was too focused on setting up his equipment and running a few test shots with his camera pointed toward the skies. The boy had a good head on his shoulders. If anyone could sense if something was off, it would be him.

Yes, it was definitely all in his head. The ghost museum they had visited in Stokkseyri must have let his imagination get ahead of itself.

The show of lights slowly began and Sweden tried to keep his mind occupied by splitting his attention between the skies and his fellow Nordic. Sitting on a reddish-brown fleece blanket, Sweden felt over-dressed with his heavy navy blue peacoat and black leather gloves. After leaving the museum earlier in the day, he was struck with a chill that he couldn’t shake off. Meanwhile, Iceland was dressed lightly in a brown spring jacket with no gloves at all. Almost everyone else wore similar clothing.

“Aren’t ya cold?”

“Not at all. I’m surprised you are though. Don’t tell me you can’t handle a little cold in your old age Sví!”

Sweden rolled his eyes but the comment got the both of them chuckling. With just the two of them together, Iceland seemed more laid-back and less hesitant to hide his playful side. He’s sure Iceland doesn’t mean to, but Sweden noticed over the years that Iceland would quickly become uncomfortable and reclusive whenever Denmark and Norway (and to some degree Finland too) became overbearing with their ‘big brother’ personalities. He just wanted to be treated like an adult alongside the rest of them.

He understands that well. After all, Denmark did it to him when they were small children—despite the three of them frequently arguing over who was the oldest. Those arguments died the moment Iceland entered their lives.

So Sweden does just that. He still dotes on him—albeit more subtly than the others do. But in return, he is rewarded to hear more in-depth things about Iceland’s life. Just on this trip alone, he has heard of the late-night calls with Indonesia, the camping trip in Hiiumaa with the Baltics, and the coffee dates with Liechtenstein in Vaduz. He felt grateful that Iceland could trust him like that.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The colours quickly grew more intense. Shades of green, blue, and purple danced across the sky and their colours reflected against the river below. Loud gasps of delight erupted from the crowd on the ground. Iceland was mesmerized by the sight. Even though he had seen this millions of times, it never failed to put his mind at ease. Any worries he had about his life would immediately wash away. With a hand placed on his left shoulder, Sweden surprised Iceland by coming up close at his side. The average person would never be able to tell, but he could see that tiny grin form on Sweden’s face. He was just as ecstatic to see the lights as he was.

“Gettin’ some good shots?”

“Yeah,” he nodded before he returned his focus to the camera. “The multicoloured lights always make the best shots.”

Sweden tucked his hands into his coat pockets. He watched him work and noted how meticulous Iceland was with each shot. Seeing him like this reminded him so much of Norway, right down to the focused but elated expressions. Norway was also a photographer who loved to shoot landscapes just like him. But Sweden would never dare say that out loud. Iceland would quickly get annoyed whenever comparisons arose between him and his brother, even as a joke.

We’re nothing alike. Don’t say dumb things like that.

He kept his comments to himself and continued staring up at the skies. He didn’t need to ruin the perfect day they’d had together.

The lights had lasted for around twenty minutes when dark clouds began rolling through. Everyone in the crowd knew it was their sign to call it a night. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. The camera Iceland had been using throughout their trip had begun flashing a warning that the battery was running low. Sweden helped him pack his equipment and get the bags into Iceland’s trunk. The blanket Sweden used earlier remained unfolded and got tossed into the backseat. With everything packed, they were ready for the hour’s drive back to Reykjavík.

But there it was again. That feeling that someone was watching. Sweden was so certain about it.

“What’s wrong?” Iceland asked. Sweden was leaning against the open passenger door as he searched around the pitch-black landscape. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, just that it was something.

“We’re bein’ watched…”

“Huh? From what?”

“Dunno but—”

Laughter.

A child’s laughter.

It was such a high-pitched noise that rang inside his ears. He hated that he couldn’t see where it was coming from. There were no streetlights in this part of the country. The only light visible came from the inside of Iceland’s car and the headlights of others as many began driving away from the scene and onto the main road.

Sweden’s frustrations hit a boiling point. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a black flashlight. He slowly made his way toward the river. Iceland tried to call him back however Sweden ignored his pleas. A frustrated sigh fell from his lips, “I'm never taking you to that ghost museum ever again,” He had no choice but to follow behind him.

Sweden hadn’t noticed earlier that the water was much lower than he had anticipated. Boulders of various shapes and sizes poked through the water, especially along the shoreline. He swung his flashlight around and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. The mysterious sounds of laughter from before had also disappeared. Was it his mind playing tricks on him again?

“Did ya happen to hear a child laughin’ earlier?”

“A child?” Iceland pondered, “The crowd was mostly full of photographers but I’m sure I saw a few families with small kids there. Maybe it was that you were hearing?”

Sweden made a disgruntled grunt as he appeared furious with himself. He hated how out of character this was for him. He could never recall a moment in time when he acted this paranoid before.

But on the furthest rock to his left, his flashlight picked up something stuck against one of the boulders. The two men investigated and discovered it was a small grey blanket. They had wondered if it was forgotten by one of the families from earlier. Upon closer inspection though, they noticed it was covered in mud, the material looked faded, and the bottom tip of the blanket had been submerged into the water. It was clear it had been here for some time.

“Sví, we should go. There’s no one here,” Iceland said as he tugged on Sweden’s arm. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

It looked as if Sweden had finally come to his senses and the two men walked back to the car. But Iceland took one more look over his shoulder. Near the river, a small child stood there in a white gown. A short blond boy, possibly no older than three, hugged the dirty grey blanket that Sweden discovered earlier. Iceland put a finger to his lips and shook his head. The little boy’s smile turned to an angry frown and disappeared towards the water.

Iceland was open to sharing many things about his life with Sweden. But the stories of the spirits that inhabited this part of his home were not one of them. No one needed to know he could see things that mortals could not. He was determined to keep it that way.

[lenawin4]

2024 DoctorRose Bingo Masterpost

here's my masterpost for @doctorrosebingo. thank you so much for running this event! I had such a wonderful time writing and reading DoctorRose fics.

Zeppelins, Trains, and Automobiles

Prompt: Insecurity Rose books the flight to Barcelona on a whim. // Three weeks after Bad Wolf Bay, the Doctor and Rose travel to Barcelona. Rose hopes it’ll measure up to their usual TARDIS trips.

First Arrival

Prompt: Firsts Of the best parts of Amelia’s job, keeping people alive definitely ranked on top. Helping the Vitex heiress give birth was a close second. // Moments before Mia’s arrival in Pete’s World.

