#lipstick boxes in pennsylvania

[tarotoftheendless]

Forever Waiting: Waiting for Forever 0.5

Here it is guys, the first chapter of my little fanfiction about our beloved Will Donner/Willie Pajamas.

It is more mature than the film, so I will try to add the proper tags and warnings as we go forward.

I would like to thank @thoughtsfromlayla for being a beta reader and editor for me. Thank you for letting me show you this film so that you have the context needed for understanding my crazy plans and ideas for this fanfiction.

And I want to thank @dragon-kazansky for beta reading and just being my biggest encourager and cheerleader when actually getting started on writing this crazy wild fanfic. She has also made and provided the Chapter Cards. Thank you so much, and I love you!

I am excited for y'all to meet my OC Jules, she is cool and complicated and totally in love with our princess Willie.

Without further ado, here is Chapter One of Forever Waiting. Enjoy!

MASTER LIST/NEXT

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Forever Waiting

Summary:

Jules Smith is the twin sister of Joey. She has been in love with Will Donner, Willie, ever since they were children. But with Willie's constant fixation being Emma Twist, Jules has been content to suffer in silence. And then Willie has come back to their home town in Pennsylvania, but for Emma, not for her. How will they handle seeing each other after so many years and barely speaking in that time?

Warnings/Tags:

Over all angst for this chapter, some swearing if that bothers you. One-way pining. Clueless man is dense as fuck.

Chapter One: Don’t You (Forget About Me)

Friday, October 3rd, 2008 

Taft, Pennsylvania

10:23am

Jules’ POV

Sitting in the back room of my brother’s business, even as messy as it was with boxes of over-stock scattered everywhere, I was wasting time on my Blackberry playing Solitaire with one earbud in. The sound of the electronic bell of the front door of the store barely registered with me. Not much was happening in the shop this early in the morning so I was taking my break early. I was going to be leaving soon anyway because of an event I had this evening to get ready for. 

Then I hear my brother yell for his wife, my sister-in-law, to come here, even the sounds of Peter Steele’s sultry voice in “Love You To Death” can’t keep me from being mildly interested in what was going on. Closing out of my game app, I pause my music, taking out the one earbud I had in and then wrap the cord around my phone before stuffing the device in my side pocket of my cargo pants.

Then I hear my brother say, “It’s Willie!” And my heart both drops and began to beat faster. Dolores repeats the name. He is back. That can only mean that so was she; Emma.

Getting up from my reclined position in the chair I had chosen to take my break in, I stand, stretching. Then finally I made my way through the doorway, going down the small hallway that led to the sales floor.

As my twin and his wife greets Willie, I settle behind the counter, leaning against it, just watching. He hugs Dolores, or Dee as I called her, and then got up on a chair to better hug my abnormally tall brother. Biting my lip, likely chipping the matte black finish of my lipstick, my heart beat faster when I notice how good Willie look.

“You gotta introduce me to this one,” Willie says as he moves around to sit in my nephew’s kiddy chair, my sister-in-law urging Gabe to say ‘hi’ to Willie. Part of me finds this very endearing but the other part of me is mad at him for not being here for his birth. Yet my brother still named Willie Gabe’s godfather.

The last time I saw him was when he came up briefly from Oregon to be the best man at Joey’s wedding, and I was Dee’s Maid of Honor. I had barely spoken to him then. I hadn’t seen him all throughout highschool because he had stopped visiting in the summer after middle school. It had hurt every time. Though he had stayed with my family because Joey was his best friend before the accident, Willie was never here for us, his best friends. He was always here for Emma.

That’s when it dawns on me.

Joey had gone to the local grocery mart downtown about five days ago on a big shopping spree to stock up on stuff for the house. With him providing for himself, his wife and his kid on top of me living in their basement, we go through food pretty fast. The thing I realized though was that if Willie is back, that means Emma is back, and the only place my brother gets his Emma gossip now is from the loose-lipped older lady cashiers at the mart. That is also where Emma’s mother, Miranda, shops. Miranda is almost as bad as Willie is when it comes to Emma; ‘Emma this’ and ‘Emma that’.

Watching Willie sit in one of the kiddy chairs, playing with Gabe, made my heart just ache. He was always beautiful to me. He has definitely come into his own style, really leaning into the vagabond hipster look with the black bowler hat, blue and white plaid pajamas, cherry red hightops and black up-buttoned vest over a well worn graphic T and pajama top with the sleeves rolled up. And his smile? To die for.

Finally his gaze lifts from playing with Gabe, his eyes meeting mine. I must have looked shocked because his expression changes to one of delight to confusion and another emotion I couldn’t quite place. He blinks his eyes multiple times as he looks at me. Seeing this well known tic of his had all our childhood memories flooding back.

“Jules?” He almost whispers the question as both Joey and Dee turn to look back at me. I almost wish I had stayed in the back to finish out my break.

“Hi, Willie,” I answer back almost as quietly, giving him a small smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Putting down the rubber duck he had been playing with to entertain my nephew, Willie gets out of the child’s chair and bounds over to me. Not exactly wanting him to jump up onto the front counter, I move from behind it onto the sales floor.

Willie pulls me into one of his signature all encompassing embraces and I barely have time to register what is happening. For a moment my arms hang at my sides, unsure what to do. My eyes meet my brother and he gives me that look that is basically telling me ‘Don’t be weird’, so I return Willie’s hug. He holds me for a few more seconds and then pulls away.

“Look at you, when did you grow up to be so pretty?” Willie muses as his fingers found my exposed waist, making my heart flutter but I pull away from his grasp before he realizes the effect he has on me.

“You saw me three years ago, at their wedding, did I not look good in pastel pink or something?” I counter as I drop my gaze, my hand reaching up to tuck my hair behind one of my ears.

“No, you just look different, that’s all. The purple is new,” Willie indictates with his pointer finger towards my hair, which is in a longer shag cut and a plum purple color.

“Well, maybe I was sick of being recognized as his sister,” I motion my head towards my brother, who puts his hands up in surrender.

“With how short you are, sis, I don’t think people mistake us for twins as much as you think,” Joey chimes in as he walks up to Willie and I, leaving his wife to play with my nephew.

Dee turns her head towards us to look over her shoulder at her husband, smiling teasingly as she plays with the bead maze to entertain Gabe. “If Jules had been taller, I would have married her instead. She has nicer… assets…” Dee finishes with a wink at her husband, who rolls his eyes at his wife in response.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable with the line of conversation, I start to inch away ever so slightly from my brother and Willie. “Well, it was either someone helping you reach things in the top cupboard or curves that could kill, it’s not my fault you chose my flat-assed brother.”

Willie just giggles at the exchange and my heart almost stops at the sound of it. He is such a dork and yet that is the very thing that made me fall for him when we were kids before his parents passed.

Joey feigns an offended look on his face, putting his hands on his hips in a mock scolding stance. “Hey, young ears are present. Secondly, I take offense to that, I think I look just fine,” He twists his body so he can get a look at his khaki-covered behind. Dee stands from playing with Gabe, my nephew completely oblivious to the ribbing that is taking place, and moves over next to Joey. 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dearest," She says as she links arms with him. They give each other a challenging look that to me says that this conversation should not be happening in my brother’s business, let alone in front of his 2 year old.

Willie and I share a look, he appears amused as he has always loved - well - love. I blush, quickly diverting my gaze back to my brother and sister-in-law. And as if my prayers were answered, a couple of customers, an older man and woman, opened the glass door, stepping inside.

“Oh, thank god, I thought I would have had to remind you two that you have an audience… but hey customers! You got this, right, Joey? Yeah? Good. I’m gonna dip. I need a smoke.” I say as I turn on my heels, not even as much as glancing at Willie. Though I feel him watching me walk away towards the cash register counter. 

As I make it back to the backroom to grab my purse, a very worn black and white tie-dyed hippie purse, I hear Willie ask, “Is she okay? Something felt… off? I’m not sure.”

Hearing him ask that makes me pause and listen for a moment as I grab my phone from my pocket again, unraveling my headphones.

“I’ve got them, and Dolores can be with Gabe. I think you should talk to her, Will.” I hear my brother say to Willie. I just can see in my mind's eye that Joey likely put his hand on Willie’s shoulder, and Willie having that very confused yet concerned look on his face. 

My anxiety spikes, my craving for nicotine getting steadily worse. Joey knows how I feel about Willie, Dee does not. I made Joey promise to never tell anyone. I think that he is trying to help, but with Emma in the middle of it all, I know that my brother knows that I don’t want to make things more confusing for Willie.

Leaving the backroom with my purse on my shoulder, I turn left to go to the back door. Opening it, the heat of early October is still clinging on as I step onto the back landing and walk down a couple steps to sit down. Fishing out my lighter and pack of cigarettes, I light one, take a drag, and immediately feel a calm wash over me. I put my phone in my lap, stuffing one earbud in my left ear, the melodic strains of ‘These Things’ begins to play.

I don’t even turn my head when the door creaks back open and out of the corner of my eye I see the flash of red, well worn Converse. Silently, Willie sits next to me, his shoulders and thighs pressed against mine, the closeness familiar as though it was still the summers between our middle school years.

“When did you start smoking?” He asks quietly, his eyes studying my face as I kept my eyes forward. 

The back of the shop had a street and park on the other side of it and there were just kids playing and parents talking while they kept watch over them. In the grassier part of the park had both couples and individuals laying on blankets, either reading or having picnics. People watching is what I usually do when I have a lot on my mind.

Taking a drag then blowing out the smoke away from his face, I sigh. “Why? Are you judging me?” Turning my head to meet his gaze, I keep a serious face. He has that deer in headlights look for a moment. I smile at him and nudge him gently. “Fucking hell, Willie, lighten up. You’re fine.”

He smiles at me, but it isn’t as bright at that first smile he gave me when he hugged me. Sighing again, I answer his question, “Oh you know, got in with a bad crowd, picked up bad habits just to deal with those two.” I gesture my head back to the closed door behind us to emphasize that I am in fact talking about Joey and Dolores.

Flicking my cigarette so the ashes fell on the ground, I leaned into Willie to whisper close to his ear. “And on full moons, I run naked in the woods and bite the heads off of live chickens.”

That gets a laugh out of him and he nudges me back. “There she is, my dark humored best friend,” he says as he reaches a hand over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It takes everything in me to will the heat away from rising to my cheeks.

“I am kinda surprised you are working for Joey though, appliances don’t really seem like your thing,” he comments as he does an up and down look at me. I had always been edgier than Joey and even Willie, favoring darker colors and more macabre topics and music. 

My current outfit has Willie overanalyzing me and I shift uncomfortably next to him. I am suddenly conscious of my dark camo cargo pants with my tight altered cropped band T of Rob Zombie, the print of it cracked and fading. Willie’s eyes stay on the exposed skin of my midriff for longer than I would want him to, especially since he has friend-zoned me. Luckily his eyes moved down to my shoes. I have on my crimson red Doc Martens.

“Did you ever start that band? You look like a rockstar,” he says, the sincerity coming through his voice, but also he sounded regretful. The last summer he had stayed with my family, I had expressed that I wanted to start a band with some school friends.

“Yeah, actually we did. I have a gig tonight downtown,” I say, taking another drag of my cigarette.

“Really? That’s amazing. What’s your band’s name?” Willie asks, excitement in his voice as he catches my eyes. I had forgotten how blue his eyes were and I couldn’t look away.

Smiling at him with a knowing smile I say, “Suicidal Wyrms, but with Wyrms spelled with a ‘Y’ instead.”

Willie chuckles. “Wait, you named your band after a conversation we had over a decade ago?”

Nudging him again, I laugh and say, “It was a good name, though obviously we had to make it more metal. I even got a tattoo of the logo on my thigh.”

Leaning away from me on the steps, Willie eyes me up and down again. “You got a tattoo? Can I see it?” His hand finds my thigh, poking me in a teasing manner.

I lean away from him a little more, pushing him as I laugh at him. “No, I’d have to pull down my pants and we’re in public, Willie. Jesus fuck.”

Dropping my cigarette on the cement step by my feet, I put it out with the ball of my shoe.

“Fair enough, Jules,” Willie chuckles again. He takes off his bowler hat and puts it on my head. I scoff playfully, making him laugh again. “I missed you, Jules, really.”

Sighing, I lean forward resting my elbows on my knees, my head resting on my hand. Turning my head, I met his gaze. “You could have written to me, you know.”

His expression softens to one of regret. “I know… I guess I just assumed Joey would have updated you on my comings and goings.”

Groaning, I stretch my legs out on the steps, breaking eye contact with him. I place his hat over my face for a few moments before taking it off again and placing it in his lap. He is peering down at me with worry etching in his brows. I can feel my phone start slip from my lap, so I put a hand over it to hold it in place.

“I thought we were closer than that, Willie. I taught you to juggle. I let you steal this hat that last summer. You shared everything with me. When you lumped me in with my brother and just the ‘family’ when it came to getting updates on your life, I guess I was just a bit…” I trail off realizing I maybe shared more of my feelings than I wanted to, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“A bit hurt?” Willie offers. As he tears his eyes from me and focuses forward as he sat on the steps next to me, I could see shame on his face. He feels bad.

Sitting back up, I reach out to pinch him on his thigh right above his knee. His eyes followed my movements, but he didn’t react. I knew he couldn’t feel a thing right there as the nerve endings were severed from a childhood accident.

“Yeah, a bit hurt. You’re my best friend, Willie. I have hated the fact that we grew apart. I really could have used your friendship in highschool.” I say as I lean up against him, resting my head on his shoulder. He put an arm around me, his fingers cool against the skin on my ribs.

“I know, and I’m sorry. Just before highschool I got the impression that you didn’t want to hear about my life anymore.” Willie sadly muses.

“One frustrated disagreement did not mean I never wanted to hear from you again, Willie. I was just frustrated, that was it.” I admit to him, hoping to start to clear the air between us.

His answer to that was to kiss the side of my forehead, squeeze me one more time, before releasing me. He grabs his bowler hat, putting it back on.

