#holiday in havana

[citizenscreen]

Desi Arnaz and Mary Hatcher star in Jean Yarbrough‘s HOLIDAY IN HAVANA (1949)

[cubafriendly]

Humberto Guia & Maestro en la Habana Whatsapp +5352646921

Humberto, Guide & Teacher in Havana Whatsapp +5352646921

[pollyna]

au where Callie and Nat meets in Havana during a holiday, and both their english is barely enough for what they need, but they make it do between a broken Spanish sentence and another. At the end of the holiday, they go back to their lives, each other's number safely saved under their home address.

[love-cuba]

Take a nostalgic ride through Havana's colorful neighborhoods in a vintage car. Explore the city's hidden treasures and book your Cuban adventure with Love Cuba today. 🚗

📞 Call us today on 0207 071 3636 for more info!

[fzero81]

[burtongersworld]

Experiment with my video and soundtrack using Havana locations shot with iPhone 13 Pro.2022

[lilasamaaa]

Havana | Charles Leclerc & Carlos Sainz x Reader

Genre | Angst, Hurt, Smut.

Word count | 5.0K

Warnings | Sexual content, alcohol consumption, cheating, some gaslighting, heartbreak!!

Summary | Reader and Charles, who've been dating for a few years, go on a trip to Cuba between two races. A few days before leaving, they learn that Carlos and Rebecca will be staying at the same resort. Good news, right? Well, if you forget Carlos and reader's years-long mutual attraction. Inspired by the « She chose me/Did she? » trend on TikTok… with a twist.

Author's note | Lord... This was so filthy I'm sorry. This piece is the result of this poll! Wrote half of this listening to These Walls by Dua Lipa, the other with Never Be The Same by Camila Cabello. Just so you get the mood. Not proofread, sorry!

She had been waiting for these holidays for months.

Since the beginning of the season, she hadn't been able to travel with Charles to any race, having no available days off. She was jealous of the others wags. The influencers. The ones who could rearrange their schedules in the blink of an eye to follow their boyfriends to the other side of the world without thinking about the consequences. But she'd foolishly chosen to pursue studies, foolishly found a job in marketing, foolishly trapped herself without even realizing it. She loved her job. Or at least, that's what she repeated to herself every morning when her alarm went off at 6 a.m. Sharp.

She had followed the start of the season through her TV and phone, and had savored every brief moment Charles had spent in Monaco (which represented, like... twenty days, tops, since the beginning of March). She knew she couldn't complain. That she didn't have the right to. She'd chosen to share her life with a high-level and high-profile athlete, and this situation couldn't obviously be all positive. She knew that other women would have sold their souls to be in her place. To wake up next to Charles, even just once a month. So, she never complained. She endured.

Charles had returned from China two days earlier, and they were heading to Cuba this afternoon, preparing for ten days of pure bliss. She was euphoric. Delighted not to set her alarm for the next day, delighted not to see her boss and colleagues for ten days, delighted to spend time with Charles. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Yet... There was something.

Yesterday night, at the restaurant, as they were making the final preparations, Charles' phone had lit up on the table and the driver had grabbed it, staring at the screen for a few seconds before exclaiming, "Non, j'y crois pas!". She had shot him a questioning look, and her boyfriend had chuckled before saying "Carlos just texted me. Him and Rebecca are staying at the same resort as us in Havana. This is gonna be so cool."

Oh.

She hadn't responded, just smiled, and returned her attention to the plate of pasta in front of her. Carlos was... a friend. Well, it was actually hard to define. He was obviously primarily Charles' friend, but they had crossed paths quite regularly in the past few years, and naturally, they had hit it off. There was just one issue. One tiny thing.

The man drove her crazy. It was ridiculous. Almost humiliating. She had been sharing her life with Charles for four years. She was happy. She was in love! But... She couldn't deny that Carlos made her feel things that Charles never had. Just the thought of acknowledging this made her want to throw up.

She had never acted on her impulses. Absolutely never. But... she could have. She had noticed glances.

It had started one evening at the restaurant, in 2021, when the two Ferrari drivers had organized a double date for their partners to meet. She had immediately loved Isa, with whom she had hit it off right away. The dinner had gone admirably well, the food was amazing, the wine delicious. The wine. There had been too much of it. They all probably thought so, seeing the bottles go by, but no one had stopped. No one wanted to be the one to break the great mood of the evening. So, they’d drank. Again and again.

If at the beginning of the meal, Carlos had just been casting curious glances in her direction, the wine had changed that. By the time Charles was explaining to Isa how they had met, the Spaniard was piercing her with his gaze. Equally intoxicated and never one to back down from a challenge, she had not flinched at the driver's boldness, holding his gaze, not even blinking. It had lasted a minute. Maybe two. Or even five, before Charles had asked her the name of the movie they'd seen on their third date, you know, the one with the mansion, and she’d finally tore her gaze away from Carlos.

"I believe that was Knives Out," she'd replied, smiling fondly at her boyfriend.

The conversation had resumed its course, and a few hours later, the two couples had parted ways. Lying in bed, in the middle of the night, she could still feel Carlos' burning gaze on her. That could have been nothing. She could always blame it on the wine. But there'd been more.

One day, Charles had suggested that she came with him to an interview he was going to do with Carlos. "It won't take long," he had said. "And as soon as it's over, we'll go grab a bite at that Mexican restaurant you love". She had agreed. The questions had started simple.

"What would be your perfect day?"

"What's your pre-race tradition?"

"Describe your ideal woman"

Even though she had been browsing her phone for a while, absorbed by the device, this question had made her look up. Locking eyes with Charles, the driver had smiled at her before answering.

"That's rather easy to answer, because I've already found her. My ideal woman is career-oriented. She works hard, doesn't count her hours. She wants to succeed because she deserves it, not because she's dating me. She excels in everything she undertakes. She sets no limits for herself, fears nothing. Tries everything. She can be uncompromising, but she knows how to be gentle and caring. She has weaknesses, but she only shows them to me. I am her refuge, and she is mine."

She had smiled, touched, blowing a kiss to her boyfriend.

"Carlos?" the interviewer had said.

"My ideal woman..." the Spaniard had started, searching for his words. "Actually, I have the same, erm… taste as Charles. But I would add that my ideal woman isn't afraid to make mistakes. She allows herself to make wrong choices, to take the wrong path. It's okay, she will always find her way back," he had added, looking her straight in the eyes. That bastard can't be for real, she'd thought.

The last... "incident" had occurred at the end of last season. It hadn't been easy, but she had managed to get time off, and she had joined Charles in Abu Dhabi for the last race of the season. Her boyfriend had finished fifth in the championship, and everyone : drivers, engineers, girlfriends, had ended up at the club to celebrate Max's victory.