Lightning in a Bottle

Prompts: Mutual Pining & Cuddling In the years they were apart, the Doctor collected jewelry, and Rose collected sonic screwdrivers. In Norway, they can finally give them to each other.

A Sun Rises

Prompt: Gelth It’s bloody difficult, wearing a dead man’s face.

Lost In Translation

Prompt: Mistaken as a Couple It was the closest he came to kissing her that day. Resistance grew difficult exponentially, by the second. Only the thought of deathbeds reined him in.

hope i can't recall

Prompts: Journalist AU, Sunsets, Genie/Djinn, Dancing in the Rain, & Keepsake The Doctor, against all odds, stumbles upon Rose Tyler in 21st-century London. But she doesn't remember him and, inconceivably, she's here with his future self.

On the Nature of Daylight

Prompt: Free Space The Doctor and Mia Tyler: a story of quantum entanglement across time and space. // Inspired by Arrival by Denis Villeneuve and "Story of Your Life" by Ted Chiang.

The Doctor and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Prompt: Sycorax The Doctor has a bad day. His wife and daughter make it ten times better.

The Waiting Stars

Prompt: Projected Dreams Rose is dreaming. But they're not her dreams.

restore my faith

Prompt: Grief The day the Master died, Rose Tyler resurrected in the bowels of the Valiant.

[aviel-gillinski]

( JEFF GOLDBLUM / cis man / he/him ) — AVIEL GILLINSKI has been living in Port Leiry for 10 YEARS. They currently work as a PODCAST HOST, and are 70 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a HUMAN or if they’re connected to "CRYPTID-BITS". They tend to be quite VAIN and JADED, but can also be ATTENTIVE and ROMANTIC.

Full Bio is under the read more! But....

TLDR: Aviel is a former archaeologist, art historian and lecturer at many colleges. Throughout his life he always thought there could be supernatural beings about... but after learning of the existence of them through his ex-husband, the human poured his time into his findings. He now has an extensive library of information, and does a niche podcast on Cryptids and other unsolved supernatural sightings, called "Cryptid Bits". A threat to some, an asset to many, an absolute weirdo but charming and way too smart for his own good.

BIO:

Aviel is one of 6 Gillinski children. He grew up in Upstate New York - the jokester of the Gillinskis from a very young age.

Despite his sarcastic and sometimes laissez-faire demeanor, Avi was dedicated to his studies. In college, he studied art history and archaeology, getting his Bachelors and then eventually his PhD.

He started partying a little later than most - as a teaching assistant while getting his PhD, he would get invited to all sorts of events. A natural chatterbox and someone who can easily make connections, Avi found many people hanging onto his stories and ideas, no matter if they were fictional or not.

After teaching art history for a few years, Aviel broke into his dream of archaeology. He was sent on digs and did quite a bit of traveling to do so - going anywhere from Croatia to Guyana, to Greenland, Norway, Russia, India, Singapore, and endless museums to inspect priceless artifacts.

During this time, he somehow managed to maintain a relationship with his then wife - a spirited woman who he had two wonderful children with.

When Aviel finally slowed down in his trips to excavation sites, he and his wife decided to separate peacefully. Their kids were already in college and both seemed to want different things.

Around the age of 60, Avi met a man at a conference who he would end up marrying in a whirlwind relationship. While this didn't last, they also parted on good terms - and this person was the first supernatural being he'd ever met, exposing him to a world he hadn't realized existed.

While he had always compiled little 'tidbits' of information about creatures he'd always thought could be real, he hadn't gotten any confirmation until then. Desperate for more knowledge, Aviel did his own research. Able to retire early anyways, he went off on his own private research assignments and went a bit too deep into cryptid stories and unsolved mysteries.

At 65, Aviel started his podcase "Cryptid Bits", where he speaks on cryptids and old unexplained cases, positing his own thoughts on what it could've been as well as recounting them in his lovely, soothing voice.

[scotianostra]

The Witches Well Edinburgh Castle Esplanade.

Us Scots don't do things by half, except maybe nowadays, Edinburgh really needs a more prominent memorial for the people put to death for being accused of witchcraft, I mean they reckon that there are more than a million visitors passing this every year, how many actually know this wee memorial exists?

Scotland killed around 3 to 4,000 supposed witches between the 15th and 16th centuries,  this was state sponsored murder, not just backed, but encouraged by the Stuart King, James VI, that's the yin that buggered off to London in 1503 only honouring us with one visit during the next 22 years, why do folk actually dote on this family?

Anyway the 23year old James VI 's 14 year old bride  Anne of Denmark was meant to come to Scotland to complete there nuptials  in 1589, but due to storms the trip kept on getting postponed.  Eventually Anne and her retinue decided to wait in Norway until the spring and better weather.

James, obviously desperate tae get his leg over decided  to head over to Scandinavia to fetch her himself.

When he got there the local gentry told him that Witches were to blame and that those accused had been tried and executed, not the first or last of their dalliance in the affairs. This is said to have started Oor James's obsession with the whole witchcraft  thing, he would become such an authority he wrote extensively on the matter publishing a paper called Daemonologie, a treatise about witchcraft.

The Scots were only too eager to please their monarch and set about a campaign of persecution, mainly against the female population

To sum things up, more people (women) were put to death here on castle hill, than anywhere else in Scotland, and all we have here is this piss poor effort of a memorial. I plan to head to Prestonpans in the not too distant future to grab some pics of their memorial, which is right next to bairn's playground giving it exposure to a generation of East Lothian's youngsters.

Those killed in Scotland were often mere herbalists, the mentally ill, or those on the wrong end of someone else’s ill will. Suspected women were frequently bound by the hands and feet, then thrown into a lake to determine their innocence. Those who drowned were cleared, and those who had the audacity to survive were accused of witchcraft and sent to the stake.

As I said at the beginning, we don't do things by half, from what I have read we Scots killed up to five times as many any other country in Europe.

I hope I got all this correct as if it's not,my friend Leonard Low, published author of The Weem Witch, which explores the events of the Pittenweem witch trials of 1704-5,, will no doubt let me know! Leonard featured in the TV show Men in Kilts: A Roadtrip with Sam (Heughan) and Graham ( McTavish) of Outlander fame.

If you are at the  castle the “Witches Well” is on Tartan Weaving Mill building, the former Castlehill Reservoir beside Ramsay Gardens

[i-am-the-anti-christ-to-you]

Man, I have so many posts already lined up to be posted since a long time ago (about my Vietnam trip, about a bunch of terrific, watershed moments of my life), but here I am posting about a movie I literally just finished at 3.30am this morning because I've never felt this alive lying on a bed. For some reason I find it more imperative to publish this movie review-cum-ramble into the void corner of the internet than journal entries about actually important life events at this very moment.