“I wish we had been able to say these things a long time ago then, Jules. I really missed you too. I have done so much, gone to so many cool places. It would have been nice to talk to you about it, specifically,” he says, catching my gaze again.

“How is Emma? You being back here must mean she is back,” I ask him and there is an emotion that washes over his face that I can’t quite read before he shakes it off and smiles at my line of questioning.

“Joey called me four days ago. Her dad’s sick,” Willie explains.

“Joey didn’t tell me…” I say, my words kind of veering off at the end. “And what is your plan? Are you finally going to tell her?”

Willie drops his gaze to look at his shoes, his fingers clutching the fabric of his pajama pants. He’s nervous, I can tell.

“I plan to… either today or tomorrow,” he confides in me. 

“Well, if you don’t tonight, you should come see my band play. It’s at a bar next to your brother’s work. I’ll make sure you get the VIP treatment, no cover charge and free drinks.” I hope I am more enticing than Emma. “And besides, you said you wanted to see my tattoo, my get up tonight will be showing it off for all to see.” I nudge him, teasing him a bit.

He smirks and looks at me with humor in his eyes again. “Yeah, sure, maybe I could do that.”

Leaning over, I kiss him on the cheek. When I pull back I smile and say, “Good.” Reaching up, I lift his hat and ruffle his already kinda messy brunette hair. He laughs at me, grabs the hat back before flattening down his hair again and putting his hat back on.

I stick my tongue out at him and help fix his bangs so that they are hanging over his forehead just right in his hat. “There, gorgeous again,” I say as I smile at him playfully.

He blushes, but tries to recover quickly. “What are you listening to?” He points to the earbud that isn’t in my ear.

I hold it out to him so he can take the earbud. “Just a bit of Siouxsie,” I say as he puts the earbud in his ear to listen with me. ‘Spellbound’ is playing and he smiles.

“Moon child,” he muses, his little nickname for me.

“Sweet summer child,” I answer back, my nickname for him, though he was born in December.

My brother has once called Willie the sun to my moon as Willie was always someone who could cheer me up when I was down, and I had been able to anchor Willie when he got dragged out on the tide. After my brother’s wedding, even though I hadn’t reconnected fully with Willie back then, I had gotten a sun tattoo over my heart. I am thankful I am wearing a T-shirt that has it covered right now as I am not ready for him to know that I had gotten that tattoo, let alone that he is the reason for it.

Before he have to leave because of his parents' deaths, Willie and his older brother Jim had been my family’s neighbors. We used to see each other everyday and Emma was always his topic of choice. We all went to school together, and Emma lived a couple neighborhoods over, a playground and park separating us from her. 

Though I saw him everyday, he was always so excited for his playdates with Emma. I don’t think he really remembers that Joey and I were there whenever she was around. I might have been Willie’s moon, but Emma was his North Star. 

There were times where I thought just maybe he noticed me staring at him, but he never did. If he did he never mentioned it. I think he just saw me as Joey’s twin sister, one of his oldest bestest friends. 

Willie had always had his head in the clouds, easily distracted, daydreaming, talking to himself if he wasn’t gushing about Emma. Joey and I, and then Dolores when Joey had started dating her in middle school, had always been understanding of what Willie was going through. He had always been different, even before the accident, but after the accident, he changed. That’s when the talking to himself got worse and his attachment to Emma got all encompassing. 

Jim never understood it, and it really pissed me off. In my eyes, Jim was always trying to clip his brother’s wings, and that made me hate him.

As the song changed on my phone, I take the earbud out of Willie’s ear. He turns his head to look at me questioningly.

“I gotta go get ready for the gig, Willie,” I explain as I wrap my headphones around my phone again and grab my purse from the top step behind me. Putting my phone away and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I stand up, walking down the last couple steps.

He just simply nods and looks at me with those baby blues that just melted my heart.

“The door is unlocked, go visit with Joey, Dee and Gabe. They have missed you too. I can’t monopolize all your time after all,” I say with a reassuring smile. He smiles back at me in such a way that makes me just wish I could tell him how I feel, completely derailing his reason for coming back to Taft. He stands and stretches then makes his way back onto the top landing.

As he reaches for the handle of the backdoor I call out to him, “Please consider coming to the gig, Willie. It starts at 10.”

He grins again, nodding, then opens the door to go back inside my brother's appliance shop.

Sighing, I begin to walk the couple blocks home. Making sure I keep my feelings for Willie a secret might be harder than I thought. Or will I be able to count on him being dense and his focus staying on Emma? My mind raced as I made my way back home. 

I thought back to why he may have felt like he couldn’t confide in me anymore.

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Saturday, August 28th, 1999

Taft, Pennsylvania 

2:43pm 

Jules’ POV

It was the last day of summer. Well, for me it was. Willie was going back to Cape Cod tomorrow so he could get ready for the beginning of his school year. The first year in high school for all of us; me and my twin Joey, Dee who just started dating my brother a year ago, Willie and then Emma. 

It was hot and muggy, so Joey suggested we go to the swimming creek on the other side of the park, past Taft Woods. We all thought that was a great idea, even Emma, who Willie had insisted on hanging out with us. Never wanting to deny Willie his happiness when it came to Emma, saying no didn’t feel like an option to me.

After we got dressed in our swimsuits, we raced each other on our bikes, pedaling our way across town.

I was pretty proud of my restored Schwinn bike that I was riding. I had spray-painted it glossy black with gold accents, giving it a very gothic appearance. Even my wicker basket I had painted black and nailed old baby doll heads and parts to it, all made to look dirty with red paint to make them look bloody. Willie had told me he thought it was cool, but Emma had turned her nose up at it.

The boys were just biking in their trunks, whereas Dee, Emma and I were in shorts and our bikinis. Both Dee and Emma wore pink tops and had blue denim shorts on. I, however, had started to favor black more than girly colors, so my shorts were gray and my top was black. Willie wore blue and my brother wore red.

What we wore stood out so intensely in my mind, though I don’t know why. My hair was still mousy brown and so long it touched the top of my butt. I usually wore it in ponytails.

As we got to the creek on the other side of the woods, our excitement heightened. It may have had something to do with us being as hot as we were in the heat and biking as hard as we did to get here.

The dock came into sight and we abandoned our bikes on the top of the ridge, running down the grassy knoll as fast as we all could in flip flops. Us girls stripped out of our shorts, and the boys bounded forward ahead of us, only having to kick off their sandals. 

Joey cannonballed off the dock and Willie? Well, he was more of a show off. Willie caught Emma’s eye, winked at her before he got a running start and did a backflip off the dock. Emma laughed, racing after Willie, then jumping off the dock into the water.

Joey was doing laps in the water, something about building endurance, but I have no idea what for. Willie had motioned for Dee and I to hurry up and get in the water.

“Come on, the water is great!” Willie called out to us. Emma then splashed Willie, earning her a splash back in return.

Dee and I exchanged a look, smiling like silly teenaged fools.

Then we were all in the water; playing, laughing, enjoying ourselves. 

Dee and Joey were the first to get out. They found a nice patch of grass to lay down on. I tried not to think too much about whatever they could be doing. My brother was getting too ‘coupley’ with his girlfriend, and that was all I wanted to know about it.

Willie on the other hand was way more innocent. We were all fourteen. Though I know Willie had gone through puberty; his voice dropping and facial hair coming in all patchy (luckily he shaved it on the regular), he was always so sweet and respectful to us girls. Willie always blushed when my brother made dirty jokes and comments. It was the cutest thing I had ever seen.

As the day went on though, I felt more like a third wheel for whatever was going on with Willie and Emma. Granted, I didn't think Emma was aware that Willie was flirting with her, but I knew him. He always came to me, because I was a girl and I knew what girls liked, right? 

As I watched Emma just let Willie show off for her; juggling, rock-skipping, flipping off the dock, and holding his breath under water in record times for someone our age; I realized that she and I couldn’t be more different. She didn’t see him. Not really. She was dazzled by what he can do, but I could tell she has no idea what was at the heart of him. 

At one point, I just climbed onto the dock to sunbathe with my feet dangling over the edge. Feeling the water come up over my ankles felt nice. I put my arm over my eyes. Willie was showing Emma how many skips he could get with rocks. He had gotten to ten so far. She was kind of obnoxiously impressed, but I was just proud of him. Yet another thing I had taught him. All for her.

In the distance I could hear Dee giggling at something my brother either said or did, and I just groaned, rolling my eyes under my arm.

“Joey! Please, for fuck’s sake, don’t make me an aunty yet! We’re only fourteen!” I shouted at my twin.

“Fuck off, Jules!” was the only response I got out of him. Willie and Emma just giggled and I think Emma breathed an ‘Eww’ under her breath.

A few minutes passed and I heard Emma say something panicked. “I can’t believe it, I lost track of time! My dance lesson is at 6pm!”

“It’s 4:38 right now, do you want us to bike back with you?” asked Joey as he looked at the waterproof watch that he had on.

“No, no, I don’t want to take you guys away from your fun. I can manage,” Emma dismissed Joey’s suggestion.

“I can bike with you, if you want Emma,” Willie offered genuinely, the hope of just being able to spend time with her in his voice.

“No, really,” Emma started as she pulled on her shorts, slipping her flip flops back on. “I have to race home and shower, not really fun for anyone. Just stay, enjoy the water more. I gotta go.” She made her way back up the hill towards her bike.

Sitting up on the dock, I twisted around to watch Emma get her bike ready to ride away, Willie in tow. He was between saying goodbye and still offering to go with her. She kept brushing him off to the point where he just stood on the hill, an almost defeated expression on his face.

“Dee and I are gonna go back anyway,” Joey said as he and his girlfriend stood up. Dee grabbed her things and puts them back on. “Willie, stay with Jules, okay?”

Willie just nodded at Joey as they made their way back up to their bikes and followed after Emma.

There was a silence that washed over the space. The breeze made a pleasant rustling sound through the trees. Birds chirped and the water flowed. It was peaceful. Willie and I were alone, finally. Maybe I could tell him how I felt and he’d forget all about Emma.

He walked back down to the dock. Sighing, he sank onto his butt behind me, leaning his back against mine.

“I didn’t know she had dance class today… of all days,” he said quietly. It was his last night staying with Joey and I, I knew he had high hopes for tonight.

Pressing the back of my head against his, I sigh in return. “I know, Willie. But hey, I’m still here. And Joey will be back at the house. I think dad is planning to have a campfire in the back tonight for s’mores.”

I could almost feel Willie smile at that as he leaned against me. “I wish Emma could join us.”

Internally I had to tell myself to bite my tongue. She made him happy and Willie being happy is all I wanted. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help that I didn’t like her. She did not see him. She did not know him. I could always feel how much she looked down her nose at him. ‘Just sweet baby, Willie’ I overheard her say once to a preppy friend of hers at school after she had gotten a letter from him. She infantilized him. I hated it. Maybe I was only just about to start high school, but I knew seeing Willie as less than in the way that she did was just wrong.

Instead of responding to him, lest I say something I didn't mean to say out loud, I just hummed at him. “Emma was telling me that she is going to be taking acting classes at the local theater. She wants to be a movie star. She’ll be the prettiest movie star ever,” Willie gushed with admiration in his voice.

Without meaning to, I groaned. “Willie, can we please talk about fucking anything else, please?” I said, my agitation apparent.

He slowly pushed away from my back, twisting to eye the back of my head. I turn to meet his gaze. 

His expression goes through many emotions; first I see hurt and surprise flash in his eyes, but he shook that off, settling on a questioning smile. “What? Do you not like the theater or something?” He asked, teasing me as if that’s what he believed I might possibly be irritated with.

Groaning again, I get up on the dock, looking down at him. He really is deflecting, thinking it had to be something other than Emma that I could find annoying. He tilted his head up, putting up a hand to shield the sun from his eyes, confusion clear on his face past the squinting.

“Theater? Willie, I love you, but you are fucking dense sometimes,” I said, lifting my arms in exasperation.

Willie scrambled to his feet to meet me at eye level. “I don’t understand. Jules? What did I say?”

“Emma this. Emma that. I know you are in love with her and all that, but can you ever just shut the fuck up about her? Like for once?” I raised my voice at him, making him flinch and take a step back from me.

Lowering his eyes from mine, his bare shoulders sag. “I’m sorry,” he said so quietly that I almost didn’t hear him.

My eyes softened, but only just a bit because he then said, “I was going to tell her how I felt today…”

My anger came back in full force. Scoffing, I pushed past him, leaving him stunned on the dock as I snatched up my shorts and shoes, roughly putting them on.

I stomped up to my bike and I yelled back at Willie without looking at him, “Come on, Joey wanted you to stay with me! I’m going home!”

Just barely did I give him enough time to get his shoes and bike before I was racing through the woods. He had a hard time keeping up with me. I think we were both crying on that bike ride home. It was his last night here for the summer, and all he could think about was Emma. It was always Emma.

MASTER LIST/NEXT

[altrxisme]

@anedendarkly asked 9 & 10 for Jo  

better “get to know your character” questions 

9. What is their favorite holiday? (How do they relate to their culture/outside world. Also fun is least favorite holiday.)

10. What objects do they always carry around with them? (What do they need for their normal, day-to-day routine? What does ‘normal’ even look like for them.)

Johanne’s favorite holidays are actually Father’s Day, believe it or not, and Dia De Los Muertos. 

When she moved to New York for college she met with all kinds of people from different cultures and walks of life. She was already somewhat used to it, since she and her dad traveled often before they settled in Pennsylvania, but she was more aware this time around. 

After she and Jackson came back from Alesund the year they saw their dad for the last time, Johanne was internally a mess and threw herself at work to keep herself from fully going into grieving her father. Some of the people in her apartment building that she befriended noticed and tried their best to help her with it. It wasn’t until later that year when Dia De Los Muertos was observed that Johanne finally responded to them. She only had a surface idea of the holiday so she asked some neighbors who celebrated it to really take her through what it was all about. 