She wasn't a fan of nightclubs. She was very migraine-prone, and the music, combined with the neon lights, didn't do well with her. Feeling the pain starting behind her eyes, she had signaled to Charles that she was going outside, and despite his insistence, she had convinced him to stay inside, wanting him to enjoy the evening. In the dark corridor leading outside, she had closed her eyes for a second. No more. Just to relieve the pain for a moment. And she had bumped into someone, of course.

The someone being Mister Sainz himself. Of course.

"I'm sorry," she'd said, still rubbing her eyes.

"Are you alright?"

"Just a migraine."

"Here," he'd said, leading her outside. "Let's get some calm."

She was surprised to see no one outside. Granted, it was already late, almost 4 a.m., and many people had left the club already. But still, she'd expected to see a few people. Smokers, at least...

"Charles fought well," Carlos had said, leaning against a wall.

"Yeah. He'll be champion one day."

"Of course," the Spaniard had say, grinning. "He'll have the cup." A pause. "And the girl."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she'd replied, pretending not to understand.

"Everything Charles wants, Charles gets."

She wasn't in the mood for this. Not tonight. Even if she found it hard to meet the Spaniard's gaze. Even if feeling his eyes on her made her shiver. Even if she could feel her lower abdomen tighten every time the driver's smooth voice reached her ears.

"Maybe everything Charles has, Charles fought for," she had replied.

"Oh yeah? Is that the secret?" Carlos had asked, coming closer.

"There's no secret."

"Do you want me to fight for you?" he had added, so close that she could feel his breath on her neck.

"You must have misunderstood," she'd said, finally meeting his gaze. "I'm talking about the championship."

Carlos had let out a laugh. An ironic, mocking laugh. Disappointed, almost. A laugh that meant "You and I understood each other perfectly well, but you won't dare go further". And she hadn't dared. Casting one last glance, she had gone back inside, leaving him alone under the stars of Baku.

She hadn't seen him since. Good riddance.

"I still can't believe it," Charles had said, yesterday night, taking a spoonful of his tiramisu. "At least, you won't be alone when I go golfing. I haven't seen much of Rebecca, but she seems very nice. I'm sure you two will get along well."

"So that's it? Our romantic vacation just turned into a friend's getaway?" she'd asked, almost offended.

"No, of course not. I'm sorry, mon coeur. We'll spend as much time together as possible, but... it could be nice to do a thing or two with them, right? I thought you loved Carlos."

The sentence had overwhelmed her with guilt.

"I like Carlos. I loved Isa, though," she'd answered, pouting, while Charles looked at her with soft eyes.

"Yeah, I know. But we have to come to terms with the fact that we won't see Isa again. Or, at least, not with Carlos." the driver had said, rising from his seat. "I'll pay, will you wait for me outside?"

Three days and three flights later, she's sitting at the hotel restaurant table, facing Carlos, wondering what Charles could have possibly misunderstood in her request a few days earlier. We'll spend as much time together as possible, yeah, right, she thinks, clearly annoyed.

"It's a pleasure to officially meet you, Rebecca," Charles says, giving the model a big smile. "Carlos must only have eyes for you, because I hear about you every other day."

She chokes on her drink. The whole table looks at her.

"Sorry," she says. "Ice cubes."

The conversation resumes, Rebecca proving to be very interesting. And apparently very much in love with Carlos, she thinks as she watches the blue-eyed blonde. She doesn't like the pinch she feels in her heart. She doesn't even want to put a name on it. It doesn't matter.

"I'm so happy that you’re here," Rebecca says after a while. "I can't wait to spend more time with you all," she finishes with a big smile.

"Yeah. Can't wait," Carlos says, turning his gaze away from Rebecca's eyes. Finding hers.

The following days pass without incident. Charles divides his day between the hotel pool, the golf course, and their bed, where they make love several times a day. If for some time she had the feeling that they were less close, everything seems forgotten under the Cuban sun.

One day, while she was riding Charles particularly loudly, the driver's hands digging into her hips in a deliciously painful way, someone had knocked on their bedroom door. Surprised, they had stopped suddenly, like teenagers caught red-handed, before Charles had jumped out of bed, grabbing a towel on the go.

"You're not actually going to open the door, are you?" she had asked, hidden under the sheets, with only her head out.

"You never know, what if it's urgent... Like... A fire?" her boyfriend had replied before opening the door.

It very obviously hadn't been urgent, and she had felt like dying of embarrassment when she'd seen Carlos's smug face on the other side of the door. He'd quickly glanced past Charles to look at her. Very obviously naked.

"Sorry to interrupt," he'd said, accent thick, licking his lips. "We had agreed to meet ten minutes ago to go play tennis."

"Did we? Oh my god, I'm sorry," Charles had said, closing the door behind him, running to the bathroom to change. Ten minutes later, both of them had left and she’d found herself alone in the room. Hot and bothered.

In the evening, to make up for leaving her alone all day, a very tanned Charles had invited her to a fancy restaurant in Havana, before taking her dancing. She had loved that night, so close together in the anonymity of the Cuban capital. She would have liked to prolong the festivities, to pick up where they had left off, but as soon as they'd returned to the room, Charles had laid down "for five minutes," and had been snoring ever since.

A faint knock echoes against the door of the room, and she gets up discreetly, careful not to wake Charles.

"You've got to be kidding me..." she starts, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Are you sleeping in front of our door or something?" she spits out, annoyed to find herself facing the Spaniard for the second time today.

"Charles forgot this," he says, handing her a towel. A towel with the hotel logo. What is she supposed to do with that? There are plenty of them in the closets. She stares at him intensely, arching a brow. Making no move to retrieve the towel.

"Can I come in?" he finally asks after a few seconds.

Without a word, she steps aside, revealing the room, and the bed where Charles is still snoring.

"Wow," Carlos says, walking into the room, laughing. "He's fucking knackered. I might have gone a bit hard on him this afternoon."

"What did you do?" she asks, clearly unamused.

"Nothing special. Made him run a bit." he replies, smirking. "I'm so sorry if you'd planned to finish what you'd started earlier," eyes boring into hers.

"You're a little shit," she says, disappearing into the bathroom.

She thought he would take the hint. Understand that his presence was no longer desired. In the bathroom, she takes off her earrings in front of the mirror, the door to the bedroom wide open, when the Spaniard appears behind her.

"Are you happy with him?" he asks, leaning against the door frame.

"What kind of fucked up question is that?" she snaps, turning to face him.

"A simple one," Carlos says, eyeing her intensely.

"What are you even doing here?" she asks, turning once again to grab her hairbrush from the countertop. "Shouldn't you be fucking your girl or something?"

Her hate-filled sentence makes him pause for a moment, seeking her gaze in the mirror. Faced with his silence, she lifts her head, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"I had other plans," he states.

"Well, go fuck someone else then," she says, vehemently brushing her hair. She doesn't realize what she's said until the driver presses his chest against her back, gently pinning her against the countertop. She lets go of the brush, holding the surface with both hands, trying to regain composure. His mouth slides along her neck, making her whole body shiver. He's still watching her in the mirror as he gently bites her earlobe with his teeth.