This post is about a role model I recently adopted. And it’s going to be hella incoherent because I’m writing this at an ungodly hour.

After going down the Alex Honnold rabbit hole, I finally watched Free Solo. What the reddit posts, article reviews, and Wired interviews didn't prepare me for was Alex's relationship with Sanni, and the huge possibility that Alex's biggest motivation to free solo isn't the drive to achieve greatness, nor his unresponsive amygdala, but in fact, depression. I heavily related to his upbringing, the strange familial dynamics that reeked of cultural avoidance of explicit affection and learning how to be vulnerable at the ripe age of 23. Sans his physical prowess and impressive feats, I saw quite a bit of myself in my newfound idol. Unlike most people's heroes, he was both perfect and imperfect, which only makes me fonder of him even more. He's probably on the spectrum, is hugely introverted yet likeable, and had to overcome great emotional barriers that he put up since childhood. The only times I saw him truly, purely, utterly joyous was when he realised it was game time. On the other hand, he was interestingly reserved while exhibiting the right amount of affection in Sanni's presence. Even when they parted ways for the actual climb, I recognised the sense of being lost because something comforting and familiar is now absent. Happiness is not the same as joy. Maybe it's the cameras, or maybe this was just the performative manifestation of Alex's unapologetic mindset of "climbing over girlfriend".

But then the way San-San calls him after he summitted, and the look on his face when she surprises him in his van. There's a sweet spot, a middle ground that Alex seems to have, making him the luckiest human being on planet earth (in my very personal opinion).

I don't really know what the point of this post is, I just wanted to get my thoughts about Free Solo out there. I have exciting plans for myself in Norway this July, plans that only I am privy to, plans that may have great consequences (low risk though, I hope) and may be my only chance to get as close as possible to feeling the way Alex feels when looking up at the mighty El Cap. Other people can leave, hurt, die, but nature (in multiple meanings of the word) simply just is, and any hurt had within it can only be said to be self-inflicted.

I hope to be delighted too.

Gorgeous photo by Jimmy Chin (duh).

[firerwolf]

England was an undeniably beautiful country. Norway had always been home to impressive mountains but most of it was covered in snow making it all sort of feel the same. England was very different. It had hilly lands, thick forests, and sprawling fields. Even when it snows it all looks unique and different. While on her travels she’d seen much of the land but it was always with a wary eye looking for ambush or her mind was on more important matters. But for this trip they were taking their time. There was no king waiting for their arrival, looming battle they were needed for, or event they were attending. There was just Eivor and her eagle traveling the roads of England.

Hytham had assured her that they didn't need to set a slower pace but Eivor had insisted. It meant that their trip would take almost twice the time to get there and back but that was only a boon to Eivor. It was an excuse to have more time seeing England in a way she hadn't allowed herself to up until now. As they traveled seeing new places and people it spurred Eivor to share stories of her travel and Hytham to explain the people he had connections with in the area. She was surprised to really get an idea of the scope of the network he'd created.

Read more

[8-bitdyke]

ix/felix or my rl name, he/him

18, butch lesbian

looking 4 a beta reader !! refer to this post and this tag or just send me an ask :)

essential tags, the rest are under the cut:

- #langblr - langblr related content

- #ix.txt/en - textposts in english

- #ix.txt/no - textposts in norwegian

- #ix.txt/한 - textposts in korean

- #ix.txt/yu - textposts in serbocroatian

- #ix.txt/fr - textposts in french

- #ix.jpeg - photos by me

- #ix.txt/docx- my fics n other writings

i'm not making a dni i'll simply block if ur making me uncomfy <3

read under the cut for more tags, my language goals and more about the languages i know and am learning !

the rest of the tags:

- #star wars - star wars related

- #good omens - good omens related

- #hannibal - nbc hannibal related

- #mcr - american rockband mcr related

- #formel 1 - formula 1 related

- #art - art tag for rbed art

- #modern rights - for current events and issues

- #lesbianisms - lesbian tag

- #butches - butch tag

languages i'm fluent in:

norwegian (native): i'm born and raised in norway, which kind of speaks for itself. i speak a dialect close to standard østnorsk. (send me an ask if you're curious!) if you want a language exchange partner or grammar explanations or general help with the language, i'm here to help! my primary målform is bokmål but i know nynorsk too because i'm cool and sexy obviously. i will also talk at lenght about norwegian sociolects and dialects if you prompt me!

serbocroatian (native, heritage): my mum came to norway some thirty years ago and raised me in serbian, so this one's technically a heritage language, but i deem myself native :) i speak ekavski and i read and write in latinica and ćirilica, cursive as well. if you want grammar or language help or a language exchange partner or tips for learning cursive i'm here! i didn't learn cursive until a few years ago so the memory's still pretty fresh...

english (fluent): i started learning english when i was six and kept learning it for eleven years, so by now i'm pretty much fluent to the point where people ask if i'm british because i (unfortunately) acquired a scottish/northern english accent on the way to fluency... here too i am always up for a language exchange and ready to help with anything :) i write british english as well as i can, but american slang makes its way into my sentences no matter how hard i try ...

languages i'm learning:

korean (ttmik 5): i know ttmik 6 isn't really a good level signifier for those who don’t use the ttmik curriculum, but i haven't taken any official tests yet. i've been self-studying korean since august of 2020, so close to three years now. while i can't give as extensive help in korean as in the languages i'm fluent in, i'm always up to help, give tips and do language exchanges ^_^ (and rave about the history of the language)

french (b1): i studied french for five years in school, now i’m continuing on my own, and i can hold conversations without too much struggle! went on a school trip to paris last year and really got to test it out :) i can read and write and speak and listen on a number of topics, and i'm close to fluency, i think. always up for doing a language exchange here too! my french grammar is a bit of a mess, but i'll help anyone to the best of my abilities ^^

latin (2 years): i took latin for two years and enjoyed it immensely! i've had the luck to have a fluent teacher, so my speaking latin is pretty good. i’m going on 2 take it as an additional subject in uni this year :) i study classical latin with classical pronunciation and i'm always up for a chat about it! as with other languages i am always up to help, but i don't think a language exchange for latin is viable, so i'll keep it at help with grammar and tangents about antiquity.

[anonymousfiction211]

You just have to believe: 11

You just have to believe masterlist

Another distraction It has been weeks since Steve Rogers had died. Loki was able to make Rachel forget all about it. The two of them went to several events, Rachel really started to show her merit. Acting like a proper future wife. Still, it was all for show. A fact the two of them had to remind themselves of more and more.

One morning, Loki almost slipped up.