It took some time, but it’s helped her slowly come to terms with her dad’s death and reminded her why she loved Father’s Day so much as a child. Johanne even started carrying an old picture of her with her dad in her wallet as a reminder. 

Which is one of the very few items she never leaves home without. 

Other items she carries on her person without fail are a few switchblades for protection, her favorite lipstick, and a whittled cat charm her father made her when she was little. For work, she makes sure to always pack an extra roll of athletic tape, a few boxes of bandaids and wipes, and aspirin.

[thinkink-packaging]

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[mrsalwayswrite]

More Than Today (Richard Winters x Reader)

So this has been in my wips for MONTHS. But here we are! I know its also been a hot minute since I’ve written any BOB fics. Sorry, friends. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: a couple swear words (thanks Nixon)

Words: 2750

Tag List: @happyveday @evelynshelby @sydney-m @saritanotserena

Paris. 

City of Light.

City of Love. 

 Dick Winters just wished the soldier behind him would stop bumping his chair as he laughed at another dirty joke. 

 It had not been his idea to be here. Apparently Sink thought he needed a break. Nixon and Welsh ganged up on him, practically forcing him to pack his bag and get on the train. 

 Now that he was here though….it was nice. 

 He would never admit how many steaming, hot baths he had taken since finding his hotel room. Plus, sleeping in a real, soft bed- his bones sang with joy at the reprieve from the hard, army cot it had been subjected to for years now. 

 Tomorrow morning he was supposed to be leaving. His last 24 hours in Paris. Truthfully, he had done nothing, just rest. Both physically and mentally. He knew if he returned without having visited some kind of touristy place, both Nixon and Welsh would be furious. Though, he would have to have a conversation with Nix. It was not until Dick started unpacking that he found the box of condoms Nix must have slipped into his bag when he was not looking. 

 Sometimes he wondered why he put up with the man. Even that thought made him smile. Somehow him and Nix, they just clicked. Completely polar opposites but maybe that was what allowed their friendship to take root and grow. 

 The soldier behind Dick laughed loudly, rocking his chair back with the movement and knocking into Dick once again. He grimaced, just saving himself from spilling coffee onto his Class A uniform. He knew he outrank the man behind him and all his friends, he could easily say something…. but that seemed like a battle not worth fighting. 

 He quickly finished his small cup of coffee, relishing the actual bitter taste of the drink verse the watery stuff the army supplied. Standing up, he pulled out the change from his pocket, ready to leave a tip for the nice waitress. 

 "There you are!" A feminine voice called out with a distinctly British accent. 

 Dick lifted his head, knowing she was not talking to him but still curious. But then the strangest thing happened. He looked up and met her eyes as she walked past the few other tables. A blinding smile lit up her face and he felt his heartbeat stutter at how beautiful it was. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the others sitting around watching her with interest but her eyes remained solely focused on him. 

 When she came to his side, she gently placed a hand on his forearm and lifted up slightly on her toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "I'm so sorry I am late, love. I lost track of time. Do we still have time for a cup or shall we go?" She easily asked, as she slid down into the extra chair at the table. 

 He stood frozen for a moment, his mind questioning everything that just happened. Thankfully, his body went on autopilot and he sat back down in his chair. "Uh…. it’s fine."

 "Lovely!" She beamed, waving a hand to get the attention of the waitress. 

 As he stared at her, his mind finally seemed to feel the tension hidden just below the surface of her overly-sunny disposition. Her hands laid in her lap, a white-knuckle grip on her small purse though. A friendly smile remained on her face but her eyes kept shifting warily over to the other side of the street, like prey keeping a predator in its peripheral. 

 Confused and now concerned, he peered over to where her eyes kept shooting. Two men stood across the street watching her with sullen expressions. Their uniforms informed him they were US army, the chevrons on their sleeves stated they were both sergeants. 

 Dick turned back to her and lowered his voice, even though he guessed over the noise of those around him, the men would not hear. "Ma'am, are you alright?"

 "Wait." She said sharply, even though her smile never faltered. Then the waitress approached and the woman ordered a cup of tea with enthusiasm. Dick found himself ordering another cup of coffee per her insistence. 

 Finally, the waitress walked away, having had a brief conversation about the lovely color of lipstick she wore with the woman across from him after taking their orders. 

 It was then the woman peeked across the street once more. Whatever she saw, Dick watched the tension ease out of her. He glanced over to see the two men making their way back down the street. 

 "Bloody hell." She muttered, dropping her face in her hands. 

 "Are you alright? Were those men bothering you?"

 "Mmm? Oh, no, well yes. They kept following me even after I told them I was meeting my fiancé. I am so terribly sorry I dragged you into this, it was either find someone to pretend to be my fiancé or find an alley nearby and stab them. I quite like this dress and would prefer not to get blood on it today."

 He just stared at her, unsure how to take her answer. He would have thought it was a joke but with the way she casually answered, as if stating the sky was blue, he assumed she was serious. "Um, right." He coughed, not quite sure where to take the conversation from there. Luckily, she seemed to notice. 

 "Is there somewhere you need to go? I truly am sorry for holding you up. I'll pay for your coffee when the waitress returns, it's the least I can do. Don't feel like you have to stay here just for me."

 "No, no. It's alright, ma'am. I was just…." His voice trailed off. 

 She smiled softly at him, folding her hands in her lap. "Are you stationed here in Paris?"

 At that moment, the waitress returned with their ordered drinks. 

 "No." He answered her prior question, watching her take a sip from her cup. His own cup sat between his hands but he felt no need to drink it yet. "My CO demanded I take a 72-hour pass."

 "Mmm….so you are one of those?" She laughed lightly at the look of confusion on his expressive face. "A CO who actually cares about his men, focuses on making sure they are taken care of, instead of spending time with the other officers wasting all his money on booze and women."

 "Um…." He could feel a warmth spreading over his face. Hoping to hide it, he brought his cup to his lips and took a sip. 

 "It's alright, sir. We need more officers like you in this damn war. What's your name?"

 That he could easily answer. "Lieutenant Dick Winters, Easy Company, 506th, Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airbourne."

 "Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Winters. I'm y/n y/l/n. So Airbourne, hmmm? I've heard about you. Tell me about your training."

 And somehow Dick found himself telling her about Currahee, about the jumps at Mackall, the field drills in Upottery, even laughing about Sobel's antics with her. 

 Eventually, their cups ran dry. 

 "Where are you off to now?" She asked pleasantly.

 Dick answered honestly, feeling relaxed in her presence. "I'm not sure."

 "Well, it so happens I was on my way to visit the Notre-Dame Cathedral. Would you like to join me?"

 "Sure."

 Dick insisted on paying for both of their drinks, claiming his mother would read him the riot act if he allowed a woman to pay for her own. As they walked away from the cafe, she slipped her arm through his like they had done it a million times. Instead of feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable at the unexpected physical touch, he found himself smiling down at her. 

 What started off as a day without any intended plan, just enjoying not being on the front line or behind a desk writing reports, became one of the most enjoyable days of his life. After the Cathedral, they wandered along the Seine, stopping at any shop or attraction that caught their eye. She regaled him with different facts or histories of places they saw and other locations in Paris. Before the war, she had spent some time in Paris and now, having returned as a translator, she felt it was even more important to remember those things that the Nazis tried so hard to destroy. 

 Soon conversations turned to their own experiences at home, his in Pennsylvania and hers in London. The more they talked, the more he found himself attracted to her beyond the physical. She was a breath of fresh air amongst the smog of war. A ray of sunshine to remind him that above the dark clouds of War, the sun still resided. But even if the day was spent in laughter and companionship, a war still brewed outside. A painful reminder to what Dick's priorities should be. So, he promised himself that he would enjoy her company now, but once he left Paris, he would put her out of his mind. His men and the war came first. 

 As night settled over the city, they walked side by side back to her hotel. It was not too far from his own, thus he refused to listen to her protests and told her he would escort her back for her own safety. 

 "Well, this is me." She stopped in front of the lovely hotel. "Thank you for escorting me."

 "It's the least I can do. You spent the whole day being my tour guide."

 "That sounds dreadfully boring. But you'll have stories to share with that Nixon friend of yours. Though he may be more impressed if you bring him back a vintage bottle of wine."

 "No, he only drinks Vat 69. Lord knows where the man keeps finding the stuff."

 "Besides your footlocker?"

 "Yeah, besides that." He chuckled at her jest and the mischievous smile on her face. As they stood there, smiling at one another, he found himself wishing they had more time. That perhaps he had met her before or after the war and had been able to court her properly. For now though, he would cherish their time together. "Thank you for today."

 Her smile held a hint of sadness in it, as if she lamented their separation just as much as he did. "I pray our paths will cross again." 

 "Goodnight, y/n."

 "Goodnight, Dick."

 He stepped back, lingering a moment longer to gaze at her. After, he turned and started to walk away. The hour was late and they both needed to sleep. It was less than 8 hours until his train was to depart in the morning and he knew it would be wise to enjoy his soft bed one more time before returning to a hard, army cot. 

 "Dick!" 

 He spun around, surprised to see her walking towards him, her heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk. 

 "Is everything alright?"

 Without acknowledging his question, she pressed her lips to his in an eager kiss. Dick liked to consider himself a gentleman, never to take advantage of anyone, especially a woman. In this moment though, as all thoughts fled under her touch, his body reacted on instinct. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him while their lips parted, deepening the kiss. She moaned into his mouth, tasting like the wine she sipped on at dinner, her hands tightly gripping the lapels of his uniform. Heat coursed through his body as their tongues tangled together. He felt hypnotized, unable to pull away, to maintain propriety. Nor did he want too. She nipped at his bottom lip and his knees almost buckled underneath him. This moment was pleasure and fire, something he never experienced before….and something he wanted to revisit over and over with her. 

 After only a second and eternity combined, they both pulled back with swollen lips and breathless. Rising on her toes, she gave him a quick peck on the lips, a single flame compared to the bonfire they just lavished themselves in. Swiftly, she stepped back, running her hands over her dress. 

 "Goodnight…. don’t tell Nixon about this."

 He nodded, almost shyly, mind still reeling from their shared passion. "Yes, ma'am."

 With a playful, flirty wink, she twirled around and headed back towards her hotel, her heels clicking loudly on the ground. 

 Dick watched her walk away, lips still tingling and residual flames teasing his nerves. His eyes traced over her form, hoping to memorize it, to be able to always savor this moment. Looking up to the heavens, he silently prayed that one day, their paths would cross, one day he could perhaps pursue her, one day he could feel her lips against his again. 

 *****

 "So, you still haven't said much about your time in Paris." Nixon prodded, sipping from his canteen that certainly was not water. The intelligence officer had been relentlessly interrogating his friend about his pass for the past week. 

 Dick rolled his eyes, not even glancing over. "Not much to say, Nix."

 "You had to have done something! Come on! It's Paris!"

 "I saw the Notre-Dame."

 "Hey, that's something. Stop pressing him, Nix." Welsh butted in with his typical lazy grin. He reclined in the extra chair next to Nixon. "He did return the condoms."

 "For Pete's sake." Dick muttered as he listened to the two men laugh. He stood looking out the window of his office, overlooking Easy Company below being drilled by Lieutenant Dike. Again. There was something to be said about being prepared but this went beyond that. 

 "Harry, how long have they been out there now?" He asked, not removing his gaze from his men. 

 Welsh sighed, glancing at the clock. "About two hours now."

 "Right, come on. Let's go relieve them."

 The other two scrambled to their feet, following Dick out of his office and down through the labyrinth of the HQ building. Lieutenant Dike had come with high expectations but the more Dick watched the man, the more worried he became. 

 "You're too soft on them." Nixon teased, trailing behind him.  

 Dick gave a quick salute to some officers they passed, never missing a step as he responded. "They aren't learning anything by marching back and forth out there besides ways to murder their CO."

 "Was that a joke? Holy fuck. Did you hear that, Harry? Dick made a joke! Paris changed you."

 "I heard. Still in shock." Welsh deadpanned. 

 Dick sighed good-naturedly as they stepped outside the building. Slipping his cap on, he started in the direction of his newest Lieutenant. The footsteps of his companions falling in step behind him. 

 "Dick!" 

 His feet screeched to a halt. He knew that voice. Whipping around, he was greeted by the sight of her. Someone he thought he would never truly see again. A beautiful, blinding smile on her face as she hurried towards him. His heart rapidly pounded within his chest, giving away his shock and joy at seeing her. 

 "Y/n? What are you doing here?" He could not help sweeping his eyes over her, surprised to see her in a WAC uniform. Though it did nothing to diminish her beauty. 

 "I was asked to be a translator and help with deciphering coded messages." She answered casually as if she had not just revolutionized his world. Standing in front of him, she motioned to the army camp around them. "Is this where you are stationed?"

 "Yeah, yeah, it is."

 "Oh, that's lovely. We'll be able to see each other again. I am late for a meeting otherwise I'd love to chat. Could I see you tomorrow for a cuppa?"

 "Um, sure. Yes."

 "Perfect. I'll find you in the afternoon." She raised up on her toes and gave him a quick peck on the lips, causing his mind to short-circuit. "It's good seeing you, Dick."

 With that she spun on her heel and sashayed away, leaving all three men standing there shocked. 

 "Who was that?" Nixon demanded, gaze never leaving her retreating form. 

 "Y/n…. I met her in Paris."

 Nixon smacked him on the arm. "You bastard, you said nothing happened there."

 "Nothing happened." Dick tried to defend, even if the excuse sounded weak in his own ears. Besides, for him, something certainly did happen. 

 "Probably should have kept those condoms, Dick." Welsh said, clapping him on the shoulder with a chuckle. 

 And for a brief moment, Dick wondered if he was right. 

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

2020 Can Take My Hair, But Not My Hope

My hair started falling out on election night.

I thought at first it might be the anxiety, that I was literally pulling my hair out with worry over numbers I already knew were not going to be definitive before the night wore into morning but which I stayed up until 3:30am watching anyway. I tweeted rapidly, reassuring my jittery timeline that not only had we all known that the night would bring no results but that we had even expected Trump to lead in key states because of the greater number of mail-in ballots from urban areas that would largely count for Biden. We knew. We all knew. But we were all terrified, flashing back to 2016 and already dreading another four years of living life on high alert, in constant survival mode.