"You're the nastiest person I've ever met," she says, letting a moan escape her lips as the driver slides his hands under her top.

"I've been dreaming of this for years," he says, running his fingers up along her stomach. "Morals be damned."

In the mirror, she casts a glance at Charles, still asleep on the bed. She can't do this. She's not like that. She's never cheated on any of her partners, let alone him. He doesn't deserve that, she thinks, closing her eyes as Carlos licks her neck.

"We can't do this to Charles," she says, panting. "To Rebecca."

"Rebecca will be gone by dawn if you ask," Carlos replies, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"What about him?" she breathes, eyes sliding down his lips. "I can't do it, Carlos. I love him."

"Do you?" he asks, still holding her chin. "Say it one more time, and I swear I won't kiss you. I'll go back to my room and pretend nothing ever happened. We can even share breakfast in the morning, all four of us."

"I..." she stutters, closing her eyes.

"I'm about to do something incredibly reckless. I just need you to tell me if you're okay with it."

She doesn't reply. She just looks into his eyes, and crosses the distance between them. Their mouths collide violently, and both moan in unison, desperately clinging to each other. Her hands get lost in his hair, running along his scalp before pulling at the roots, eliciting a growl from him. He kisses her, biting her lips, encircling her face with his hands. His hands. His hands are everywhere. In her hair, on her back, on her butt. She feels like he's touching her everywhere at once, and his touch... His touch is burning, awakening things she's never felt. With anyone. She feels like molten lava. Like electricity.

He doesn't waste a second. He's too scared she'll snap out of it, change her mind. In one swift motion of the arm, he picks her up, sitting her down on the countertop, spreading her legs with his own body. His lips never leave her : he's exploring her neck, her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead, anything to get a taste of her.

He's afraid that he'll only have her that one time. That he'll have to live forever in the memory of that night. So he memorizes everything. The beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. The one on her neck. The fine white scar above her eyebrow. The tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the ones she earned through years of hearty laughter. He sniffs her, almost like an animal, absorbing her perfume until his head spins. He's so desperate, so pathetic for her, and he would probably be embarrassed by his own behavior if she weren't doing the same on her side. Her fingers trace every vein in his arms, every muscle in his back. She runs her tongue over his teeth, bites his lips, tugs at his hair as if she wanted to keep a lock of it in a necklace.

So far, they had just been kissing. Something she would have a very hard time justifying to Charles, but which could be ruled as a... distasteful accident. But as Carlos grabs her top, making her raise her arms in the air to take it off, immediately going for her breasts, she knows it's too late. That there will be no turning back. She's panting now, and over the shoulder of the Spaniard, as his mouth finds one of her nipples, she steals a glance at her boyfriend. Sound asleep. Unaware.

Carlos continues his descent, lower and lower, tracing a path with his tongue from her breasts to her belly button and down to her lower abdomen. Urgently, almost savagely, he tears off her floral skirt and her thong with both hands in one harsh movement, throwing them on the floor. He's been so impatient, so hurried all this time that when he finally kneels before her, her entire body tenses, bracing for impact.

But the impact doesn't happen.

Not yet. Carlos softly plants kisses on her pubic mound. On the insides of her thighs. On her knees. Anywhere but where she needs him the most.

"Please," she begs, breathless. "Please don't make me wait."

"I've been waiting for four years," he replies, looking at her through his long lashes, amber eyes diving into hers, "You'll survive a few more seconds."

When his mouth finally meets her core, she tilts her head back, moaning. He's slow. So deliberately slow. For years, she's driven him crazy, obsessing over every thought of hers. His revenge is childish. Immature. He's not proud of it, but he wants to drive her insane. To see her lose her mind because of him, just for once. She's having none of it, bucking her hips until his nose gets lost in her folds and finally, he snaps. Grabbing her by the ass, he brings her impossibly closer, lapping, nibbling, biting, even. Her back is pressed against the mirror, one leg over his shoulder, the other hanging down. She's closing her eyes, covering her mouth. Her moans. Praying that Charles hears nothing. Sees nothing.

With the tips of her toes, she finds his groin. Her touch is so soft. Barely there. His response is immediate, and she feels his growl reverberate through her entire core. Continuing his assault, his fingers join his mouth as he circles her clit before inserting one inside of her. Then two. He's watching her, somehow getting harder every time she moans, every time she tugs at his hair.

"I need you," she says between two breaths. "I don't know how much time we have, and I... I need to feel you inside."

He could have passed out right here, just hearing those words leave her lips. He rises, capturing her lips again, while she takes hold of his t-shirt, stripping it off. And then, they hug. Their skins are burning with desire, but there's nothing sexual here. For a few seconds, they stay like that, absolutely silent. Clinging to each other. The embrace tears them both apart. It's almost violent, suffocating, the way all those what's ifs, we could haves and others if only we'd knowns fill the room in those few seconds. The hug is heavy with things that'll never be. Things that'll never leave this embrace. This room. Feeling something wet reach his shoulder, Carlos pulls back. She's crying.

He seizes her lips again, yet this kiss feels so different from the previous ones. It's no longer a kiss of lust, of desire. It's a farewell kiss. He knows it. She knows it too.

Her hands crawl along his chest until they reach the button of his pants, which she pops open with a flick of expert fingers. He helps her remove the garment, which also falls to the ground, along with all the others. In this room, in this Cuban hotel, they are finally completely naked, pressed against each other. He kisses her again, intoxicated by her, her scent, her taste, while his hand finds his cock, stroking it gently. He's so lost in her, he almost doesn't notice her own hand chasing his, stroking him softly. And then, in a new kiss, he presses against her before entering her.

For a few moments, neither of them moves. He, concentrating like never before to not finish there and now. She, accepting the idea that another man than Charles has taken her, and that nothing will ever be the same again. Charles, she thinks, glancing towards the bedroom where her boyfriend has turned over, still asleep, but facing them. He's so close. So close to opening an eye and seeing his girlfriend and his teammate pressed against each other, forehead to forehead. Skin to skin. She's still looking at Charles when Carlos begins to move inside her, holding her tightly in his arms, pressing their chests together in an incredibly sensual motion.

"Tell me what you like. Tell me anything and I'll do it," he says, thrusting softly into her. "I want you to remember this. To remember me."

"I want you to make love to me as if I were yours."

It stings. It stings so fucking much, because the phrase reminds him that she doesn't belong to him. It stings because she's not entirely Charles' anymore, yet she'll never be entirely his either. From this night on, she'll be condemned to wander between them, to float between their desires, their loves. No matter how tightly he holds onto her, no matter how tight she feels around him, he'll never call her his. He obeys nevertheless, quickening his pace, capturing her lips.

His movements are precise, surgical. He feels her contracting around him, and the sensation drives him wild. Her hands are around his neck, seeking balance, support. His pace intensifies even more when he realizes something.

"Say my name," he asks, panting.

She knows why he asks for it, why he needs to hear it, so she doesn't question him.