‘…Look, I don’t have time for this. Just make it look like an accident if something happens’ he hissed through the phone. Rachel, who just was about to ask if he would like to have coffee with her, heard.

When Loki turned around and saw Rachel standing there, he knew he had to be more careful in the future.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked. But Loki knew that in her mind she was wondering what the conversation was about, and that that was the question she really wanted to ask him.

‘It’s about Jane’ he told her.

‘The ex-girlfriend of your brother?’ she asked.

‘Well, ex is a bit of a stretch, they only knew each other for a weekend. But yes. She is not doing well, so I am trying to convince Thor to come and say goodbye to her’

‘I didn’t know you could still contact him’ she replied.

 ‘Sometimes I’m able to, it’s a long story. Still, I try to look out for her. But I don’t think there is much I can do at the moment’ he said.

‘But what did you mean when you said…’ Rachel started to ask. But Loki decided to quickly change the subject.

‘I am in desperate need for a break, so I booked a house in Norway for the weekend. Want to come with me and look at the Northern lights?’

‘Wait what?’ Rachel asked excited.

‘You, me, little house in the middle of nowhere, Northern lights?’ he smirked at her. He really could use a break. Besides, after the guys interrogating him and the call he really hadn’t explained, he needed her distracted.

‘Yes, but Loki’ she sighed. For a moment Loki was afraid that she had figured something out. ‘I can’t accept all of this. I don’t know how I’m ever going to pay you back’

‘Is that what you worried about? Darling, you have given me so much in return. You are really helping me with my numbers. Besides, the whole thing might not be real, but I do enjoy your company’ he said.

Loki had to admit that she looked cute, almost jumping up and down in excitement. Before he knew it, she had wrapped two arms around his neck and hugged him.

‘ooh thank you, I’m going to pack immediately’ she squeaked a little.

‘Go do that’ he laughed. ‘I’ll just finish up some work. We will leave tomorrow morning’ he said.

After that Rachel hadn’t seen Loki for the rest of the day. She spends her day packing and researching things to do in Norway. She was wondering if Loki would want to go to the city with her for a night, or what in general he had planned for the trip.

She wanted to ask him, so she went to his office. The door was open, and she let herself in. He wasn’t there at the moment. There was a light burning on his desk, papers were scattered around. She could hear him on the other side of the wall, discussing something about his campaign. Rachel decided to wait for him at his desk.

Glancing down at the papers that were scattered around, she saw some familiar names. She picked up the papers to have a closer look. To her shock she saw ‘Captain America’ written on the header. After that a list, car accident, missing person, shot by radical etc. What was she reading?

She was startled when she heard the door close.

‘Rachel...’ Loki was a bit surprised at seeing her. When he saw the look in her eyes, he scolded himself for bringing the papers upstairs. He should have left them in his office in the basement. He shot her a genuine smile, he needed to play this just right.

‘What a lovely surprise. What are you doing here?’ he asked. Pretending he had nothing to hide, it would only make her more suspicious.

‘I ehm... wanted to ask you some things about the trip... but what is this?’ she held up the paper with all the ways for Captain America to die.

‘Research’ was all he said. ‘Now, what did you wanted to ask me?’ he tried to change the subject. But this time, she wasn’t as easily distracted.

‘Why do you have a list of horrible ways to die... or kill someone?’ she asked. ‘Someone, who just died’ she added.

‘Are you accusing me of something?’ he asked with as much hurt in his voice as he could master. She wasn’t, not yet at least. He hoped that his remark would make her feel guilty, before she starts actually accusing him. By the shock on her face, it had worked.

‘No, no, no! Of course not. I, I just don’t get it’ she stammered.

‘We have been researching ways Captain America could have died, there are more in the Avenger initiative, and we want to make sure they’re safe’ Loki walked towards her. Taking the papers from her hands and cleaning up the scattered papers on his desk.

In a quick flash, Rachel saw another name she recognized. It was Tony Stark, she didn’t know that he was a part of the Avenger initiative. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have looked. And I didn’t mean to accuse you or insult you’ she apologized. She felt guilty for some reason, she didn’t think he killed him. But it she did think it was suspicious. And how could she even think that, after everything he has done for her?

‘Darling, I didn’t tell you, because I don’t want to frighten you. Try to let it go, if you sleep you feel better tomorrow. And by then we will be on a plane to Norway. How does that sound?’ he smiled at her.

The two of them talked a little bit about the trip and everything they could do. After that Rachel went to bed, while Loki would still work for an hour or so. When she was in their bedroom, he quickly gathered all the information that would link him to anything and stored it in his office in the basement. He made a mental note to be less reckless. He was starting to get close and didn’t want to ruin it for himself.

Taglist: @benaddictcumberpatch @joyful-enchantress @harlequin-hangout @eleniblue @misunderstoodself @lokisgoodgirl

Story taglist: @assemblingavenger

A/N: I don't know why, but I forgot to post on monday. But here you guys go :) Hope you like it!

[ayearwithoutwater]

Seven.

I always wonder if who I am when I’m traveling is who I’m meant to be. Freed of my usual responsibilities, I lose myself in another city because I choose total immersion: I turn corners on a whim and drown my senses in the locale. Is it bacchanal, my all-consuming romanticism, loving so much that it hurts? On the other hand, it resurfaces both bad memories and underlying fears of unrequited attraction, but I can’t help it—it’s in my nature to feel as deeply as does the emotion of an unreleased Carly Rae Jepsen demo.

Tin is asleep in the seat next to mine now and I’m still waiting for the cabin crew to bring around some water to drink before I can take my melatonin, so I’ll narrate in the meanwhile.

Tin said he cried last night (finally—a bit of emotional release for him) until he was able to sleep around one o’clock. Poor guy. It’s been about five days for him and I expect it’ll go on for much longer. I don’t envy him.

I want to keep my attraction to him in check. I don’t want to fall so deeply for someone who won’t choose me—I need it to be reciprocal—and if it isn’t mutual then I’ll only be repeating past mistakes.

I picked him up outside his internship and we walked over to Penn Station together to take NJ Transit to Newark airport. At the check-in counter, I failed to get our seats reassigned away from the toilets; it’s a full flight. After going through TSA, we waited at the gate for over an hour, where he did his “dailies” (Duolingo and math) and taught me how to use TikTok.

I’m so thirsty. I would get up to get some water myself, but I’m wedged between two and I hate to disturb my neighbors, so I seethe in silence. When is beverage service going to begin—is it even happening on this airline? Or, do I need to call a steward for help?