I posted a selfie with a tweet that read, "Could be the last presidential election I vote in (blah blah stage 4 cancer blah blah) and I wish it were better and clearer than this but it's a crucial privilege to have voted. Remember, whatever the outcome, the last thing they can take from you is your hope."

To me that last sentence has been a mantra for these years and for my treatment. I have consistently refused, despite overwhelmingly terrible odds, to lose hope. The story of Pandora's Box tells us that the very last thing left inside was Hope--that even once all the demons were out in the world there was that tiny, feathered creature left to hang on to. It hasn't been easy, but I am one of the most stubborn people you will ever meet (and if you doubt this just ask anyone who's ever fought me on anything!) and it has turned out to be a saving grace rather than an irritating personality trait. Feeling like the world was trying to take my hope away made me angry. And when I get angry I will fight back.

I know I'm not alone in feeling like we entered some kind of alternate nightmare timeline on election night 2016. To that point, despite periods of immense personal difficulty, nothing truly terrible had happened to me. Then, in short order, my marriage ended and I was diagnosed with and began being treated for a terminal illness, all against the backdrop of a regime so deliberately hateful that it was truly incomprehensible to me. Then, a global pandemic and national crisis swept away the small consolations I'd found in my new life with cancer. The temptation to feel hopeless was strong and I struggled with it, particularly in the isolation of quarantine. I'm struggling with it now, facing a winter of further lockdowns, social isolation, continued chemo, and the added indignity (and chilliness!) of not having any hair. But somehow the coincidence of my hair loss with election night seemed like a good omen for the future, if a sad thing for the present.

I heard the news that they had called Pennsylvania for Biden at a peaceful Airbnb in the Catskills after stepping out of a shower where lost hair in handfuls. It felt oddly like a sacrifice I had made personally. I joked about this with friends on the text chains that lit up and that (despite my promise to myself and my writing partner that we'd "go off the grid") I responded to immediately. Instant replies, with emojis and GIFs, participated in the fiction: "Thank you for your service!!!"; "We ALL appreciate your sacrifice!"; "Who among us would NOT give up their hair for no more Trump?". The feeling was real for me, though. It was as though the good news demanded some kind of karmic offering. You never get something for nothing, I thought, and really it was a small price to pay.

The rest of the weekend passed too quickly, with absorption in the novel I plan (madly, given that I also work full-time) to work on for "National Novel Writing Month" (NaNoWriMo), walks in the unseasonably warm woods, and nighttime drinks on the back deck under the stars, watching my hair blow off in fine strands and drift through the sodium porch light. My friend and I read tarot and both our layouts contained The Tower, the card for new beginnings from total annihilation, the moment of destruction in which (as the novel's title says) everything is illuminated. "This might sound dumb," he said, "but maybe yours is about your hair." It did not sound dumb.

[shaved heads, the 2020 election, and a couple pics under the cut]

There is probably no more iconic visual shorthand for cancer than hair loss. It happens because chemo agents target fast-proliferating cells, which tend to inhabit things that grow rapidly by nature (hair, fingernails), or that we need to replenish often (cells in the gut), as well as out-of-control cancer cells. But not all cancer treatments, not even all chemotherapies, cause hair loss. In my 20 months of being treated for cancer and my three previous treatments (four, if you count the surgery I had) nothing had yet affected my hair beyond a bit of thinning. This despite the fact that my first-ever treatment (Taxol) was widely known to cause hair loss for "everyone." I had been fortunate with this particular side effect in a narrow way that I have absolutely not been on a broader scale. "Maybe," I had let myself think, "I can have this one thing." The odds were in my favor too; only 38% of people in clinical trials being treated with Saci lost their hair. I liked the odds of being in the 62% who didn't. But--as we all felt deep in our gut while they counted votes in battleground states--odds aren't everything.

I had come to treat the "strength" of my hair as a kind of relative consolation (though as with everything cancer "strength," "weakness," and the rhetoric of battle have nothing to do with outcomes). I treasured still having it, not just out of vanity (though I have always loved my hair whatever length, style, or color it has been) but because it allowed me to pass among regular people as one of them. I had no visible markers of the illness that is killing me, concealed as first the tumor and then the scars were by my clothing. "You look wonderful," people would tell me, even when I suffered from stress fractures from nothing more than running or sneezing; muscle spasms in my shoulder and nerve death in my fingertips; nausea that I swallowed with swigs from my water bottle that just made me look all the more like a hydration-conscious athlete; and profound, constant, and debilitating fatigue. Invisible illness had its own perils but I would take them--take all of them at once if necessary!--if only I could keep my hair and look normal.

It was not to be. A part of me had known this, since a lifetime with metastatic cancer means a lifetime of treatments a solid proportion of which result in hair loss. But I had hoped. And I had liked the odds.

The hardest thing for me is having to give up this particular consolation before knowing whether or not my new treatment is also working on my cancer. Unfortunately, there really isn't a correlation between side effects like hair loss and effectiveness of treatment. If it is working then I will feel that--like the election to which I felt I had karmically contributed--it was all completely worth it. Yet, even in this best case scenario, there's a new reality for me which is that while I am on this treatment I will stay bald. When you are a chronic patient you hope for a treatment that will work well with manageable side effects. And if this treatment works--and if the other side effects are as ok-ish as they are now--then I will remain on it.

It's that future that I am furious about more than anything else. I want to continue to live my life, of course, but I don't want to have to do it bald! In part that is because I don't want to register to people constantly as an archetypal "cancer patient" when I know that I am so much more. It is also in part because I don't want to think of myself as being ill, and living every day having to disguise my absent hair will make that all the tougher. I have already noticed that I feel, physically, as though I am sicker because of my constantly shedding hair. How could I not, in some ways, when every move I make and every glance at myself (including in endless Zoom windows) shows me this highly visible change?

For that reason, I'm shaving my remaining hair tomorrow (Wednesday). It's a way to feel less disempowered--less like hair loss is happening to me--and wrest control of the situation back. I will try to find agreeable things about it: wigs, scarves, cozy caps, bright lipstick, statement earrings, and a general punk/Mad Max vibe that is appropriate to 2020. But I don't want anyone to think for a second that I find this agreeable, or even acceptable, or that I don't mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. My hair was my consolation prize, my camouflage, my vanity, my folly, and my battle cry.

I dyed it purple when I was first diagnosed because I knew (or thought I knew) that I would be losing it soon. I didn't, and I came to cherish it as a symbol of my boldness in the face of circumstances trying to oppress me, to make me shrink, to tempt me to become invisible. I refused and used it to "shout" all the louder in response. Because of what it came to mean to me, I'm nearly as sad about losing the purple as I am about losing the hair itself. It both symbolized the weight I was carrying and also that I would not let that weight grind me down. It was my act of resistance and my sign resilience all at once.

I sent a text to my friends, explaining this and offering, as an idea, that I could "pass the purple" to them in some way, small or large. It would feel more like handing off a torch or a weight (or the One Ring) than anyone shaving their head in solidarity. (After all, if they did that it would just remind me as I watched theirs grow back that, in fact, our positions were very different.) You're welcome to do it if you'd like too, internet friends, with temporary or permanent dye or a wig or a headband or one of those terrible 90s hairwraps or whatever. But I don't require that anyone do it because I feel support from you all in myriad ways, all the time. (But if you do, please send me pictures!)

It's November 2020. The election is over and Joe Biden has won. I still have cancer and I'll be bald tomorrow. I hope it's a turning point, both personal and global, because it feels like one. We've given up a lot in the last four years and I cannot say that I feel in any way peaceful or accepting about having to give up yet one more thing. But in losing my hair I absolutely refuse to also give up my hope.

(On our walk we did also seem to find a version of The Tower, all that was left of an abandoned house)

[kashimos-hajime]

sing for the lion and lamb

Summary: “This was what she had signed up for - a good man and minimal pleasure.”

WARNINGS: spoilers as we get through it, swearing, backstory, struggles, this is one of the happiest chapters Pairing: Dectetive Loki x Reader Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: i’m a mess over prisoners and i wrote this super mess series called 1996. this is the first chapter. this is finished so i’ll be posting the other parts later but its movie+extra scenes bc theres so much stuff to get through and also reader and loki need to get through shit

... | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

To say you love Loki would be a stretch. Two humans, born and raised in Pennsylvania who just happened to have known each other since the care system should have a natural tendency to gravitate towards each other. The two of you found each other again, so you are bound to have some sort of connection. But whilst you have a certain fondness for the man, a certain bond you are quite sure was deeper than blood, you wouldn’t name it love.

No, love is for those who didn’t know better. 

Love is not for the shadows of your eyes or the darkness in his soul. Love is not for men and women like you. 

“Detective.” 

Your eyes raise from the police report of the missing girls before you, blinking away the black boxes and messy scribbles as the man tilts his head at you. “You need something?”

The corner of his mouth twitch into something almost like a smile but your eyes only soak in the pale half-moons under his eyes. He’s sleeping again. Good. He needs all he could get before the case on the missing kids gets some steam. Rolling out your neck, you slide the report into a manila folder and stand.

“Wanted to know if you wanted to head home for a minute or two.” There comes his wide smile, one that completely morphs his face. It tugs at his cheeks, wrinkles his eyes, makes him look younger than he is. Whenever he smiles as he does now, it makes you forget about the paleness in his cheeks, the taste of coffee on his tongue, the rough stubble along his jaw. It makes him look young and handsome and like the street kid you’d known.

He knows you like that smile. Like looking at him. In bed, flushed and moaning, or otherwise. He knows it will convince you and you roll your eyes because this is not going to be a rare occasion where it’ll fail.

“Are you trying to sweet-talk me?” You stretch your arms high above your head, ignoring the way his smile drops off his face as you turn off the burning lamp on your desk. Only the pale lights of the office remains, washing the both of you in ugly pale light. 

“If you have room for dinner, maybe I will.” 

You grab your long coat, popping the collar around your cheeks and he pushes off the wall of your cubicle, walking around and stuffing his hands in his pockets. You sling your bag onto your shoulder and pull hair from underneath your collar.

“No plans for Thanksgiving?” you ask, knowing the answer. It’s only polite to ask. Detective Loki always has a pleasant way of surprising you outside the bedroom.

“None without you, I s’pose.” 

“And we’ve spent the day at work.” You don’t sound particularly surprised and the detective merely shrugs. “Come on, I know a place.”

He cocks his head to the door. It isn’t only the two of you in the station at this time of night but your caffeine-lacking brain rationalizes that they wouldn’t care and you lean up to kiss his jaw. He turns at the last moment and presses a hard kiss against your mouth, teeth snagging on your lips and you sigh into his mouth, tasting coffee and gum and the faint scent of his aftershave. Hands finding his jaw, your fingers scratch at his cheek, trail down his neck and take fistfuls of his jacket.

Your heart thrums in your throat, beats at your stomach like a drum and all you want to do is peel off the clothes burning your body, feeding the fire in your core as he noses your chin, granting himself access to your neck.

“Hey,” you whisper, hands carding through his hair. You aren’t quite sure if you want to push him away or pull him closer as he raises his head from where he’d been sucking a wet mark along the cord of your throat. “I’m hungry.”

“I know.” He ducks again to gently nip at the mark and you smack him lightly, pushing him away.

“You know I’m actually fucking hungry,” you mutter and he growls against your lips, kissing your mouth bruisingly and too, too quickly before he rips himself away. You hadn’t even realized he’d been sucking the life out of you while his hands had casually been in his pockets but he shrugs, the jacket shifting along his shoulders.

Cocky bastard. 

“Come on. Sooner we get dinner, sooner I get you,” he whispers against your ear and you chuckle into his mouth as he snags another kiss.

.

“Do you know what your, uh, Chinese zodiac sign is?”

You wipe at your mouth with a napkin, frowning when your lipstick smears over white. The detective looks up from where he was reading the meaning of each on the paper place mat, offering a smile. This restaurant is one of your favourites, having been the restaurant you went to after your… well, you wouldn’t call it a first date. You went here for a meal once, alone, ‘cause you were hungry after a night with the man sitting across from you. 

After-fucking meal. That’s the phrase. Apt, and conventional, and...

Point is, you like it here and you want him to like it.

He sips on his white mug, taking in the tea as you push around your fried rice. He’s working on some noodles as you drag a finger over the drawings of the Chinese zodiac on the paper.

“No. Do you?”

“Rat.” You watch as he turned to read, finger trailing until he finds the animal at the top of the list. 

“Intelligent, charming, quick-witted. Hm.” He arches an eyebrow and you roll your eyes as the waitress came with the check. It’s only the two of you in this small establishment and you look around, nothing the absence of fortune cookies in the red metallic bowl near the register.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks.” He raises his hand to gesture in a vague shape and you squint as the waitress poured your mug full of tea. “Hey, you have any of those, um, fortune cookie things?”

“My boss told me cops don’t like fortune cookies.”

“Well, it’s Thanksgiving,” you murmur and the waitress laughs under her breath. “What’s your Zodiac sign?”

“Monkey.”

You toss a glance expectantly at the man sitting across from you and he drops the bill he was reading, looking down at the paper.

“Very intelligent. You have an ability to influence people.” You hum thoughtfully at his answer as he continues, “Maybe you could influence your boss to lower the check a little bit?”

You snort quietly, hiding your laugh as you pull out your wallet. Picking up the slip of paper, you read the the total and begin to lay out bills to pay as the waitress shakes her head.

“Mr. Li is a rooster, Detective,” you comment, extending the check back to the waitress. 

“Thank you.”

“Keep the change.”

“How do you know that?” You don’t miss the edge of his tone as he takes another sip of his tea. Jealousy. You opt not to answer and his gaze drops to the paper. 

“What does the rooster mean?” Leaning on your hand, you watch as he reads out the description. 