"Carlos," she says, kissing him. "You're making me feel so good."

And it's true. In a way, it has nothing to do with his movements, with his skills as a lover. All those that he very surely possesses, but are only secondary tonight. It goes beyond that. It's about their connection. With each thrust, Carlos floods her with love, adoration, longing, with so many sensations that leave her feeling deliciously overwhelmed. He doesn't need to say it. Yet, in one thrust, one harsher than the others, he does.

"I love you", he breathes against her skin.

"I know," she says, holding his jaw with one hand, making him look at her, their lips brushing. "I've loved you all this time," she whispers back.

Her revelation must unlock something within him because suddenly, he lifts her, pressing her against the bathroom wall opposite from the sink, as she lets out a surprised cry, feeling him deeper than before. His thrusts resume, stronger, more aggressive. It's a good thing he's holding her as if his life depended on it, because everything is too much : the sensation of his body against hers, their feelings laid bare, the sounds he makes... Her head suddenly feels light, and she rests it in the crook of his neck as he continues to take her so deliciously.

She comes back to herself when she feels something stir in the pit of her stomach, something that takes her breath away.

"Carlos..." she starts.

"Tell me, baby," he replies, biting her ear. "Tell me everything."

"I'm feeling... I don't know... I'm feeling so, so good" she says, incoherent.

"Are you close?" he asks, still pouding into her.

"I've never felt anything like this," she says, panting. "Anything like you."

Then, everything explodes.

She can't hold back her scream, not caring about anything anymore, not even Charles, a few feet away. She's clinging to her lover, scratching his back. Trying to catch her breath. She clenches around him so tightly that he loses control, spilling into her in three thrusts, grunting.

"Give it to me, Carlos," she says. "I can take it. I can take you."

"Mi amor," he says, out of breath. "You're killing me," he adds, still thrusting into her, shooting some more ropes of cum into her cunt while groaning. "Te amo, te amo, te amo," he says, kissing her face.

The two bodies collapse on the floor, against the wall, nestled together in the intimacy of the small bathroom. She shivers, and he grabs a towel to wrap around her. Neither of them says a word. What is there to say, after all? Here, between these four tiled walls, they've already said everything. Shown everything. They've never been closer to each other. They've never been closer to anyone else. They'll probably never experience something like that ever again.

A few steps away from them, a sound of crumpled bedding alerts both of them.

"Babe?" comes Charles' sleepy voice, as their blood turn cold and she rises up impossibly fast to close the bathroom door, wobbling a bit, legs still weak after her orgasm.

"Go back to sleep, baby", she says loudly. "I'm just taking a shower."

There's no response, so after a few seconds, she opens the door again, seeing that Charles has fallen back asleep. Mouth slightly open.

"You have to go," she states, turning back to face Carlos, still sitting on the floor. Carlos stands up, and both of them dress in a heavy silence before quietly tip-toeing across the room. Once in the empty hallway, she gently closes the door of the room she shares with her boyfriend before letting out a breath. He knows what's coming. Something breaks in his eyes, and she feels her heart shatter.

"I meant everything," she says, head low. "I meant every word, every kiss. I'll forever regret the night we just shared, but not in the way you might think. I will regret for the rest of my life ever experimenting this happiness with you and having to let go of it. I love you, Carlos, like I've never loved anyone. That's why we shouldn't see each other again."

His dark eyes bore into hers, almost threateningly.

"Why?" he asks, raising his voice, and she winces, terrified that, on the other side of the door, Charles might wake up again. "Why stop yourself from being happy? Why give up on me?"

"I found a ring," she confesses, struggling to meet his gaze. "In his suitcase. He's going to propose to me, Carlos."

"If that's what it takes to have you forever, let me do it before him," he says, dropping to one knee as she looks away, tears welling up in her eyes. One more thing he'll have taken from Charles, she thinks. He'll forever be the first man to ever kneel before me. And he'll never even know this.

"Please, get up," she says, her voice trembling with a sob.

He does, and when he looks at her again, his eyes are filled with tears.

"Good night, Carlos," she says, taking a step back, holding the door knob to her room. She's gone in an instant, leaving him alone in the poorly lit hallway at half past three in the morning. Her scent all over his skin, her words all over his mind, her grip all over his heart.

[hotvampireadjacent]

“The national bourgeoise establishes holiday resorts and playgrounds for entertaining the Western Bourgeoise. This sector goes by the name of tourism and becomes a national industry re for this very purpose. We only have to look at what has happened to Latin America if we want proof of the way the ex colonized bourgeoisie can be transformed into the “party” organizers. The casinos in Havana and Mexico City, the beaches of Rio, Copacabana and Acapulco the young Brazilian and Mexicans girls, the thirteen year old mestizas, are the scars of this deprivation of the national bourgeoise.

[..] the national bourgeoise assumes the role of manager for the companies of the Wesr and turns its country virtually into a bordello for Europe.

Once again we need only to look at the pitiful spectacle of certain republicans in Latin America. U.S. businessmen, banking magnets and technocrats jet “down to the tropics” for a week to ten days to wallow in the sweet depravity of their private “reserves.”” The wretched of the earth, Frantz Fanon p 101-102

[dartheclipse0816]

Trolls Band Together

Hello once again, everyone.

At this point, I’m sure you all already know why I’m not as active as I used to be.

But if some of you need a refresher, in Layman's terms, being an adult, with the responsibilities that all comes with being an adult, has left me very busy, and it just caused me to lose interest in Tumblr and only come back for short periods of time, from time to time.

But now, now that the newest Trolls movie, Trolls Band Together, has released, I figured I’d write my thoughts about it.

But before I begin, I must give you all a heads up: There’s going to be major spoilers with what I’m about to talk about, so if you are reading this and haven’t seen the movie yet but still want to see it, if you don’t want the movie to be spoiled, then don’t read this any further. It’s going to have major spoilers.

But, for those who have seen the movie, well, here’s what I have to say:

I loved it.

I loved the music, the animation, the voice acting, as well as the all the new characters and the chemistry between the new and returning characters.

I appreciated that the movie started acknowledging the Bergens again and gave them a more prominent role in the movie after they mostly went ignored for a long time after the first movie, Trolls Holiday, and the first few seasons of TTBGO (even though it and Trollstopia aren’t canon to the movies). Seeing Gristle and Bridget finally getting married and contributing significantly to the plot was nice to see, and cute, I'd say.

I also thought it was cool seeing that Branch also once was part of a band with his four older brothers, and him going through the movie trying to reconnect with them, while difficult for him after they left him in his childhood, was still nice to see, especially with Floyd. It was nice seeing Floyd comfort Branch when he was a baby, and be the most supportive of him throughout the movie next to Poppy, after seeing Branch being the one who always got the short end of the stick for a long time throughout TTBGO and Trollstopia. It really made me smile.

I also liked Camila Cabello as Viva. Seeing the singer who sung Havana voicing Poppy's secret long lost sister, it was cute.