It’s only after I’ve taken ten milligrams of melatonin and resigned myself to a parched sleep that they announce the commencement of beverage services, and I’m annoyed. I adjust Tin’s face mask to its proper position, admiring the length of his eyelashes yet thinking that whatever we have between us is likely doomed…

I finally get my cup of water and proceed to nap. Every time I take a red-eye flight, I tell myself never again, yet here I am.

We land at Orly and take the train into the city. At Hôtel de Venise, Tin naps for about an hour while I shower, brush my teeth, and then go outside to wander and familiarize myself with the surrounding neighborhood. When I return, relieved of the fifteen euros I’d brought and arms laden with pastries and bottles of water, he’s still trying to rest. “Five more minutes,” he promises. I give him twenty before rousing him, lips to his forehead and arm around his shoulders. We have a city to explore.

My favorite bistro in Marais doesn’t begin dinner service until 6, so I decide in favor of a detour to Lemaire, where everything is beautiful, but I’m honestly not tempted to make any new acquisitions given that their current inventory all rather closely resembles what I selected back in February. Ten minutes become twenty before we finally make our way to the bistro, where he recognizes a Bruin gymnast. We’re seated at a table in the catacombic downstairs room, and I’m finally reunited with my favorite duck confit. He orders a steak frites minus the frites and plus simple potatoes, over which we pile copious amounts of coarse salt. It’s divine, of course.

After finishing, we’re running a bit late in meeting my favorite friend, Tasos, for the evening’s Olympic beach volleyball match. Tin had wanted tickets to this event most because of its proximity to its stadium’s namesake, la Tour Eiffel, and our entire trip was only confirmed last week when I managed to secure our tickets. The 6 line isn’t functioning in part, ergo we’re forced to walk twenty minutes and across the Seine to the stadium proper. It’s a beautiful walk, so I won’t complain; I know all too well how lucky I am to be here.

We miss Netherlands losing to Norway due to our tardiness but witness Brazil and USA handily defeating Czechia and Germany. I’m stunned by the beauty of the venue. Moreover—the seats we purchased are perfectly positioned to give us an unobstructed view of the Eiffel towering over us. Given the demand for tickets, we were only able to take whatever we could get, so I thank fate for our luck. At ten, the tower glitters above us.

When the event concludes, Tasos has us follow him to a restaurant nearby owned by his friend. We gorge ourselves on delicious pizzas and blond beers, after which we decide to walk off the calories. But, Tasos has a surprise for us: instead of hopping onto a subway train, he leads us on a midnight bike ride from the west to the east of Paris, somewhat for Tin’s benefit because Tin’s never been able to properly explore the city. It feels slightly surreal, cycling between monuments and the Olympic flame after midnight, and it’s outside the glittering Louvre Pyramid that I think to myself how much I love my friends, who always go the extra proverbial (and, in this case, literal) mile for me. Under one of the magnificent adjacent archways, a stranger practices singing in operatic tones.

The next morning, I wake around eight, exhausted and possibly hungover. Tin begs off for more rest, so I let him sleep in. I see that Musée de l’Orangerie still has tickets available for the day; I decide to change our plans for the day so that he can sleep a little longer, doing Orangerie at noon instead of Orsay at nine-thirty when it opens. He asks for five more minutes of sleep; this time, I give him two hours, one of my arms draped around him as I doze with him.

On our way to Orangerie, I’m in good spirits because the city is infectiously jubilant and I reach to hold his hand. He accepts with the condition that I can hold it only for the duration of three hand swings; I’m slightly miffed by his response, so I try to prolong the swings for as long as I can just to savor the feeling of his hand within mine. Too soon, he pulls away.

At Orangerie, I stare into the colors of Les Nymphéas and think about my nascent frustration about my situation with Tin. I’d begun in recent weeks to acknowledge the true depths of my attraction to him, and I’d felt that he’d similarly acknowledged our chemistry, but I’m looking for my life partner and I’m wondering whether it could ever be him if he harbors unresolved feelings for his ex-boyfriend. Still, I have fun looking at art with him. He tells me what he sees in each piece, and I’m pensive about what I project into them. In the gift shop, I pore over presents for my friends’ children (including my godson); it’s a weird feeling to realize that I’ve transitioned to an adulthood where I no longer shop for only myself.

After Orangerie, we do some more shopping nearby before hitting up another of Tasos’s recommendations for lunch, where we eat some memorable potatoes and cheese. At Joseph Duclos, I pick up a perfume for Renee while joking with the shop’s owner, who explains to me that she’s developed a strict policy to look customers in the eye when returning their passports so they don’t come back later accusing her of not having done so. I feign panic, telling her I’ve lost mine; she mimes slapping me. She’s training a new sales associate who enters ‘o’ into the system when instructed to enter ‘eau’ and the four of us roar with laughter. She tells us that Americans are the only clients that ever come with a sense of humor. Mostly quiet throughout all of this but demonstrably able to follow along, Tin’s French is much better than he thinks.

As we head back to our hotel, everything explodes.

In Les Halles, I notice a photo booth and beg him to take pictures with me; I like to collect them, especially when traveling. For the second photo out of four, I move to kiss him, but he pulls away. I half-pout, wanting to know why, but he’s quite serious when he says it’s because we aren’t a couple. His comment stings, and I sulk while I try to work out why in my head.

The obvious reason is the implied rejection. I like him, I think he might like me, but it’s not anything unless we’re agreed that it’s something. Moreover, he’s undergoing his own emotional turmoil, and it’s just too soon. I apologize for putting him on the spot, but it’s half-hearted because I’m a bit morose.

Around Bercy, I leave him to his friends. I’m not in a great mood and, besides, I’m late to meeting Tasos again—twice in two days. I miss my subway stop while writing this and find myself back at Saint Lazare, but that’s fine—I’m not in a rush, and it feels nice to be back in my old neighborhood. It’s raining and I’m somewhat worried about my clothes getting wet, but—to paraphrase Tin—the sky cries as it will. I need to get these words out of me while they’re fresh.

I’m coming on to him too strongly while he’s not ready. My Venus is in Aries—I’m a true believer—and, after my year without water, I’m acutely aware of the sheer impossibility of finding even one person whose soul mirrors my own. I’ve known Tin for all of eight months now, but I’ve interacted with enough men to be able to intuit that the chemistry between us two is real and to appreciate its rarity, yet it’s all moot if he’s not willing or able to be as interested as I am in seeing where it leads us.

I put these thoughts on hold; the rest of my night awaits.