“He’s selfish and eccentric.” His eyes raise to meet yours and his gaze carries a hint of mischief. “That’s—”

In unison, both your phones vibrate. David’s clatters against the table and you shove a hand into your bag, feeling for yours. Digging out the phone, you stand and gather your coat and bag as David grabs his own raincoat. The heels on your boots click hard against the tile in your haste to get from the restaurant to the car with as little rain contact as possible as David answers the phone, right at your heels.

Shielding yourself from the rain, you walk to the car and duck into the old thing, slamming the door shut. He slides in beside you, twisting the keys in the ignition and he hands you the radio on instinct. As the two of you pull out of the parking lot, you can’t help the warmth in your gut extinguishing. 

It is so easy to pretend, sometimes. To act as if you’re people you wish you could be. A bitter taste floods your mouth as you think about moments like the ones in the restaurant, ones where you felt so perfectly normal that it’s crazy to even think about the broken parts between you and the man beside you.

But then you’re dragged back into the real world. The real world of long nights, and bullet rain, and the fact that you and David are merely co-workers who live together because that is the only way you can survive having him in your life.  Any more than what he is now, the occasional hook-up, your partner in every case, it might as well break you.

It’s clockwork, working with him. Without rust or a knot in the system, you never feel like there is a task you cannot handle, a case you cannot crack. That ease, that bond, doesn’t come from something messy like what could’ve been. It comes from someone who knows your mind better than you. 

The thought terrifies you at night because you sure as hell think about what could’ve been more than you’d like to admit.

Shaking yourself of the person you were in the restaurant into the person you are, you roll down the window and let rain-slick wind slice into your cheeks. There is a plastic container of gummies on the dash and you reach for it, nerves biting at your fingers. Your other hand reaches for the radio as you respond.

“This is 13-40 and 13-41. We’re five minutes out. We’ll meet the responding units there.”

.

Your whole body drenched in sleet-cold rain, you feel your jaw twitch as David interrogates the man into the corner of the room. You can’t help the pity welling up inside you as you gently tease your hair through a proffered towel, and you can’t help the fire burning in your stomach, warming you from the inside out.

His tactic, getting up close and personal with the potential suspect, always has a way of messing with you.

Shaking it off, you ignore the thoughts that dog at you persistently — the images of him grabbing at Alex Jones and wrenching him to his feet — as you turn away. You squeeze your hair between the towel as you walk through the halls of the station, your heels echoing in the mostly-empty building. Linoleum reflects the artificial light as you reach the locker room, pushing open the door and throwing the damp towel into the dirty wash basket.

Shedding your long rain coat, you sigh and begin to unbutton your blouse. It sticks to your skin like wet paper as the air conditioning puffs goosebumps onto your chest and arms. You unzip your boots, tugging them off before peeling away your pants and examining the status of your socks. Your badge clatters against the wooden bench as you sit down in nothing but your bra and underwear. Your nose twitching, you stare down at your toes and inhale sharply. Rain is clogging up your sinuses, but your socks are dry.

Not soaked through, so boots held up. Good. 

The shower pelts against your skin, hot bullets that slam into your skull deliciously and chase whatever chill rain left on your skin as you hear the door open. Closing your eyes, you let the shower run over your face, focusing on the hissing stream over the clatter of boots you can hear.

It’s nearing 12 AM and you are sure everyone who doesn’t want to be here and don’t need to be here are gone. No one is here more than you and David. No one showers in here if they had a choice. So much for Thanksgiving. Should I be giving thanks that we might’ve caught the sick fucker already? Perhaps.

In your heart, somehow, you know it isn’t him.

Through the shuffling of fabric, you rake shampoo through your hair and begin to lather your body with soap, merely waiting until he shows up as steam begins to soak into your skin. A pair of pants drop to the tile, the clink of a belt against ceramic. Then, soft footsteps that brush against the shower tile and a shadow that blocks out the faint light. Taking a deep breath, you run your hand over your face and pull open the shower curtain. 

“Come here,” you murmur over the steam rolling out of your little shower stall. David steps in through the shaft of light that pours through to your little world before thrashing the curtain back into place. The stall dims remarkably as he leans down to kiss your forehead. You step back so he can stand under your stream of burning hot water and he blinks against the current.

Your forehead rests against his collarbone. His arms rise to run hands through his hair and he cards fingers through the dark strands as your hands encircle his waist. It’s darkly intimate, and all too familiar but you can’t help the addicting heat that he provides. Water runs down his chest and over your arms as you count the tattoos on his chest. One, two, three...

“Any leads?” Your voice is barely audible over the hiss of the shower.

“Aunt’s house.” He has a tattoo of a robin mid flight along his ribcage, and you trace the arc of its wing, palm flat against his heaving ribs. It’s one you know every stroke of, one you watched being carved into his chest. Your eyes close as a finger curls underneath your chin, lifting you to him. “Open your eyes.”

You do to see strands of hair falling into his eyes, his skin red against the blistering heat of the shower. Cupping his face with one hand, you use your fingers to delicately pull away the dark slick hair. His eyes bleeding midnight, his breath ghosts against your lips as his finger trails down your neck. His hand is warm against your throat and he makes sure that your eyes do not stray. As if an astronomer can look away from the phenomenon in the universe, a clash of asteroids, a dying star. He reaches into your mind, pulls you apart like a well-worn book, and reads your thoughts like a diary entry before he pulls out and his eyes fill with shards of glass.

“This isn’t like that,” he promises, insists, convinces you, and you nod because it’s the only thing you can do. Your heart splits in your chest, thrumming in your mouth and crushing your stomach all at once as his gentle grip on your neck firms. Your hands trail his waist, fingers dancing along tattoos that used to have meaning as you count the seconds you can stay standing. “We’re gonna find these girls.”

“Yeah. I know that.”

He sighs, eyes searching your face and you kiss him fully, softly. His lips taste of wind and rainwater.

The shower turns off and the two of you step out, drying each other’s legs and arms, face and hair as is routine when you shower together, and then you get dressed. He clips your badge to your belt, you slide the ring onto his pinky finger. He zips up your boots, you clip the necklace around his neck.

Clockwork.

You toss your hair up into a tight knot and hang your raincoat over your arm. Your gut twisted, you turn to your… something. He gives you a short nod, raking his hair back with rough fingers. You shed your old self, leave it in the shower to slip into the drain.

“Let’s go.”

.

Whilst David went for the Birches, you stop outside the Dovers, walking up the steps. The two of you had gotten no sleep last night after the visit to the aunt’s and forensics for the RV came back negative. Caffeine rules your system as you climb the steps and ring the doorbell.

A kid no older than sixteen or seventeen answers, all pale and terrified-looking. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink either and you press your lips together. Although you empathize with the family, you can’t afford to become attached. You nudge your coat to flash your badge and the kid steps aside. Your fingers unclench from its tight fist as you enter the home.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Ralph. Uh, my dad… I… I saw the RV first. Did my dad tell you guys that?” 

You pause, turning around to spot the kid closing the door. He looks like he’s seen death, and his eyes are wide-eyed and shine under the light through the windows. Poor kid.

“Yeah, I read the statement.”

“Okay, Dad wanted me to, uh, make sure,” the boy says and you follow him to where a blonde sits on the couch, tissues littered around her. “Mom?” The woman looks up as you stick out a hand for her to shake.

“Detective Y/L/N. My partner and I are heading the case for your missing daughter.”

“Yes, of course. Sit. Do you need anything to drink?” She begins to unfurl on the couch but you simply hold out a hand. The woman’s face is sallow and thin, and she looks almost as if she is phasing from another time to your present. You sit down on the couch. Her voice scratches and you wonder when the last time she ate was, the last time she showered or drank or slept.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m just here to…” Your voice fades as your phone vibrates in your pocket and you dig it out, turning on the screen to see an email notification from David. Opening it up, you frown at the few attachments strung along.

Better photos of the other kid. Heading over to you now. -D

“So, did we pass?” As you watch the bar across the screen signify the speed of your download, you also begin to forward the photos to the Captain.

“Hm?” You are only half-listening. Your phone vibrates again and you open up the downloaded photos, letting out a soft sigh as round, dark brown eyes stare back at you on your tiny screen. What a fucking shame.

“The poly thing. The lie detector we took this morning.” Turning off your phone, you let it fall into your tight fist as you look at the mother. She stares at you as if you hold all the answers and you swallow a tight knot. “Did we pass?”

“Yeah. You’re fine. I don’t think anyone really suspected the two of you anyway,” you say, glancing at your phone again. “Thank you for your cooperation, though. You understand — the formalities we have to take. Precautions.” You tuck a slip of hair behind your ears and her eyes flicker to the movement, gaze following your fingers. You know what she is trying to do and you interlace your fingers, hiding the permanent ink needled into your skin along your knuckles.

“Yes, of course. It’s just… it’s embarrassing. I don’t know. All this fuss — people are just going to think we’re crazy when they show up here, perfectly fine or… I don’t know.” The woman’s arms crossed tight against her chest, she doesn’t even look at you anymore. Your eyes dart to her knuckles to find them stark white, her fingers digging into the flesh of her bicep.

“Do you have any reason to believe they might’ve run away?” The words come out tough as rubber in your mouth. The woman’s eyes close and you sigh, already regretting your words. You know in your gut that that isn’t the case.

“No,” she breathes, “no. They’re happy. They… the must have run away.” A silly child’s game. The woman nods along to her own words as she tries to convince herself. Your heart crumbles to ash in your chest as you force on a smile. “I think they must have run away, right?”

“Of course, Mrs. Dover. But we’ll find them,” you assure, setting a hand gently on her knee. She seems to quiver under your palm as she swallows and looks at you with bleak, earthwet eyes.

“Your police captain told me about the two of you. Um, he said that you and your partner—” You suck in a quiet breath, already knowing what her next words are going to be. You don’t like it, the pressure, the want to keep a record pristine, but your reputation has always preceded you in cases like these. Cases where you just wanted to find the grave and be done with it when your very thought should be finding a warm body, not a cold one— “he told me that the two of you have solved every case you’ve ever been assigned. Is that right?”

Your nails dig into the flesh of your palms as you look away. You don’t want to give this woman hope, even if she needs it. It’s stupid, you realize, to stare at the reflection of yourself when you have already smashed every mirror.

Your nose twitches.

The doorbell rings. The kid, Ralph, goes to get it again as you look up at the woman. She’s beginning to break down, hiding her face in her hands as she mumbles out apologies.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” she whispers through her tears as the door opens. You can see the shadow of him on the walls before he comes in and you shake your head minutely as soon as your gazes meet. Nothing here. “Do you… do you have children, detective?” 

You bite your lip until you taste blood.

“We’re gonna find your daughter.” Mrs. Dover looks up jerkily, flinching at the man’s voice. Closing your eyes, you hang your head as your partner walks deeper into the room. Everything feels like it’s been scooped out of you, replaced with nothing but sick and acid.

You can’t listen to promises you aren’t quite sure you can keep anymore.

[aion-rsa]

The Little Things Reminds Us Why We’re Drawn to Charismatic Serial Killers

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This The Little Things analysis contains spoilers. Read our spoiler-free review here.

The Little Things can be seen as a tainted police procedural with its murky ambiguity and troubling ending. But it’s also the story of a man for whom the allure of a charismatic serial killer goes too far. After all, serial killers make up less than one percent of homicides but they average a double-digit percentage of Hollywood crime films, and probably a majority of prison fan mail. What is it about these one-percenters we love so much?

Directed by John Lee Hancock, the supposed sociopath in The Little Things is Albert Sparma, a drifter who works as a repairman. Jared Leto is certainly magnetic in the part, serving Sparma up with a now-stereotypical “charismatic serial killer” vibe. But the Oscar-winning actor also brings an ambiguous energy to the part, suggesting he may merely be a serial killer groupie.

Albert Sparma is a self-identifying true crime afficionado and has taken his fanboy fancy so far as to actually confess to a murder he didn’t commit. That could be seen as some dangerous roleplay or surveying a battle ground for future maneuvers.

Sparma is perfectly thrilled when he’s pulled into the interrogation room to face off against Det. Jimmy Baxter (Rami Malek). He luxuriates in the tension, and loves the décor. He stands in vast contrast to Stan Peters (Frederick Koehler), quite possibly the actual murderer, who’d earlier responded to the room with an almost claustrophobic paranoid mania.

But Peters is not the charismatic type. Leto’s Albert, meanwhile, has a bad boy quality which is just irresistible. At least it is to Denzel Washington’s measured portrayal of Kern County Deputy Sheriff Joe “Deke” Deacon, who sees the makings of a young Ted Bundy in the suspect. Recall that in Joe Berlinger’s bloodless feature film, Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile, Zac Efron plays Bundy with an abundance of charm. The film came out amid a glut of documentaries about one of the most well-known serial killers from the late 20th century, and Twitter exploded with posts about how attractive Bundy was. 

Albert Sparma could have been his biggest fan.

Leto doesn’t bring the clean-cut, all-American hunk to his serial killer. He’s the rebel. His hair hangs so long, he has to move it out the way when he cooks. Sparma goes to strip clubs before cruising the strip. He wins a drag race with Deke while still in park. He plays so many mind games with Baxter his head explodes.

Dennis Lynn Rader, aka the BTK Killer, taunted the police by sending letters describing the details of his crimes. That’s an old trick though, going all the way back to Jack the Ripper, who also wrote to Scotland Yard about his alleyway antics. Son of Sam, the Lipstick Killer, the Golden State Killer, even the Axeman of New Orleans dropped personal notes on current events to the authorities. The Zodiac Killer wrote his in code.

They also sent letters to the newspapers. Sparma collects clippings and is up on all the true crime literature. Some people are attracted to serial killers out of a necessity to understand their acts. It is outside their reality, and it is even a coping mechanism. News reports explain how, but they don’t explain why such unimaginable crimes can be committed. They want to know how someone can go so dark. If Sparma is truly just a “confessor,” as even Det. Baxter finally accepts, that confession shows one aspect of the depths of his kind of obsession.