And, of course, seeing *NSYNC appear in the movie and collaborating with Justin Timberlake again after over 20 years, was awesome! Their new song, 'Better Place', gives me the same feeling of joy when I listened to 'Green Light Ride' from Crush 40 when they reunited with the Sonic series after a long break for Team Sonic Racing. It was awesome to hear them back together again in both instances.

I also especially loved seeing the combined band of Branch, his brothers, and Poppy and Viva all singing together for both a remix of 'Better Place' and 'Family', and it made me realize why the film was even titled Band Together, because they were literally banding together!

Now, with all that being said, I did have some issues with the film as well.

The movie's villains, Velvet and Veneer, they felt kinda one-dimensional and shallow. I thought they could’ve spent more time with them to develop their backstories a bit more and make them a bit more fleshed out.

And also, what’s the name of the species of Velvet and Veneer? They never appeared in any of the previous movies, holidays specials, or non-canon shows, and were never implied to or hinted at before, but that we do know about their existence, why don’t the Trolls or Bergens know about them? And also, they have advanced technology that can suck out a Troll's musical talent? And apparently Wi-Fi and social media exists in the Trolls world? What the heck?

Okay, okay, I know most of that doesn’t bother a lot of you guys, but to me, it highlights an ongoing issue I’ve always seen within the Trolls series: Inconsistencies with regards to its world building. I know a lot of you guys have seen it in the non-canon shows, but I also saw it in Trolls World Tour, since that movie introduced Trolls tribes that all have their own unique musical genre. As cool as I thought that was, it also made me think: Do those other musical Troll tribes know about the Bergens? Do the Bergens know about those other Troll tribes?

And speaking of those other Troll tribes, I was also disappointed that they aren’t even seen or mentioned in this movie. It left me very disappointed, since there’s a lot of potential you could do with those other Troll tribes, like make some kind of new evil threat that could threaten the entire Trolls' and Bergens' species, and have all the Troll tribes and Bergens band together (pun intended) to stop that evil threat. That could’ve been awesome!

Oh, and the Snack Pack got reduced to extras, which, like my disappointment with the absence of the other Troll tribes, left me feeling a bit disappointed, since they could’ve done something more with them in this movie.

Other than those things, I really loved the film!

And for all you Trolls fans out there, I think it’s time that I mention the elephant in the room with regards to Broppy.

Finally…

After waiting over seven long years since the first movie…

And seeing a far away version at the end of World Tour…

Branch.

And.

Poppy.

Finally.

At.

Long.

Last…

…

…

…

KISSED.

THEY FINALLY DID IT!!!

BRANCH AND POPPY FINALLY KISSED EACH OTHER ON THE LIPS!!!

IT HAS FINALLY HAPPENED!!!

Now, unfortunately, unlike with Trolls World Tour, Trolls Band Together is still in theaters, and I didn’t find any leaked screencaps in time for the writing of this review, but trust me, I’m not kidding, this actually happened in the movie!

And I couldn’t have been more overjoyed to finally see it happen officially, front and center, on screen, and made me cheer in the theater!

And I thought I’d let you all know after being silent for a long time!

Because after waiting for over seven years, after all that waiting, I couldn’t be happier to see that the kiss was well worth the wait.

As a big Trolls fan.

Thank you all for reading this.

And I’ll talk again next time.

Maybe when there’s a new Trolls show or movie?

I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out!

Thank you all once again, and have a wonderful day.

[thoroughfvre]

i'm finally free until january fourth which means i should be around to write more and get to overdue dms ! i'm gonna get to current drafts gradually but here's a wishlist in case anyone wants to indulge me and my brain babies . . . please like this if you're interested and i'll get to you by the end of the week !

wanted concepts :

anything winter / christmas / new years eve . . . i need to get in the holiday spirit asap

maybe a mumu where there are workers and tourists at a ski resort or tourist-y town ??

strangers who share a nye midnight kiss and can't leave each other alone after

gen v inspired things / a mumu . . . i would prefer to play ocs but canons are welcome !

supernatural vibes ( as in creatures — not the show suhjskdij ) . . . can be serious or a little silly and goofy

road trip - esque plots ( i.e. our muses were road - tripping solo , met each other at a rest stop / gas station and decided to finish the trip together or two young adults / lovers / friends / siblings who don't feel like they fit in anywhere and decide to find their place in the world )

always a sl*t for fake dating or enemies to lovers

a costar for my actor muse . . . can go a million different ways

muses for any of my artsy babies ( i have a bunch of them ! )

battle of the bands . . . rival bands . . . musician things . . .

really anything from this tag .

muses i want to use asap :

apollo ortiz : small town guy who was a superstar in his prime , star baseball player , nearly drafted to the mlb but got injured and had to return home . currently teaches local high school / kiddie leagues and has a lot of anger in his heart . fc: jan luis castellanos .

adonis ' doni ' laurent : rich kid who grew up with shady parents who sheltered him from anyone and anything they didn't approve of . currently an actor ( can be aspiring or a - list depending on plot ) and has a bad habit of being dishonest . fc : harris dickinson .

victoria ' tori ' cabrera : my angel baby . . . my number one . . . i can never have too many plots with her . fashion intern , fashion student or stylist intern ( depends on plot ) with major mommy issues . a little spitfire who craves affection but has no idea what to do with it when she gets it . fc : nailea devora .

devon rhodes : an eccentric part - time art teacher and part - time art shop owner with a heart of gold . has no filter , lets whatever pops in her head fly out of her mouth or puts it into her art . still a bit new to me but i'm dying to write her . fc : taylor russell .

margot dai : very new . still fleshing her out . but a major aesthete who works in a florist shop and may even dabble in wedding planning . loves pretty things and watching them grow . would love to flesh her out with someone ! fc : havana rose liu .

malachi barone : very new x2 . i know very little about this man except that he's essentially a hermit , tends to come off as a bit pretentious and has an extensive knowledge of art as a curator . dying to write him and sort him out . fc : jeremy allen white .

[citizenscreen]

Jean Yarbrough‘S HOLIDAY IN HAVANA (1949), starring Desi Arnaz, Mary Hatcher, and Ann Doran

[cubafriendly]

#CityTour, #Havana, #Habana, #guide #local, #CityExplorer, #UrbanExplorer, #UrbanAdventure,

It is one invitation to discover the most bright and radiant capital of the Americas. In a resemblance to the Paris and New York of today, the Havana of the fifties laughed at the most seen places of the United States of the after war. There were the latest fashionable bars, the most luxury hotels, and an exuberant challenging architecture, in the oldest commercial place of the Caribbean. What's left from all that? The history is turning in 180 degrees after a period of fifty years, changing into vestiges the luxury city from before. It's an adaptation or a transformation all about? Despite the abandoned monuments, the atmosphere is intact. Havana Connaisseur presents, on the backside of the contemporary history and through many forms of current activities, what conforms the face of the Havana of today. Both a melancholic and cheerfulness mixture appears combined with epicurean pleasures. The Well being style of the Caribbean.