Dinner with Tasos turns out to be a birthday celebration amongst his friends. They’re a rambunctious crowd of expats in Paris, and I have a lot of fun getting to know each of them. The birthday boy’s beautiful girlfriend (originally from Milan; I think her name is Sylvia) tells me Paris is magical because living here is like living within a movie. (She also tells me to try Hinge in Paris and assesses my outfit with a critical eye, approving of everything except the shoes, which she says should be boots—she’s right, but I had chosen to be unfashionable for the sake of packing minimalism.) I spend the evening telling everyone that I agree. Paris is what New York used to, wants to, be. Paris is alive. Paris evokes within me the same emotion that New York once did, a decade ago, which was the youthful hope that anything and everything is possible; here, the food is better and public transportation is more efficient and art is everywhere and people are kind. I don’t care that I’m just a tourist; I don’t care for that nuance. Paris gives me hope that my life isn’t over.

There’s a cat on the awning across the street from the new father whose baby, sitting next to me, was born in the year of the dragon. Shots of alcohol tasting suspiciously like pineapple materialize because the local theater has closed for the night and its staff have descended upon us, amongst them a mythical drag queen who will allegedly perform for us—but in actuality I only see drunken women singing along to YouTube (“Pour Que Tu M’aimes Encore,” one of Céline’s most impassioned songs) at the bar. By now, I’ve had too much alcohol and not enough of anything else in my stomach, so I begin to snack on leftover baguettes taken from the restaurant’s kitchen corner section.

It’s well past midnight and Tasos again suggests biking back, but before doing so I recall that Tin, despite my sullen attitude towards him, has been wanting to photograph his Remy (of Ratatouille) plush toy with a baguette. I end up biking drunkenly through the streets of Paris with a fresh baguette spirited away from the bar (merci beaucoup), trying my best to neither get hit by traffic nor drop the baguette.

Upon my return, Tin’s still awake, waiting for me, and I hand him the baguette as I stumble through the door.

That night, I don’t hold him as we sleep. I’m dejected; I feel rejected. By three o’clock, I’m still awake, so I check once more for tickets to Sunday’s artistic gymnastics event—I know it’s his favorite, and I don’t want this trip to go to waste.

Adrenaline jolts me wide awake when I see two available. I wake him, immediately, to ask him if he wants to go (although, I confess, I already knew he’d say yes—I just wanted some measure of acknowledgement from him). Still half-asleep, he says yes, and goes back to sleep. I purchase them, my heartbeat thundering throughout me, and the transaction is confirmed; the tickets are secured.

I wonder to myself what I’m doing.

The next morning, I once again can’t determine whether I’m still drunk or hungover or neither. Awkward silence persists between us through breakfast because I’m steadfastly avoiding eye contact. Over an omelet and viennoiseries and coffee and orange juice, the “proper” French breakfast that Sylvia had all but commanded me to eat while I’m still here, he asks if I’m mad at him. Briefly, curtly, and truthfully, I explain that I’m in my feelings but also that it should soon pass. I’m already physically and emotionally exhausted.

On the 14 to Saint-Denis, we don’t sit together. I watch him through his window reflection. He’s still the most beautiful man in the world.

I catch my own reflection and I’m forced to confront myself once more. I’ve given as much as I can give without overstepping his boundaries—and even then I’ve trespassed those limits—and it breaks my heart to know that this is it. This is as far as it will go.

I’m histrionic over text messages to my friends, who try valiantly to calm me down. Nyota reminds me to hold space for his grieving heart; Dana tells me to hold steady because she thinks he and I still have more adventures ahead of us. He’s an open wound, but I need not rush into a relationship with him right now if whatever we have between us is real and destined to be a long-term success.

Nyota cautions me against my bad habit of walking away when I need to compromise. I too have deep wounds from Henry denying me any chance at reconciliation or closure years ago, but she says that I’m also allowed a shot at a calmer and more communicative relationship, which she thinks he’s doing his best to curate. She interprets his hesitation as his willingness to be direct and honest with me.

I take a deep breath. I wonder how much better off I’d be if I’d just listen to the women in my life.

We’re walking towards the Olympic Village when, like clockwork, I’m a bit overcome with shame. Abruptly, I apologize to him, again, for real this time. I’m sorry for being so impetuous—it’s just that he’s reignited from deep within me a spark that I’d thought died out long ago, and getting to know him has changed me for the better. With grace and great ease, he forgives me.

I’d been keeping my distance, but we’re suddenly, thankfully, back to normal. We amble onward, together.

The Olympic Village is closed to visitors, so we end up at Trocadero and La Defense in search of his desired Olympics souvenirs before returning to Bercy for the gymnastics event, where I watch him witness history being made. He’s exuberant, getting to be so close to some of his favorite athletes, and I know I’m down bad because I’m having fun just seeing his joy. I’d known that attending the Olympics for gymnastics was a lifelong dream of his, and I’d told him last week that I’d move heaven and earth to make it happen if he genuinely wanted to go. Being here, now, I’m quite pleased with myself. I don’t care how much this trip costs me; I’m a man of my word and it’s worth it to make him happy.

It’s our last night in Paris together after the event. I ask him what he wants to eat, and he settles on a location that’s been on his list for some time.

We’re walking around Pont Neuf when I decide to ask him if he would seriously consider giving us a chance, when his wounds aren’t so fresh. For the sake of my heart, I need to know whether he can envision us together at all, because I’m quite serious about him but also reluctant to pour my energy into him if it’s a definite no. I don’t need a right now; I’m happy to settle for continuing what we have and being open to the possibility of more. I’m relieved when he says yes, without hesitation.

I try to explain that my attraction to him isn’t superficial; I want to be sincere. I need him to know with certainty that the affection I’ve developed for him isn’t just because he’s cute; it’s also because he’s smart, he’s kind, he’s diligent, he’s opinionated. He’s not afraid to challenge me, to be straightforward with me, to volley with me, and that’s what I need. I need a true partner and not a sycophant; in him, I see that potential.

At Hà Nội 1988 Sao Vàng, we’re sat next to an older pair of diners. The auntie takes notice of him teaching me Vietnamese as we look over the menu and she seems nice, so I decide to strike up a conversation. Three languages flow between the four of us, with them speaking French to me and Vietnamese to him, and I’m so glad we came. She tells us she moved to Paris from Sài Gòn over forty years ago, inquires after his heritage, and informs us that we’ve found ourselves at the best Vietnamese restaurant in Paris. About the latter point, she’s quite right—Tin says their phở is better than any in New York, and I have full confidence in his expertise as an Orange County native. His unbridled delight at the flavors of his childhood makes my own eating experience that much better.

I tease him, after dinner, as we walk through Paris towards my favorite speakeasy: if it isn’t me, ultimately, it needs to be someone better than me, someone who worships the very ground upon which he walks, or I’ll be even more upset. I can feel him rolling his eyes at me, in good nature.