Some serial killer followers might be drawn out of the curiosity of how it feels to take a human life.

The body count in The Little Things is only four when Deke first double parks at the station. It grows as the case draws attention. Real-life serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer became celebrity monsters because of the attention they got from law enforcement and the media, and a collective curiosity for the macabre makes them larger than life. John Wayne Gacy committed his atrocities in a Pogo the Clown suit. And Sparma’s repairman overalls are a little baggy.

While Bundy was on trial, representing himself, he proposed to a woman, who not only accepted but married the convicted murderer, and conceived a daughter with him. Even in prison, Bundy received marriage proposals and love letters, as did Dahmer, Richard Ramirez, Chris Watts, and Charles Manson. Some may be drawn to the serial killer hoping to spark some transformation in an irredeemable beast; others might be prone to Hybristophilia, otherwise known as “Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome;” and some are just drawn toward the bright light of fame in any shade.

In Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers, Woody Harrelson’s Mickey Knox is a mass murderer, not a serial killer, by strict definition. Nonetheless, when he and his wife Mallory (Juliette Lewis) are walked up the stone steps to the courthouse, they are surrounded by adoring fans waving signs like “Kill Me Mickey.” Stone was making pointed social commentary in a fictional film, but his scenario was all too real.

Read more

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The Little Things is not based on a true story. It goes back to a screenplay Hancock wrote in 1993, which was too dark for Steven Spielberg. For inspiration, Hancock had to look no further than California serial killers in the 1980s like the Grim Sleeper and Randy Kraft.

Written before the glut of serial killer movies took hold in the 1990s, The Little Things is similar to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) and the then-recent Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs (1991) in that they are psychological thrillers, as opposed to the proto-slasher Leatherface in Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974). Yet all three of those films, from Norman Bates to Hannibal Lecter, were inspired by Ed Gein, who confessed to killing two people as well as digging up corpses from local cemeteries in the 1950s. Gein became internationally famous after being profiled in the book Psycho by Robert Bloch.

It’s no wonder an anonymous drifter might find comfortable skin to wear while traversing a sad, sick world. Sparma certainly walked the walk, and was up on his psychopathic patter.

“They are so friendly and so kind and very solicitous at the beginning of our work together,” forensic psychiatrist Helen Morrison wrote in her 2004 book My Life Among the Serial Killers. “They’re charming, almost unbelievably so, charismatic like a Cary Grant or a George Clooney.”

Sparma does everything short of asking Baxter for an autograph during their first meeting. Serial killer fans have been known to spend hundreds of dollars for a lock of a murderer’s hair. John Schwenk, a true crime afficionado from Pennsburg, Pennsylvania, has gotten follicles, false teeth, and even dental floss from serial killers on death row. He is a collector of murderabilia, and his portfolio includes a sketch of a skull by Richard “The Night Stalker” Ramirez and a portrait by John Wayne “The Killer Clown” Gacy.

A Texas senator named John Cornyn began pushing a bill to ban the sale of crime-related materials in 2007. It must have sounded like a good idea to the federal government. They pulled in $232,246 auctioning off the Unabomber’s belongings in 2011. Rodney Alcala, who was sentenced to death in California for five murders, put himself up for a romantic racket bid on a September 1978 installment of The Dating Game.

The Little Things reaches a satisfyingly ambiguous conclusion. The best evidence in the case is a boxful of newspaper clippings. Are they forensically clean trophies of past dark victories, or are they a scrapbook from one of the biggest true crime fanatics on the planet?

Charismatic serial killers are a movie stereotype now. Leto helps twist this trope by letting his character buy so completely into it we don’t know if he’s become one or is merely a victim.

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[carolinaas]

◊ ♫ ◊— look what the cat dragged in! that’s CAROLINA “LINA” ROGERS and SHE/HER is an around 24-year-old REGULAR to the store, but they’ve been in the neighborhood for 3 YEARS. I think they are a PERSONAL ASSISTANT and I overheard them listening to CAROLINA by HARRY STYLES, and, I dunno man, it seemed pretty fitting. Like, call me shallow but I look at them and think of KRISTINE FROSETH and CHERRY LIPSTICK STAINED CIGARETTES, SNEAKING AROUND AT 4AM, AND BROKEN GUITAR STRING SCARS. (ooc info: b, she/her, est, 21)

TW: ALCOHOLISM

name - Carolina “Lina” Rogers

birthday - March 21, 1996 

zodiac sign - Pisces

hometown - Berlin, Germany/Lancaster, Pennsylvania 

height - 5′5″ 

sexuality - heterosexual 

character inspiration - Sarah Cameron (Outer Banks), Alaska Young (Looking For Alaska), Donna Sheridan (Mamma Mia) 

ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌｉｔｙ

positive - amiable, maternal, spontaneous, considerate

negative - flaky, dishonest, moody, impulsive

likes - records, butterflies, smoking, romantic comedies, good vibes 

- born in Berlin, Germany to Sofia and Alexander Rogers. Alexander’s job moved him to Germany he and met Sofia about a year into his time there. They fell in love, etc. etc. and eventually had Carolina (named after the state her father was from). When she was eight they decided to move to the US, settling in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. 

- Carolina doesn’t remember a whole lot about living in Germany, only that moving to the US was a big adjustment for her and her mother. She spoke with an accent for quite some time after moving, but eventually worked on dropping it after relentless teasing from her peers. To this day she’ll insist that she doesn’t remember much German, though if you press her long enough (especially a few drinks in), you’ll learn that she can still speak it with an almost perfect accent. 

- As Carolina grew older she started to notice how frequently her mother drank, often passing out by 5pm and leaving Carolina to fend for herself. She relied heavily on her father to take care of her, and when he wasn’t home she learned to fend for herself, eventually becoming the primary caretaker for her mother in addition to taking care of herself. 

- Because of this she was also left unsupervised, making it incredibly easy for her to sneak out of the house and get up to whatever trouble was available for her. In High School she was the go-to person if you wanted to shake things up, thinking outside the box for new ways to have fun with her friends. She’s known for being spontaneous, though that easily melts into impulsiveness, often getting her into more trouble than whatever she did was worth. 

- College flew by without much hassle, feeling almost just like High School for her. She studied Communications, though she would have preferred to not go at all. She always wanted to be in a band, but music endeavors never seemed to take off for her. Now, the only person who gets to hear her play guitar is her neighbors through the thin wall of her apartment. 

- Landed a job as a personal assistant pretty much straight out of college, it was meant to be temporary, but she found herself liking it- even if her boss does run her like crazy. She can’t really see herself working in any sort of traditional setting, so for now it’s perfect. 

- Has had her heart broken/has broken hearts a million times, but one in particular really stuck with her. Since it happened she can’t find it in her to put herself back out there for real, it scares her to know that she can feel so deeply for someone and just how bad it can hurt if they leave. 

**connections page can be found here !

[takecareofyourblessings]

Without Comment

The S2 is the so-called Avenue of the Presidents bus because its route is the handsome and seductive 16th Street corridor. The S2 travels from downtown Pennsylvania Avenue to Silver Spring, Maryland, a suburban town that borders D.C. at its northern edge.

     The ridership of the S2 is black, white, and variously ethnic. Hispanics, West Africans, and Caribbean passengers, as well as other nationals, diversify the sophisticated commuter ambiance. Newspapers, books, and quiet conversations are standard as the S2 speeds its way to Adams Morgan, Mt. Pleasant, the gold Coast, the end of the line, and back again. 

    Sixteenth Street-- lined with embassies, churches, respectable homes, and majestic trees swaying overhead from Lafayette Park to Silver Spring--this undulating, rolling hill climbs and descends with deceptive grace. At its side, in the middle of a Black gay ghetto called Homo heights, sits the once glorious, mystical park called Malcolm X by Black cultural nationalists, although its official name is Meridian Hill. At dusk it becomes a Black gay cruising ground, while during the day it serves as one of th city’s open air drug markets.

     Vandalism and graffiti now mar its classic beauty like brutal knife wounds that have become keloids. The shrubbery has been hacked down in an effort to prevent crimes that still occur. The once green grounds are bald and littered with used condoms and assorted trash. Decay and decline exist here. Gloom and danger are ever present in the piss-stained air, air that is often thick with marijuana smoke and always filled with the hawker’s cry of drug dealers. And although children romp and wrestle on these grounds, and soccer players kick the game ball back and forth, the men appear who cannot contain their loneliness till dusk. They are not zombies. Their eyes are luminous with enormous, living hungers, but no one seems to notice except those of their kind. FOr Black gay men, this park, elegantly appointed with gushing fountains, grand stairways, moonlit plazas, and statues of Dante and Joan of Arc--for Black men seeking the kisses of one another, Malcolm X/Meridian Hill Park is now nothing more than a tomb of sorrow.

    I remember taking the S2 home one evening, a Sunday, in fact. I had taken the X2 from H Street, N.E. to 14th and H downtown, where I transferred and waited for the S. From the corner of 14th and H you can view the warscape of AIDS and the remains of the casual sex zones reduced to rubble by the aggressive development of downtown. It is interesting to observe now, postmodern office buildings rise on soil where the seed of gay men was once spilled with reckless abandon.

     Ten years ago this corner was a sexual crossroads. On either side of 14th Street, from H to I, there once stood thriving porn shops, movie galleries, and nude dance clubs. A block east of 14th, on 13th Street, the raunchy Black gay club, the Brass Rail, was bulging out of its jockstrap. Drag queens ruled, B-boys chased giddy government workers, fast-talking hustlers worked the floor, while sugar daddies panted for attention in the shadows, offering free drinks and money to any friendly trade. Everybody was seeking a sex machine. White folks were sneaking in for their “Black-dick-fix.” Sometimes the dose was fatal:Robbery. Murder. The pulsing music always throbbed like an insatiate erection. 

     A block north of the Brass Rail, Franklin Park was a soft cruise spot primarily because it borders K Street, 14th and 13th Streets offering too much visibility for most. But east of its lower end, bordering I Street, on the 13th Street corner, stood the notorious Curiosity Bookshop, complete the back room, movie booths, garish red lights, gusts of heavy breathing, and the popping noise of greased dicks pumping in and out of tight holes. The creaking floorboards were aging with semen and sighs. Every now and then you’d hear a man hiss, “Work that pussy, bitch,” as clusters of panting men gathered to watch an ass being fucked. 

     At the most historic spot downtown, where, on the corner of 14th and H, one could watch the parade of flesh all summer long, the quest for the perfect abuse was keen. Now the area is almost desolate of nightlife, the players scattered, the seekers scared to venture out. 

  I wait for my bus. Shortly before it arrives, two Black men cruise by. They appear to be in their thirties-forties. The shorter, stockier, fair-skinned, clean-shaven Homeboy has his arm thrown around the shoulders of the slightly taller, slender, darker daddy. The tall man is obviously older, mustached, and somewhat attractive. Homeboy carries a hustler’s air about him. They swagger by, slightly drunk and horny. I am surprised when a few stops later they board the bus and sit at the back.

      The bus crosses K Street and continues up 16th without incident. The seats fill quickly. By the time we cross P Street standing room is all that’s available. A murmur begins to rise from the back of the bus. It explodes into a startling confrontation.

     “You my bitch!”

     “No! Uh Uh. We are bitches!”

    “No! You listen here. I ain’t wearing lipstick, you are! I ain’t no bitch! I fucked you! You my bitch!”

    This argument continues without resolution until we arrive at 16th and U Streets. The bus is packed with passengers, and as we approach the stop, I see ten more waiting to board. Just as the first person at the stop steps aboard, a strident, hysterical voice cuts loose from the back:

      “I’m a 45-year-old-Black-gay-man who en-joys taking dick in his rectum!” SNAP! “I’[m not your bitch!” SNAP! “Your bitch is at home with your kids!” SNAP! SNAP!

     We are entering the fifth dimension of our sexual consciousness. THe ride is rough. There is no jelly for this. The driver is trying to call the police on the bus phone. No one has said anything. No one else attempts to board. 

    The air is charged with tensions unleashed from an ancient box of sexual secrets. The older man abruptly leaves by the back door. Homeboy follows. They have violent words outside. The children sitting at the front are wide-eyed and speechless. All the homosexuals on the bus have frozen. So have I. The driver is frantically calling the police. The older man suddenly pushes aborad wielding a Flash Pass with Homeboy in hot pursuit. The driver drops the phone and jumps between them. Homeboy pulls out a knife and waves it toward his companion. 

     “You gonna pay for this dick!” he sneers.

     “I ain’t paying for that tame shit!”

     The children’s heads snap back and forth during the ensuing shouting match as though they are watching a Ping Pong tournament and not two grown Black men giving high drama. In a stern voice the driver orders Homeboy to leave the bus. He backs down the steps, waving his blade, threatening to catch the Black gay man on the street and make him pay dearly for the dick he got. Homeboy is last seen stalking east on U Street with his glinting knife clenched in hand. 

    The bus pulls off and begins to climb 16th Street. Every homosexual on the bus is still frozen. So am I. The police never arrived. The children are quiet for the reminder of their journeys. So am I. Occasionally, a very nervous, a very terrified schoolboy laughs out loud then subsides into silence. The 45-year-old-Black-gay-man who enjoys taking dick in his rectum rides the rest of the way without further incident. At the back of the bus he sits--his legs crossed at the knee.      