Old Havana has many sights and sounds to captivate the inquisitive traveller. These include Plaza de Armas  (the oldest square in Havana and the site of the city’s foundation), El Templete (the oldest neo-classical building in Havana),  La Catedral San Cristobal de la Habana and the Museo de la Revolucion. However for most visitors who join us on our Havana city tour it is the excitement of  being part of the commotion of daily street-life is the number one highlight. So, put your walking shoes on and  soak up the atmosphere of this lively, excitable city.

Instagram: humberto_habana

Humberto, Guide & Teacher in Havana Whatsapp +5352646921 

[love-cuba]

Turn your holiday dreams into Havana reality! Shift gears and book your dream escape now. 🚗 🌇

📞 Call us today on 0207 071 3636 for more info!

[justforbooks]

The American photographer Elliott Erwitt, who has died aged 95, was renowned for his largely unposed images of famous people. Among the political figures he caught on film were Fidel Castro and Che Guevara, laughing and waving a cigar in Havana (1964); Jacqueline Kennedy swathed in a black veil at her husband’s funeral in 1963; and Richard Nixon, pointing and jabbing his finger at Nikita Khrushchev’s chest in 1959.

Cultural figures included Marilyn Monroe showing a leg while filming The Seven Year Itch in 1954; Jack Kerouac, unusually meditative, wearing a tie, in 1953; and Dustin Hoffman, with whom Erwitt made a short film, The Many Faces of Dustin Hoffman (1968). Animals were his obsession, and he devoted several books to pictures of dogs, with titles such as Woof (2005) and DogDogs (1998), as well as another short film, I Bark at Dogs (2011).

He spent nearly 80 years behind a camera (for preference a Leica 35mm or a Rolleiflex medium format), selecting subjects from around the world, and working primarily in black-and-white, though he could use colour to make a point.

According to Erwitt, who disliked over-theoretical analysis: “Colour is descriptive. Black-and-white is interpretative.” He defined photography as “an art of observation” or “a biography of a moment”. He suggested that artistry lies in “finding something interesting in an ordinary place … I’ve found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them.”

In his view everything has photographic potential. If you care to look, he wrote, “you can find pictures anywhere. It’s simply a matter of noticing things and organising them. You just have to care about what’s around you and have a concern with humanity and the human comedy.”

He cared a great deal, politically and personally. Erwitt was furious rather than flattered that the Republicans used his Nixon/Khrushchev image (without his permission) for their 1960 presidential campaign, and sent a $500 invoice, which was paid. It can be viewed as Nixon bullishly asserting the US against the USSR, and represented what Erwitt most abhorred in US politics.

He was born Elio Ervitz in Paris, the son of Orthodox Jewish parents, Eugenia and Boris, who had fled Russia following the 1917 Revolution. His forenames were his father’s choice since “he had once attended the University of Rome … and liked it”, and he later anglicised his name. The family moved to Milan, until the rise of fascism prompted their return to Paris in 1938.

Although Erwitt’s parents had separated, a year later all three left together for New York, then Los Angeles. Erwitt completed his schooling there in 1947, and a year later he returned to New York to embark on film studies at the New School. He then joined the US army Signal Corps and, while serving in Europe (1951-53), his fluency in four languages assisted him in compiling his portfolio.

He gained further experience working as a film cameraman in France; a staffer for the Standard Oil Company and Pittsburgh Photo Library; and then – increasingly – as a contributor to a variety of new picture magazines including Look, Life and Holiday, which provided his entry into the prestigious Magnum Photo Agency, established in Paris and New York in 1947.

Robert Capa, one of Magnum’s four founder members, recruited Erwitt, and a fellow founder, Henri Cartier-Bresson, championed him, describing him as “working on a chain-gang of commercial campaigns and still offering a bouquet of stolen photos with a flavour and smile from his inner self”. Praise indeed, which Erwitt later returned in a homage to Cartier-Bresson’s Behind the Gare Saint-Lazare (1932) with Umbrella Jump in Paris (1989), which captures the balletic leap of a man over a puddle beneath the Eiffel Tower during a rainstorm.

Alongside his sense of empathy, Erwitt maintained his sense of humour. Humans’ capacity for projecting their attitudes – and fashion fads – on to their pets was a reliable subject. One image, New York City, 1974 (Dog Legs), taken at knee level, shows a diminutive pooch in a fancy knitted beret, next to a pair of a women’s fashionable, shiny boots, with another pair of taller legs, clearly canine, completing the lineup. It was a perfect example of stylistic crossover: what appears to be a found image was in fact a shoe advert.

In another image from the same year, a disgruntled-looking bulldog squats on a brownstone doorstep, next to a much larger bulldog squatting on the lap of a human, obliterating any view of his master’s face. Erwitt not only loved dogs, but enjoyed seeing the world from a dog’s eye level.

He was not afraid of humour even in more ghoulish surroundings. In 1955, he shot the naturally preserved naked Mexican mummies lining the museum walls at Guanajuato. Their desiccated skins, slack jaws and awkwardly positioned limbs flank a prettily dressed young couple. The blond lad, in an American-style checked shirt, is pointing, in spirited discussion with his girlfriend. They appear as incongruous as their silent observers.

The incongruous and the absurd became hallmarks of Erwitt’s work, as did political events. In one sequence both came together, during Nelson Rockefeller’s campaigning for the Republicans in 1962. Once more taking a mutt’s eye view of humans, the first shot shows one apparently observing intently; in the next he has turned to sniff the ground; and in the third he raises a back leg. “Fair comment,” a viewer might say. Erwitt’s conclusion was, after all, that: “The whole point of taking pictures is so that you don’t have to explain things with words.”

His work appeared all over the world, including several shows at the International Center of Photography in New York, Elliott Erwitt: a one-man exhibition at the Barbican in London in 1989; and a retrospective at the Musée Maillol, Paris, earlier this year.

Erwitt married and was divorced from four wives: Lucienne Van Kan, from 1953 to 1960; Diana Dann, from 1967 to 1974; Susan Ringo, from 1977 to 1984; and Pia Frankenberg, from 1998 to 2012. He is survived by two daughters, Ellen and Jennifer, and two sons, Misha and David, from his first marriage; two daughters, Sasha and Amelia, from his third marriage; 10 grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

🔔Elliott Erwitt, photographer, born 26 July 1928; died 29 November 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[ellewrites-stuff]

Space Portals

Let’s say, just for kicks, that an interdimensional portal opens in the middle of Times Square.

It pisses a lot of people off, of course. They’re busy people, they’ll tell you, with places to be. They don’t have time for things like interdimensional portals. A lot of people demand that someone get rid of the thing. Pictures of the portal circulate on social media.