I’ve been doing a lot of explaining, but I figure it’s best to let down my guard. It’s no longer a secret that I have a massive crush on him, so I’m trying to give it some context. The big breakup that has since defined my choices notwithstanding, my most recent true crush was four years ago, and then another six years for the one before that. It’s why I have a hard time reining in my excitement about him, yet still I can’t assume that it will be him because he’s not able to make a decision right now. As badly as I want it to be him, I can’t put all my eggs in one basket, I can’t preclude myself from meeting other people, because I can’t let myself be so shattered again.

Since my fallout with Henry, I’ve not let any man meet my friends. None of them have passed muster. But, it’s Tin out of all of them that has galvanized my friends for once. At least two (Nyota and Rhonda) are actually rooting for him—they’ve never seen me this enamored with anyone before. I’m reminded of the last conversation I ever had with Henry, wherein I tried to describe the impossibility of finding something real within the artifice of New York, and it’s why I’m now choosing to not let it escape me.

Upon reaching Candelaria, we’re two Southern Californians walking through a taqueria. We stay for just two drinks—the pandan cocktail is no longer on the menu, and it’s the one I most wanted him to try—before heading home. This time, he holds my hand.

I’m still convinced that I’m going to get my heart broken because I no longer trust men, but I want to try. Perhaps Paris, the “City of Love” and all that jazz, is rubbing off on me once again. It’s been forever since I’ve felt alive.

That night, in the middle of our sleep, I feel him pulling closer to me, and I kiss him. It’s moments like these that caused me to fall for him to begin with, and it’s dangerous because I’m already so close to behaving with him as I normally would with an actual partner.

I wake up first and try to gently rouse him for an early morning flight back to New York, telling him that he’s my favorite person in the world. Sleepily, eyes closed, he chastises me that that’s too much. Am I laying it on too thickly? How about one of my favorites? “That’s better.”

At the airport, I watch his flight leave me behind, an ocean rushing in between to separate him from me. Edmond Dantès sums all of human wisdom up in two words: 'wait' and 'hope.' Am I a lovesick puppy? Whatever—I prefer not to live a life un-lived, because it’s the more interesting option.

I’m back in Montmartre, my last day in Paris echoing my last day from when I was here in February. I look up at the steps I’d take to get up to a height with a city view worth beholding. It’s a bit of a trek, and I know every step I take will be just another step I’ll have to take back.

I decide to ascend, regardless.

[cinema-hallucinations]

Prompt: create a movie concept for a comedy where the pope and the prime minister of Norway are lookalikes and end up accidentally confused and swapped with each others

Title: The Accidental Pope

Tagline: He prayed for a break. He got the Papacy.

Logline: A mistaken identity comedy ensues when the unassuming Prime Minister of Norway, Bjorn Hansen, and the charismatic Pope Clementine VIII, who share an uncanny resemblance, accidentally switch places during a high-security diplomatic visit.

Characters:

Bjorn Hansen: The mild-mannered and slightly awkward Prime Minister of Norway. He longs for a quiet fishing trip but gets caught in a whirlwind of papal duties.

Pope Clementine VIII: A surprisingly down-to-earth and witty pontiff. He yearns for a taste of normalcy and finds himself navigating the complexities of Norwegian politics.

Ingrid, Bjorn's Assistant: A sharp and resourceful young woman who becomes Bjorn's confidante and helps him navigate the Vatican.

Cardinal Ricci: The uptight and protocol-obsessed head of the Papal Staff. He clashes with Bjorn's laid-back demeanor and struggles to maintain the illusion of papal infallibility.

Astrid, Bjorn's Wife: A supportive and humorous woman who rolls with the punches when her husband becomes the accidental pope.

Plot:

Bjorn Hansen, the Prime Minister of Norway, arrives in Rome for a high-security diplomatic visit. Unbeknownst to everyone, he bears a striking resemblance to the reigning Pope Clementine VIII. A series of comical mishaps – a misplaced briefcase, a mistaken identity at the airport, and a scheduling snafu – leads to Bjorn being ushered into the Vatican as the Pope, while the real Clementine finds himself whisked away to a state dinner as the Prime Minister.

Initially, both men are bewildered by their situations. Bjorn struggles to grasp the intricacies of papal rituals and pronouncements, causing hilarious blunders. Clementine, disguised as Bjorn, finds himself dealing with political negotiations and environmental concerns, a world far removed from his spiritual duties.

Ingrid, Bjorn's resourceful assistant, becomes his secret advisor in the Vatican, feeding him lines from a crash course in Catholic dogma. Meanwhile, Cardinal Ricci, the uptight head of the Papal Staff, is on edge with Bjorn's unorthodox approach to the papacy, leading to a series of culture clashes.

As the charade continues, both men begin to find humor and unexpected benefits in their swapped lives. Bjorn uses his newfound platform to advocate for environmental causes close to his heart, while Clementine experiences the simple joys of a regular life he never had.

The climax involves a high-stakes event – a joint address to the UN General Assembly. Both Bjorn and Clementine must rely on their quick wit and newfound understanding of each other's worlds to deliver a successful speech, all while maintaining the illusion of their swapped identities.

The film concludes with the truth being revealed, albeit with a humorous twist. The public embraces the unlikely duo, appreciating their genuine personalities and the unexpected connection forged through their accidental swap. Bjorn and Clementine return to their respective roles, but forever changed by their unique experiences.

Humor:

The physical comedy arising from the look-alike situation – Bjorn struggling with papal attire, Clementine fumbling with a fishing rod.

Cultural clashes – Bjorn's blunt Nordic demeanor clashing with Vatican decorum, Clementine's attempts to navigate Norwegian politics.

Misunderstandings and double entendres arising from their swapped roles.

Themes:

The importance of finding humor in unexpected situations.

Looking beyond appearances and appreciating diversity.

The value of authenticity and genuine connection.

[swannbond]

FILE :// 1655428_007_MSB....ACCESSING....LEVEL 7 ACCESS GRANTED

Mathilde was born to Dr. Madeleine Swann in London on a rainy September day, beautiful and healthy and looking so much like her father. She was raised by her mother in a comfortable townhouse in London, enjoying the best education and all her mother's unconditional love. From a young age, Mathilde was aware that her father wasn't in her life and she asked her mother question upon question about him. Realising that secrets and lies would only hurt her daughter more than the truth, Madeleine told her the truth as best she could. And so Madeleine grew up believing her father to be dead.