[universallygardenpeach-blog]

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[xtinesbeautyrevs]

June had so many wonderful things to celebrate this month! 👨‍👧🏳️‍🌈💪🏿 The theme to June’s box #boxycharm is #boxydazzle ! 🧡 I was most ecstatic to try the Touch In Sol ~ Pretty Filter Glowdient Makeup Palette! AND it did not disappoint! I love the way it shimmers and leaves an amazing blend of highlights & shades on my face! ✨ 📦 Here is what was in my #beautysubscriptionbox : ✨ GLAMGLOW | SUPERCLEANSE CLEARING CREAM-TO-FOAM CLEANSER • An advanced cleanser with a powerful blend of 3 charcoals to detoxify skin by removing pore clogging debris, excess oil and face make up. MSRP: $32.00 @glamglow 🌈 NARS | VELVET MATTE LIP PENCIL (Dolce Vita) • this lip pencil instantly delivers the impact of a matte lipstick with a spontaneity of a pencil. The long lasting, non-drying formula is enriched with vitamin E and emollient for a creamy texture that stays on for hours! MSRP: $27.00 @narsissist ✨ TOUCH IN SOL | PRETTY FILTER GLOWDIENT MAKEUP PALETTE • A multi face palette with gorgeous gradient shades that uses your own natural beauty to glosten pa, bronze and add the perfect flirty flush! MSRP: $34.00 ( NEW LAUNCH ) @touchinsolus 🌈 ACEOLOGY | OVERNIGHT LIP MASK • This lip mask is here to give your lips that extra smoochable edge. This miracle worker will resurface your lips, boosting hydration and leaving them soft, supple and smiling! MSRP: $19.00 @aceologybeauty ✨ JECCA BLAC | HYDRATE PRIMER • Finally, a Moisturizer that’ll help your makeup last longer! The Hydrate Primer will make your skin feel soft, hydrated and ready for your base. MSRP: $20.00 @jeccablac 🧿 Not a Charmer yet? Boxy Base is ONLY $25.00 Monthly @boxycharm Value of my June box = $132.00 ‼️ ➡️ 🛒 Use my #referralcode you will receive a free gift and we will both get Charms to spend in their deeply discounted store! Christine-DNJMSGII 🚨 🗣 What was your favorite item in my box this month? Let me know in the comments & thanks for your support! ⤵️ #fantaseawithboxy #glamglow #nars #touchinsol #aceology #jeccablac #unboxing #subscriptionbox #beautybox #beautypie #xtinesbeautyrevs (at Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania) https://www.instagram.com/p/CQ6LsMkpTaT/?utm_medium=tumblr

[teddy-bear-surprise]

Chapter 8: Agent Not Found

|| Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 Part 1 || Chapter 7 Part 2 || Chapter 8 || Almost The End || Chapter 9 ||

No warnings this time, I decided to take it easy because apparently 'SpeNCeR dEseRVEs A brEAk'… anywayyyyyy please enjoy this chapter that took way too long to write and that I'm too lazy to proofread :)

It had been nearly three weeks since Spencer had disappeared. The BAU was on high-alert, searching everywhere for their beloved boy-genius, but they seemed to be out of luck. Even with Garcia’s unparalleled digital tracking skills, they had found no trace of Spencer or Ophelia… anywhere.

What was even worse was that both Rossi and JJ were stuck at home pending reinstatement. Ophelia definitely wanted to do damage, there was no doubt about it, but not even the BAU had expected her to do this much. More than half of the S.W.A.T. team had died and JJ almost went along with them.

The only good thing that came from this mishap, was that they were now certain that Ophelia was the one they were looking for. Her face was plastered onto every TV screen, every social media ad, and every billboard across the Western seaboard. People called in every few hours telling them about how they were certain they had seen Ophelia. One minute they’d be called about a lead in Washington and moments later there would be a supposed sighting in San Diego. Every time, the same result confronted them: Failure.

In reality, she had been staying in Arizona the whole time. Her connections just happened to be so good that she never had to leave home or worry about traitors. Every man that worked for her was wrapped around her finger. They either owed her big-time or had something that they were terrified of losing. Ophelia had her ways of manipulating the people around her– one of the many perks that came with being what her mother used to call a ‘social genius’, but a larger portion of her talents could also be attributed to her ex-partner, Cat.

Back in Los Angeles, Hotch was incessantly going over the case. He felt like it was his fault that Spencer had been targeted. After Hailey took Jack with her to Pennsylvania, Spencer practically became a surrogate son for Hotch. He spent every waking moment ensuring that Spencer was both physically and mentally prepared for each new case, petrified that someday Spencer might relive the same pain he felt when he lost Maeve. Aaron blamed himself for everything that happened to Spencer, after all, Hotch was the agent in charge of the BAU and Reid was one of the many agents who worked under him. If he could not even protect Spencer– one of his own men– how could he protect anyone at all?

He felt like a failure for not asking Penelope to look further into Ophelia’s background or asking Spencer why he seemed so stiff when they were preparing to raid Ophelia’s homes. He should have dug deeper, all it would have taken was a question along with a few minutes and he would have discovered the years of history between Ophelia and Spencer. He would have realized that Spencer’s immaculate, eidetic memory was trying to suppress the time he had spent with Ophelia, hoping that she would have forgotten him. Now, however, the only things that Hotch could see in front of him were his own mistakes. Mistakes that he could have prevented.

As soon as they discovered that Reid was missing– and not dead as he had originally been presumed– they did a deep, deep dive into his and Ophelia’s past. The first connection that Garcia found was that they had attended the same high school. Initially, it was assumed to be a coincidence, but Emily– never believing in coincidences– asked Penelope to dig deeper into the matter.

They soon found mountains of records and articles that painted a picture of an inseparable duo. A duo that was bonded by their intelligence and trauma.

Two and a Half Weeks Ago

Prentiss spoke up in the silent conference room, directing her comment to Penelope who was waiting for instruction back in Quantico. “Hey, Penelope. I know we’ve all been having a rough time with Reid being gone for almost a week, but we figured it might be best to start at the very beginning. Since Ophelia had a very accelerated timeline, it might be beneficial to look into her high school or middle school years, those tend to be extremely marking… especially when someone’s as young as she was.”

To cover up the pain of missing her favorite genius, Garcia chirped. “I like the way you think, Em!”

Garcia began tapping away at her keyboard, not only pulling up Ophelia’s high school records but also comparing them with Spencer’s. “Okay, so there’s no overlap in middle schools, they attended middle schools on completely opposite sides of town. But, you know how our kid genius went to Shadow Ridge High School? Well, he wasn’t the only kid genius graduating from there in 1994… Ophelia did too, at the age of thirteen. Also, why do you guys think Ophelia went to the same public high school as Reid? It doesn’t really make any sense if you think about it… it could just be a coincidence, right?”

The whole team stopped in their tracks to look at Garcia’s face plastered on a big TV in the conference room. They were stunned, their eyebrows raised high and eyes widened.

“Penelope, can you try to pull up any records from the school? Local newspapers, scholastic competitions, all of that? It’s a long shot, but I think they knew each other.”

She looked up at Emily with hope in her eyes, “Yes! Of course, your wish is my command.”

Garcia searched frantically, unearthing piles of information that she had ignored before. She even discovered an article that explicitly described their friendship.

Las Vegas’ Own Mini-Einsteins: The Story of Spencer Reid and Ophelia Sutton

The article detailed how they met on their first day of high school, how they both tested out of higher-level arithmetic courses, and became the school’s best– and only– Science Olympiad team. They were both interviewed for the article and spoke about how life as child prodigies did not leave much room for childhood or friendship. They spoke of how miraculous it was that they were able to endure the situation together, a one in a million chance. By the end of the article, the interviewer was even privy to the details of where each of them was committed to college and how that decision drove a stake through their friendship.

Soon enough, Garcia had discovered dozens of the pair’s research papers ranging from topics of law to theoretical mathematics. Children who conducted research on the weekends and spent weekdays helping local teachers were not exactly the most likely contenders for murder, but Ophelia proved that assumption to be very wrong.

How did she miss something this big? All of the signs were so clear and obvious, but Penelope had missed every single one of them.

“Uh, Sir, please don’t get mad. But, they definitely knew each other. They had a looooooong history, and even if Ophelia didn’t realize it was Spencer, he surely would have remembered her.”

Hotch spoke sternly as he inquired, “Garcia, why did we not know this sooner?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. There was so much information about Ophelia that her high school education seemed trivial at the time. She had already done so much by then… I just… I-I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“From now on, every minuscule detail is relevant. Nothing is irrelevant. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” She looked down at her keyboard and felt guilt coursing through her mind.

Spencer would still be here if she had seen this sooner, wouldn’t he? Was it not her job to find every connection between the unsub and the world around them? It was. It had been her job to do the same with Ophelia and she failed.

Garcia lifted her perfectly manicured hand and hovered it over the call button before firmly pressing down to end the connection between herself and the rest of the team.

“I did this? Spencer’s gone. And it’s my fau–” Before Garcia could even choke out the last syllable, she burst into tears.

Despite her best efforts to quell her sadness, the tears only flowed faster and harder with each waking second. Her breath shuddered and echoed into the dark corners of the control room as tears splattered onto her keyboard. The perfect makeup that Garcia had done that morning was now ruined with dark mascara running down her cheeks. She rubbed her hands against her eyes to dry them, further smudging her eye makeup, and dragged them down her face, forgetting that she was wearing bright pink lipstick and it now covered her entire chin.

Garcia was, by all definitions, a mess, but she refused to let that stop her from finding Spencer. She got him into this mess and now she was going to fix it. She typed rapidly, checking off every missing box that she had originally failed to account for.

She pulled up employment, travel, and spending records from 1994 and beyond. Though there was not much information due to the lack of digitalization back then, Garcia was able to construct a much more detailed photograph of Ophelia’s past than she had before.

Pulling up a page on Ophelia’s Freshman through Junior year roommate, Garcia got to work.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Hi, Miss Glas? My name is Penelope Garcia. I’m a technical analyst with the FBI and I need to ask you a few things about your old college roommate, Ophelia Sutton. But first I do have to go over some routine questions.”

“Of course, whatever you need. And please, call me Margaret, what’s going on? Is Lia okay? Has something happened?”

Garcia, in her best attempt to be professional about the sensitive situation, spoke very officially to Margaret, “I’m afraid that I cannot tell you much about the situation at the present moment.”

The truth was that no one knew if Spencer was even in danger, but with no signs of life, they could only assume the worst. Worst case scenario, Ophelia was not going to stop killing or spare Spencer’s life and that could not happen. The team had already suffered so much loss in past years that losing their Reid was not an option, not today or tomorrow.

“So, Margaret, have you been in contact with Miss Sutton within the past six months? And if so, what was the nature of this contact?”

“Uhhh… no, actually. I haven’t spoken to Ophelia in years. I believe the last time we communicated must have been in 2000, it was a long time ago.”

“Wonderful. We can now get into the details and I can provide you with some more information on the situation. You should know that Ophelia is the primary suspect in a series of murders in California. I know that you both graduated a very long time ago, but any information that you remember about her, any details, could save many lives.”

“Oh my. That’s… that’s serious. Yes, of course, I’ll help. Is there anything specific that you’d like to know about Ophelia?”

“Let’s start with her general behavior and habits. So, basically, how was she as a student? Was she responsible? Was she a night owl? That kind of stuff.”

“Right, um. So, Ophelia was always a standout student, I mean she would stay after class to help professors all the time and ask them questions. They always loved her. She wasn’t very social though, she stayed in a lot. She would get up really early to do personal studying, though I never found out what it was that she was studying. Ophelia never was the kind of person to get into conflicts either, from what I could tell, she was a very morally upstanding kid. I’m just shocked that she could ever kill someone.”

“I understand, it’s a very tough thing to imagine. Especially when you knew the person. Did Ophelia ever talk about traveling? Or possibly extracurricular interests? Anything like that could also be very helpful.”

“She always talked about Alaska, Arizona, and Arkansas. I don’t remember the details, but I always figured it was just something to do with the names… they all started with ‘A’, that’s why I remembered. Other than that, she didn’t seem too interested in traveling. Extracurricular involvement for Ophelia was pretty sparse. I think she tried out Quiz Bowl for a few semesters, probably got bored after winning every time. I can tell you that the guys she competed against were not happy to lose to a teenager… She also opted to take the pistol course for her athletic requirement. I thought it was a strange choice for a 14-year-old, but I didn’t question it. Do you think she’s been planning this since then?”

“We don’t know at this point, it’s a bit too soon to jump to any conclusions, but I’m just trying to fully understand what she might do next and where she might be.”

“Yeah, I understand. Is there anything else?”

“Do you know if Ophelia kept in contact with anyone from outside of MIT during her time there?”

“I remember that she would call her best friend every Monday and Friday night, never got a name, unfortunately. I think they stopped talking after Sophomore year though, don’t know why.”

“Thank you so much, Margaret, you’ve been a tremendous help. If you remember anything else please don’t hesitate to call me back at this number and I’ll also keep in touch just in case. Have a great day.”

“No problem, you too.”

Garcia put down the phone, feeling slightly lighter and less stressed. It was barely any information, but it had already helped a great deal. She now understood Ophelia better as a person, and while there was not much to know, she hoped it would help her locate Ophelia and Spencer soon.

With the holidays coming up, Penelope wanted to ensure that Spencer would be able to celebrate with the team just like they always did. Together, like a family.

She swung her chair over to another monitor and started creating a digital evidence board. Garcia began with the obvious: Alaska, Arizona, and Arkansas. It was a weak lead, but it was a start.

“If I were trying to run away from the feds… where would I go? Arkansas is obsolete, but it’s too far to get to quickly. It would be too risky.”

She tapped her feathered pen against her chin as she thought. “Same thing for Alaska, it would be an ideal spot, but it’s not feasible, not on such short notice.”

“She has to be in Arizona. If she’s in any of these places, it has to be Arizona.” Bringing up a large map of Arizona, Garcia examined it carefully.

“If I were a murderous mastermind, where would I head? Not to a large city, I might get spotted. Too far into the desert and I might run into other problems. The suburbs–”

Garcia searched all Arizona suburbs, compiling a list of the most secluded ones. Arizona had over 90 towns, however, and the list of neighborhoods was even larger. Narrowing down each section by population density and available land, Garcia was able to suss out a few dozen contenders. The majority of them were located near Sedona, Bisbee, or Prescott. All of these towns were perfect for Ophelia, small enough that she could isolate herself, but still large enough for her to satisfy her distinct needs.