Let’s say, the area is cordoned off by authorities (that is, the authorities one usually thinks of when one hears the word ‘authorities’ in relation to things like interdimensional portals, the FBI, the CIA, the Men in Black), who rightfully doubt humanity’s self-preservation instincts. There is a lot of red tape involved, both the bureaucratic kind, and the kind that reads “CAUTION” in bold, black letters. They do not manage to do this before three tourists and someone’s Shih Tzu are absorbed. You read about this on Twitter and see a news broadcast and make a meme and think that it’s a damn shame but at the end of the day its only three people and what can you do.

The portal, of course, vanishes soon afterward, seemingly out of spite. It reappears in Costa Rica and eats another two people. You see this, too, on Twitter or Facebook or Tik-Tok or Snapchat or Instagram. Someone starts a GoFundMe. You don’t donate to it because you don’t have any disposable income. Like an international game of whack-a-mole, the authorities descend once more and attempt to cordon the portal into submission. The portal, which has been looking to spice things up, vomits out a slew of interdimensional space-trash and vanishes again.

Thus begins the game.

It is not long before the space-trash becomes space creatures. A slime monster rampages through Sydney. Prague is assaulted by an army of little green men with laser guns. A group of tourists’ holiday in Havana is interrupted by a cerulean blue sabre toothed tiger

People start getting killed. It isn’t pretty. You don’t know any of them. You don’t mourn.

The portal appears in a country in the Middle East that you don’t know the name of because you never bothered to learn it. An enormous lizard emerges, and hundreds of defenceless civilians die. They are offered a cursory mention in news reports. Some people put up sad posts on their Instagram stories to show how sorry they are. Fundraisers for the victims are created. Not a single one of them reaches their goals.

A general consensus is reached that someone should probably do something.

Of course, its extraordinarily hard to tell where the portal is going to show up next. The portal is not of humanity and accordingly does not obey human rules. Determining what  particular rules it might operate by and how humanity can benefit from the whole thing is a task assigned to a team of eggheads, summoned from across the globe. One of these eggheads is assigned the latter task and takes apart the space trash they send him. You skim a post about him on a blog you sometimes read. The researcher, the blog says, does this so that companies that make phones and cars and, in one case, skin care products can use the space-trash for new innovations. The researcher also does this because he has an irrepressible curiosity about the world around him and an un-squashable love for old, schlocky sci-fi. The blog post does not mention this last part.  

The hard-drive wired into a piece of starship debris is used to make a smart-watch with ultra-fast processing. The little green men’s space suits are reverse engineered and used to make cars. The slime strewn around Sydney is advertised as an exfoliant. You buy the exfoliant because you have disposable income now. It gives you a rash.

People keep dying.

Coordinating some kind of force to combat a portal that is itself a teleporter difficult. There is a brief push to have a specially trained department in every nation’s police force. Training programs are created and rolled out with much excitement and fanfare over the span of several months. There is objections within the police force about this. The military, they argue, should take charge of the situation. The militaries of the world, meanwhile, eye each other suspiciously, waiting for someone to cause an international incident or whip out a nuke. The portal tours the Mediterranean. The Parthenon is irreparably damaged. A tentacled creature is unleashed upon Podgorica. Barcelona is attacked by a flock of birds twice the size of the average person, who have a taste for flesh.

 Civilians independently decide to start taking things into their own hands.

In Sydney there is a girl who calls herself a merc. You don’t know this girl. If you saw her on the street, you probably wouldn’t think that she kills monsters for a living. She is alerted via an intricate network when the portal appears in her designated city, and she drives out in her weather-worn Volkswagen van and shoots down whatever comes out. The girl works part time at Hungry Jacks to makes ends meet because her university got destroyed in the slime creature attack some months earlier. She also has a sword. It’s a pretty sick sword.

In San Francisco, there is  a mathematics professor has been working on a model to predict where the portal will appear next. You don’t know him either, like you don’t know the girl and you don’t know the people who died.  It involves a lot of data, and a lot of sitting at a desk and tapping values into Excel spreadsheets. The mathematics professor was once primed to join the team of eggheads researching the portal before he fucked it all up by voicing his moral objection to the monetization of the portal on a now defunct Twitter account.

The mathematics professor attempts to close the portal with a machine that has been cobbled together with space junk by a man who has not slept in several days. This man is the researcher, who he knows because of a professional rivalry and because they have been sleeping together intermittently for several months. The machine does not work. This will later become a meme that you laugh at while the blue-light of your phone eats away at your sleep schedule.

The eldritch creature that emerges from the portal is stabbed by mercs and the machine is smashed to bits in the resulting staggering around and agonised howling from the creature. The whole thing is captured by a nearby teenager with a Tik-Tok account and a dream of fame. You like this Tik-Tok. The idea of closing the portal is introduced to the public sphere.

The researcher is fired from the egghead team and doesn’t mind it one bit. The President of the United States announces that cutting off the valuable resources that the portal provides would be tantamount to terrorism.

People keep dying. Just in case you thought they weren’t.

Some sectors of the merc network privatise. That is- they charge a modest fee every time their services are required. Often, in the time it takes for the transaction to go through to their PayPal, which is a long time because Wi-Fi is patchy these days, entire city blocks are destroyed. You don’t call mercs and you don’t know who does. More often than not, they just appear.

There is a brief debate over where the portal leads. Some people think the portal doesn’t lead to any one place, but has a variety of source locations, from which things flow into one stream and are deposited out our end. There are a lot of think pieces published and interviews conducted about this until someone points out that this makes Earth sound a lot like an interdimensional dumping ground, and the think pieces and interviews abruptly stop. People begin to talk about the multiverse and quote botched versions of the Many-Worlds interpretation of quantum physics. You retweet some of these because you don’t realise that none of the studies being cited have been peer reviewed.

Another mathematician from the egghead team speaks out. She is both wildly intelligent and the first and only black woman to be awarded the Abel Prize. She claims that the team has developed a set of plans, purely theoretical though they might be, for a means of closing the portal for good. She is subsequently subject to various harassment campaigns on social media. There is talk of taking her Abel Prize away. The egghead team falls into infighting and coups and eventually dissolves. The plans are leaked on Twitter. You don’t know the mathematician’s name. Most people don’t.

Another city block is destroyed. The merc snaps. The next time the portal appears in her designated city, she walks into it without a glance behind her. The portal closes around her, as though it had been waiting. You don’t hear about this. It is only one death, after all, and of a girl that no one knew. Her eulogy is quietly published.

The researcher downloads the plans to his laptop. The laptop acquires various viruses and is reduced to a functionless brick. The plans are redownloaded, with the appropriate digital precautions, and he begins to build them. They are for a machine, much like his own. He feels slightly vindicated.

A blanket ban is induced on circulating the plans. Scientists and experts and people with qualifications and degrees speak out and are ignored in turn. The President of the United States is banned from Twitter after making statements in regards to what he thought of people who wanted to close the portal. The mathematician is doxed. The dox is revealed to be fake, after someone turns up at her house and finds it is instead the address of a nuclear power plant. You make jokes about this with your friends because the situation is inherently ridiculous isn’t it? Isn’t it so fucking funny?