Until one day when she was five years old, while on a trip to her mother's house in Norway, Mathilde saw her father for the first time, very much alive. Despite the whirlwind of confusion and fear in Mathilde's five year-old mind, she instantly felt a strong connection to this strange but so familiar man. And she promised herself she would never let anyone take her father away from her again.

However, this time, it was Mathilde who was taken. When Lyutsifer Safin kidnapped her, she tried to stay as strong and fearless as she knew her parents would be. Because there was no doubt in her mind that they would come for her.

And they did. Reunited with her parents once again, Mathilde was desperate to escape from Safin and that godforsaken island. She vividly remembers stepping into that boat and watching her father return inside the facility. She could feel the fear in her mother and Mathilde asked for her father, over and over again. Once at a safe distance, Mathilde searched the horizon for her father's boat. What happened next is still a blur in her memory.

She remembers hearing the rockets approach, the deafening explosions as the island was hit. She remembers screaming for her father. Helicopters arrived, agents sweeping her off her feet, her mother crying. And once again, Mathilde believed her father to be dead, and this time the image was burned into her mind.

The face of Lyutsifer Safin haunted Mathilde's nightmares for years to come, leaving her drenched in cold sweat and screaming her father's name in the middle of the night. Madeleine did her best to help her daughter, but the trauma of Safin's island never went away.

It wasn't until Mathilde was twelve years old that the awful, heartbreaking truth emerged from the shadows: James Bond wasn't dead. He had been infected with a modified version of Heracles, the nanotechnology that could kill with a single touch. Modified so that it would kill only Mathilde and Madeleine. Bond had survived the explosions, escaping the island just in time, and then chosen to go into voluntary isolation in a blacksite of MI6 until a way to disarm the nanotechnology could be found. It had taken seven years, but finally Q Branch had found a way to filter Heracles from Bond's blood.

But the trauma of the events on Safin's island and the years spent trying to process it all had taken a toll on Mathilde. She refused to see or speak to James for four more years, angry about the lies and the pain they made her suffer through. The first time Mathilde ever spoke to her father again was on her 16th birthday, when she told him he needed to sign off on her joining the Royal Navy if he ever wanted her back in his life again. And so he did.

Mathilde spent six years in the Royal Navy, earning a name for herself at a rapid pace: authority issues, impulsiveness, undying loyalty and a slight penchant for self-sacrifice. She showed extreme promise, excelling at almost every task given to her and eventually rising to the rank of Lieutenant Commander.

When the time came to sign on for four more years, Mathilde was approached by MI6, who had been keeping an eye on the Bond legacy for a long time. While Mathilde's goal had always been to outrank her father, she decided that in the end, joining MI6 was inevitable for her so why delay the process? She left the Navy and joined MI6 as an agent in training.

By this time, Mathilde's relationship with her father, despite being rocky at first, had improved greatly. He'd been offered the position of M a few years after being cured of the Heracles infection and had been running the department ever since. He supported her decision to join MI6, unlike Madeleine, and made sure to meddle in her training as little as possible, knowing that she was determined to succeed on her own strength instead of on her father's legacy.

And yet again, Mathilde proved herself beyond capable. Excelling at training, and causing trouble wherever she went, it was obvious from the start that the Bond legacy would continue with her. She began to specialise in honeypot missions, skillfully extracting information, assets and materials from targets through deception, seduction and a hint of intimidation. When she was 29, she was given her first kill mission: to kill a double agent in Moscow who was about to hand over top secret documents to the Kremlin. Despite an initial hiccup, she performed masterfully. Two years later, the second assassination followed: a SPECTRE infiltrator who had recently gotten engaged to a powerful politician within the EU. After completing this mission, Mathilde was officially given double-oh status and given her father's , infamous code number, 007, at her request. And thus breaking her father's record of youngest double-oh in MI6 history.

For two years now, Mathilde has been working as a double-oh, trying to leave her own mark on MI6 history while struggling with the weight of her father's legacy and her own past.

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 9.10 (after 1900)

1918 – Russian Civil War: The Red Army captures Kazan. 1919 – The Republic of German-Austria signs the Treaty of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, ceding significant territories to Italy, Yugoslavia, and Czechoslovakia. 1932 – The New York City Subway's third competing subway system, the municipally-owned IND, is opened. 1936 – First World Individual Motorcycle Speedway Championship, Held at London's (England) Wembley Stadium 1937 – Nine nations attend the Nyon Conference to address international piracy in the Mediterranean Sea. 1939 – World War II: The submarine HMS Oxley is mistakenly sunk by the submarine HMS Triton near Norway and becomes the Royal Navy's first loss of a submarine in the war. 1939 – World War II: The Canadian declaration of war on Germany receives royal assent. 1942 – World War II: The British Army carries out an amphibious landing on Madagascar to re-launch Allied offensive operations in the Madagascar Campaign. 1943 – World War II: In the course of Operation Achse, German troops begin their occupation of Rome. 1960 – At the Summer Olympics in Rome, Abebe Bikila becomes the first sub-Saharan African to win a gold medal, winning the marathon in bare feet. 1961 – In the Italian Grand Prix, a crash causes the death of German Formula One driver Wolfgang von Trips and 15 spectators who are hit by his Ferrari, the deadliest accident in F1 history. 1967 – The people of Gibraltar vote to remain a British dependency rather than becoming part of Spain. 1974 – Guinea-Bissau gains independence from Portugal. 1976 – A British Airways Hawker Siddeley Trident and an Inex-Adria DC-9 collide near Zagreb, Yugoslavia, killing 176. 1977 – Hamida Djandoubi, convicted of torture and murder, is the last person to be executed by guillotine in France. 2000 – Operation Barras successfully frees six British soldiers held captive for over two weeks and contributes to the end of the Sierra Leone Civil War. 2001 – Antônio da Costa Santos, mayor of Campinas, Brazil is assassinated. 2001 – During his appearance on the British TV game show Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, contestant Charles Ingram reaches the £1 million top prize, but it was later revealed that he had cheated to the top prize by listening to coughs from his wife and another contestant. 2002 – Switzerland, traditionally a neutral country, becomes a full member of the United Nations. 2007 – Former Prime Minister of Pakistan Nawaz Sharif returns to Pakistan after seven years in exile, following a military coup in October 1999. 2008 – The Large Hadron Collider at CERN, described as the biggest scientific experiment in history, is powered up in Geneva, Switzerland. 2017 – Hurricane Irma makes landfall on Cudjoe Key, Florida as a Category 4, after causing catastrophic damage throughout the Caribbean. Irma resulted in 134 deaths and $64.76 billion (2017 USD) in damage. 2022 – Death of Queen Elizabeth II: King Charles III is formally proclaimed as monarch at a meeting of the Accession Council in St James's Palace.