People keep dying.

The professor knocks on the researcher’s door with an apology in his mouth and a computer full of data under his arm. This happens off record in a darkened hallway in a private apartment building, and machine is completed in an equally off record manner. Something that looks like a pterodactyl but isn’t kills ten people in Manila.

The machine is activated when the portal appears in San Francisco, and a luminescent, hot pink flying saucer crashes into the Golden Gate Bridge. The portal closes with a squeaky sound, like a hydrogen pop test. The tail end of the Golden Gate Bridge collapses.

People stop dying. This doesn’t really help the ones who are already dead.

Let’s say the portal closes and stays closed. What do we do? From where will we procure phones and cars and skincare products? What do we do when someone, somewhere, finally tallies up everyone who died? Who do we turn and blame?

Blaming doesn’t do a whole lot of good at this point. They’re in the ground all the same. Someone makes a movie about the portal and you watch it in a cinema. It’s hideously inaccurate and borderline offensive. It makes millions. Then comes the merchandise, the documentaries, the magazines, and interview segments. The list of the dead is soon forgotten. It is messy and inconvenient and makes people feel bad.

Aren’t you grateful, say the authorities and the impeached ex-President and the people who launched harassment campaigns and the people who banned circulation of the plans and the everyday people like you who wanted to help but couldn’t or didn’t, on anniversaries and dedicated days of mourning and whenever it is brought up in conversation. That more people didn’t die? Aren’t you grateful that someone did something, so that you didn’t have to? Aren’t you grateful that you still have your phone and your car and your skin care products?

Aren’t we all so fucking grateful?

[irismitchells]

✦ HAVANA ROSE LIU, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER ✦ IRIS MITCHELL the TWENTY-SIX year old has been in willow’s edge for TWENTY YEARS ON AND OFF and was a FRIEND to JUNE, from the deceased family. whispers on the streets are that the WAITRESS AT SUNRISE DINER who lives in WINSLOW are said to be INQUISITIVE and SELF-ABSORBED but i guess we’ll find out for ourselves.

PINTEREST | PLAYLIST

full name — Iris Hui Mitchell nickname(s) — Her family calls her Mo for a reason she shall never divulge xx age — 26 date of birth — June 20th place of birth — Charleston, SC education level & job — Currently enrolled in a Speech Language Pathology graduate program with only a semester left. She completed a Bachelor of Science in Communication Sciences and Disorders and worked as a Child Life Specialist in the Charleston school district for 3 years. After returning to Willow's Edge a year and a half ago, she became a waitress at the local greasy spoon to help support herself through grad school. residence — Winslow (with two roommates... wanted connections incoming) family — Her father Ricky Mitchell is a local car salesman, and her mother Lisa Mitchell (nee Yue) is a reading teacher at the elementary school. Iris also has an older sister, Scarlett, who is an Occupational Therapist in a nearby town.

overview. 

Always hovering somewhere between blue-collar and middle-class, The Mitchell family has always prided themselves on self-sufficiency, independence, and a strong sense of community. They're townies through and through.

Ricky Mitchell is known for dressing up for every major holiday (Santa at Christmas, a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day, etc.) and holding court at Smokey's. He's a bit of a Character. Lisa, by contrast, is a bit of an introverted neurotic — she most often ventures out into town to participate behind the scenes of town events. Each of their daughters was brought up with a strong proclivity for Getting Shit Done and lowkey.... loving attention and control.💗

Both Iris and Scarlett attended Willow's Edge public schools through 6th grade before they finished their junior and high school experience at a Catholic school a few towns over, so while her parents continued to be deeply entrenched in Willow's Edge society, Iris and Scarlett fell a tiny bit to the wayside as they got older.

The Mitchell family are devout Catholics in name only. The type of people who primarily attend church on major holidays and when it was any run-of-the-mill Sunday Mass, they attended for social reasons. Keep up with town gossip, trade popovers, and sip on sweet tea down in the church basement. As an adult, Iris only goes for Midnight Mass. Lapsed Catholic vibe.

But it was a boy at church that Iris fell in love with when she was 15. Sitting around in the pews during one of their Confirmation classes, each whispered joke Mason Goodwin told about Monsignor Martinez was met with nervous giggles and flushed cheeks from Iris.

They didn't start dating until they were 17 and he was her first, and still only, boyfriend. The relationship lasted for 8 years. They didn't talk about things like marriage or kids or a very defined future until that future snuck up on them. Mason's degree took him west, and he ultimately decided for the both of them that she wouldn't come with. Devastated, Iris returned to Willow's Edge.

Since her return, and nursing a broken heart, Iris took a job at Sunrise Diner. She was one of the very few people willing to wake up at the crack of dawn for the early breakfast shift, after all. Finishing up her Master's, and trying not to still think about Mason, Iris found a lot of comfort in her friendships -- and that included the one with June.

They weren't super close before Iris left for college, but they'd grown increasingly fond of each other as the months passed. June's friendship was one of the things that helped pull Iris out of her breakup blues. In turn, a kind, sweet-tongued comfort when Iris was sad and then a fun-seeking partner on the weekends when Iris needed a distraction. She was a good friend to Iris.

Which made some things difficult... Iris is bad at secrets. She loves to learn them, of course, but she isn't so good at keeping them. She doesn't run her mouth around town, but it's almost always certain that if one friend tells her something semi-secret then Iris is passing that info on to one other friend. She can't help it. And when the secret is her own, it's somehow worse. Her compulsion tells her to come clean immediately or to whisper it into several friends' ears. But her most recent secret was a little more complicated...

Iris kissed June's boyfriend Caleb. And June died before Iris could tell her.

personality.

Iris is a princess of sometimes saying out-of-pocket shit and staring at slight blemishes on your face until you're like, WHAT skjdfns. And, with her background in speech, she often analyzes your speech in her head too. Sometimes outside of her head too.

She's a bit shameless with the people she's close with, a fan of meeting and getting to know new ones, and... on a heavy dose of anxiety meds! She talks a lot because 1) she likes conversation and 2) it's half-compensation for said aforementioned anxiety.

When your anxiety manifests as a desire to be liked and friends with everyone which then reveals a real sense of self-absorption and, every once in a while, leads to weird drama... love it!

positive: organized, passionate, charismatic, loyal, curious, expressive, social

negative: condescending, impulsive, gossipy (can't keep a secret), scattered, fidgety, approval-seeking, overly sensitive

misc headcanons.

Quick list: ❤️'s weed, cooking, surfing, hiking + camping, sharing facts and feeling a little more well-informed (Wikipedia page memorizer), talking through movies, weekend trips, skinny dipping, hanging out with old people, doing Randy Newman impressions, waking up early, showing the people she loves new things, sharing experiences, watching reality tv a la Sister Wives, etc.

Oh -- and she's a Swiftie.