Kicking back in her rolling chair, Garcia stared at her computer screen. It was not often that she got stumped, and this case was one of the few that was getting to her. Garcia slipped her hands gently through her hair, frustrated and irate. One more clue and she would probably be able to pinpoint their exact location, yet that last, crucial clue seemed to evade her mind like oil in water. Knowing that she was on the brink of cracking the case drove her wild, and the rest of the BAU felt similarly.

Honestly, she was so close to the case– and Spencer– that she knew she should not even be working on it, but she also could not trust Kevin to find Reid. Sure, he was a good technical analyst, but he had nothing on Garcia’s years of experience on both the dark and light sides of the web. She knew that no matter what, she had to be the one to find him. At this point, she could barely even tell if this desire existed purely because she wanted to help spencer, or if it was to save her from the heaps of guilt that consumed her.

Garcia sat there for what seemed like hours contemplating life, death, and fear– all in the context of Reid’s capture, of course. She was drawn out of her trance, however, when she heard the line ringing on her headset. Assuming that the rest of the team would be on the other side, she composed herself and spoke with her usual, cheery voice. “Garcia speaking, how may I assist you?”

“Hey, Babygirl. How’s the search comin’ along? We just wanted to check in and see if you found anything that we can work with to narrow down our geographic profile.” She was ecstatic to hear his voice. Every time that they spoke, Garcia felt like she was being enveloped in a warm hug. He just had that kind of effect on her, he was the home she never found after her parents’ death… in summary, he was her person.

Garcia immediately felt her tension and stress being relieved and even became excited to share her newest findings. “Ohhhh, my Chocolate Thunder! It’s so good to hear your voice! I’ve compiled a list of places where I think Ophelia may be. They’re all in Arizona, and before you ask, there is a good reason for me choosing Arizona. One. Her old roommate said that Ophelia had an obsession with Alaska, Arizona, and Arkansas. Now, which one of those would make for an easy getaway from California? Arizona. Two. These towns are all isolated enough for her to keep out of the media’s view but large enough for her to replenish supplies and keep Spencer without drawing attention to herself… assuming that he is– as I hope– still alive. I know it’s a bit of a long list, but it’s the best I could do right now.”

The team’s tablets all chimed as Garcia sent over the file. It was a list of nearly sixty neighborhoods and they were scattered all over the state. Considering Arizona’s diverse topography, sending teams to check all of those locations would be nearly impossible so they still needed to narrow down the list. Luckily, that’s what the profilers were there for.

“Alright, Garcia. We’ll take a look at this list in a bit, before we go, is there anything else that you’ve found?” Hotch inquired.

“I have a few tidbits of extra information from when I spoke with Ophelia’s old roommate, but I’ll just send you a summary over email. Let me know if you guys need anything else, Garcia out!”

She hung up abruptly and with a flourish. If there was one thing about Penelope that was always constant, it was her energy.

Present Day

The team was constantly distracted, falling apart piece by piece. As much as they hated to admit it, after Garcia and Emily’s big break a few weeks ago, they got stuck. No progress had been made since then and Barnes was threatening to take them off of the case. She wanted to replace them with some amateurs, but they would never let her. Getting Reid back was much too important of a job to pass over to inexperienced agents. This was something they would have to themselves, whether Barnes approved or not.

After their second week of searching turned up with no results, they were forced to leave LA and move back to Quantico, reuniting the remaining members of the team once more. Despite Garcia being more than happy to see the rest of the team again, the toll of the case had exceeded everyone else’s happiness and they spent every waking second working. Hotch had taken a spot on his office couch while Morgan, Garcia, and Emily slept at their workspaces.

They worked tirelessly, chasing even the smallest leads. Unfortunately, they were still much too afraid to start searching the neighborhoods on Garcia’s list– fearing that they might tip off Ophelia prematurely, leading to her fleeing, Spencer’s death, or both– and were stuck searching for breadcrumbs.

“Agent Hotchner, I need to speak with you,” Barnes called down to him from outside of his own office’s door as he stood next to Morgan in the Bullpen.

“Yes, ma’am, just give me a second to sign this report for Agent Morgan and I’ll head up.”

Hotch quickly signed the remaining sheets of paper that Morgan was holding out towards him and clambered up the stairs where Barnes was already waiting inside. She had taken his seat, leaving him to sit in the guest chair across from her. He could not help but feel a pit forming in his stomach as sweat accumulated on the back of his neck.

Barnes crossed her hands in front of her and stared at Hotch intensely. “SSA Hotchner, do you know why I’ve called you in today?”

“No, ma’am. May I ask what the issue is?”

“The issue, Agent, is that you and your team have directly disobeyed my orders to abandon the Sutton case. Not only have you undermined my authority, but you cannot keep sleeping here. It’s unprofessional and disgusting. We have other agents who are more than happy to take over while you’re all out, if there are any breaks in the case, you would be notified immediately… but you already knew that. Didn’t you?”

Slightly worried that it had been a trick question, he hesitated before speaking. “Ummm, yes. I do know that, but we’re not clocking in any overtime hours so I don’t see why it’s an issue for us to stay here on our own time to work on the case, Director.”

“I’ll tell you why. First off, the case is no longer yours, all cases are confidential and none of you have clearance to work on it anymore. Second, since you’re not logging your hours, you’re trespassing, and on top of that, you become a liability for the agency because for that same reason. Not to mention how you’re also unofficially wasting government resources. So, Agent Hotchner, either get your team under control, or you will all be demoted before you can get to your apartment. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Director. I’ll speak to them now.”

“Good, tell Prentiss to clean up her cubicle while you’re at it, it’s uncharacteristically messy over there.”

He got up from the chair, letting out a long sigh as he walked out and straightened his tie. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled out his phone to message Morgan, Prentiss, and Garcia.

“Conference room. Now. We need to talk.”

Hotch stepped into the conference room and assumed a position at the front of the room, a position of power. After speaking to Barnes, he needed it. He needed to feel powerful again.

Slowly but surely, the rest of the agents trickled in. After all, there were only three of them and it did not take long. As usual, Emily arrived first, followed by Derek, and then Penelope who walked in rubbing her eyes groggily. Hotch glanced at his wristwatch when he saw Garcia’s state and realized that it was already two in the morning. They had evidently become accustomed to working odd hours and today was no exception.

“I’ve just spoken to the Director about our team, and she has brought up some issues that need to be addressed immediately,” He spoke clearly and concisely, not sparing a moment to elaborate.

“One, we will no longer be working on the Sutton case. I understand that it will be difficult, but we’ve already been working behind the Director’s back and gotten caught once. I don’t want to wait around to see what will happen if we do it again. Two, no more staying overnight at the Bureau unless absolutely necessary. The Director was less than happy to find out about our sleeping arrangements, and again, I don’t want to have to speak with her about this more than once. Lastly, just get some sleep. Lord knows we all need it. Go home, see your families, visit JJ and Rossi, whatever it takes to get your minds off of the Sutton case.”

With that, everyone got up to go home. However, Hotch spoke up just before Prentiss left, “Emily, stay back for a moment. There’s just something minor that I was asked to mention to you.”

“Sure, what’s up?” She turned around briefly and stood in the doorway.

“This is not coming from me, these are not my words, but the Director did say that– and I quote– ‘tell Prentiss to clean up her cubicle while you’re at it, it’s uncharacteristically messy over there.’”

A small smile broke across Hotch’s face as Emily laughed at what he had said. Part of it was attributed to sleep deprivation, but it had also been the most nonchalant thing that they had spoken about in a while so it felt as light as a joke. Of course, Emily knew that it was not a joke and kept his words in mind as she turned away.

“You’ve got it, boss.” She brought two fingers up to her forehead and pretended to salute him as she walked off.

As they filed out of the Bullpen, however, their faces hung low again. They were burdened by the anticipation and guilt that surrounded the case, but they could do nothing about it. Prentiss offered a sleepy Garcia a ride home and Morgan and Hotch left in their own cars. Soon, the BAU had been deserted with only a tired Barnes lingering behind.

[stefaniolandi]

Celebration Clean Up Your Computer Month January 2021

Computers 13 we have all had to deal with them one way or another. From video games to social media, these technological creations also come with an important note. If we want to keep our computers running at optimum capacity, we have to keep them clean.

Both the components and the internal memory have to be cleaned regularly if we want our machines to operate properly. So, on that note, let us look into the ideals of Clean Up Your Computer Month!

History of Clean Up Your Computer Month

The first substantial computer was the giant ENIAC machine, created by John W. Mauchly and J. Presper Eckert at the University of Pennsylvania. ENIAC (Electrical Numerical Integrator and Calculator) used a word of 10 decimal digits instead of binary ones like previous calculators/computers. ENIAC was also the first machine to use more than 2,000 vacuum tubes, using nearly 18,000 vacuum tubes instead.

Storage in those vacuum tubes require the machinery to keep cool, taking up over 167 square meters (1800 square feet) of floor space. Nonetheless, it had punched-card input and output. It also arithmetically had 1 multiplier, 1 divider-square rooter, and 20 adders employing decimal 1Cring counters, 1D which served as adders and quick-access (0.0002 seconds) read-write register storage. ENIAC was productively used from 1946 to 1955. The 1960 19s saw large mainframe computers become more common in large industries, the US military, and space program. IBM became the unquestioned market leader in selling these large, expensive, error-prone, and very hard to use machines.

A veritable explosion of personal computers occurred in the early 1970s, starting with Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak exhibiting the first Apple II at the first West Coast Computer Faire in San Francisco. The Apple II boasted built-in BASIC programming language, color graphics, and a 4,100 character memory for only $1,298. Programs and data could be stored on an everyday audio-cassette recorder. Before the end of the fair, Wozniak and Jobs had secured 300 orders for the Apple II and from there Apple took off.

Also introduced in 1977 was the TRS-80. This was a home computer manufactured by Tandy Radio Shack. In its second incarnation, the TRS-80 Model II, came complete with a 64,000 character memory and a disk drive to store programs and data on. At this time, only Apple and TRS had machines with disk drives. With the introduction of the disk drive, personal computer applications took off as a floppy disk was a most convenient publishing medium for distribution of software.

IBM, which up to this time had been producing mainframes and minicomputers for medium to large-sized businesses, decided that it had to get into the act and started working on the Acorn, which would later be called the IBM PC. The PC was the first computer designed for the home market which would feature modular design so that pieces could easily be added to the architecture.

Most of the components surprisingly came from outside of IBM, since building it with IBM parts would have cost too much for the home computer market. When it was introduced, the PC came with a 16,000 character memory, keyboard from an IBM electric typewriter, and a connection for tape cassette player for $1,265.

By 1984, Apple and IBM had come out with new models. Apple released the first generation Macintosh, which was the first computer to come with a graphical user interface(GUI) and a mouse. The GUI made the machine much more attractive to home computer users because it was easy to use.

Sales of the Macintosh soared like nothing ever seen before. IBM was hot on Apple 19s tail and released the 286-AT, which with applications like Lotus 1-2-3, a spreadsheet, and Microsoft Word, quickly became the favorite of business concerns.

That brings us up to about ten years ago. Now people have their own personal graphics workstations and powerful home computers. The average computer a person might have in their home is more powerful by several orders of magnitude than a machine like ENIAC. The computer revolution has been the fastest growing technology in man 19s history.

How to celebrate Clean Up Your Computer Month

To celebrate, all we have to do is turn off our computers and makes sure that the inside is clean and free from dust. Afterwards we need to reactivates our computers and clear up any space on the hard drives that we possibly can, and let 19s not forget to close up our computers after cleaning out the interior.

Special deals to celebrate Clean Up Your Computer Month!

Mondly Coupon Code: 20% Off Sitewide - Tap offer to copy the coupon code. Remember to paste code when you check out. Online only.

MassGenie Deal: Mac Mineralize Rich Lipstick 0.12oz-3.6g New In Box For $13.99 + Free Shipping - Get Mac Mineralize Rich Lipstick 0.12oz-3.6g New In Box for $13.99 (was $46.00) + Free Shipping

Tandy Leather Factory Offer: $10 Off - No coupon code needed. Prices as marked. Tap to shop the sale now.

National Tool Warehouse Promo Code: 63% Off Dr 6 Pt Flex Metric Socket Set - Get 63% off 3/8" Dr 6 Pt Flex Metric Socket Set, 15 Pc for $190.55

Citizen Bike Promotion: 20% Off Two Or More Products Totaling $100+ - Get 20% off two or more products totaling $100 or more.

Sari Bari Coupon Code: 40% Off Sitewide - Tap offer to copy the coupon code. Remember to paste code when you check out. Online only.

The Homebrewer Deal: 5% Off Entire Order - 5% off entire order

[nixakeye-blog]

Yay! My Studded Kiss by Kat Von D came in the mail! I am unboxing the shade Double Dare. The box was pretty cool but the lipstick itself was WOW. It lives up to “Studded”. The WHOLE thing is encased in black studs. Taking off the cap, the color is definitely rich. It is matte and has a pleasant smell. 💨 my the lipstick up you see the official stamp. Also, pretty cool. Doing a swatch, it goes on smoothly and doesn’t look half bad. Can’t wait to try it on. Oh did I mention #VEGAN?! #CrueltyFree?! Will be available in Sephora on January 19th!!! Definitely worth it... look out for my testing video! *All ideas and opinions are my own. I received this product for free for testing and reviewing purposes. * #studdedkiss #contest #complimentary #lipstick #Lips #DoubleDare #KVD Katvondbeauty Influenster SEPHORA #studdedkiss #contest #complimentary @katvondbeauty @influenster @influenstervoxbox @sephora @katvondunlimited @katvond__ @katvondmakeup @kat.von.d (at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

[jpreisser]

Midget Wolgast: The Pussy's Lipstick Even when Midget was a 15 year-old, 14-fight novice, observers were astonished by his speed and couldn't help but tell the Philadelphia Inquirer about it when they went to cover his bout with local boy Billy Squires. Writer Gordon Mackay was bombarded with compliments to the point he insinuated that South Philadelphia must have "assembled its Midget Wolgast Marching Club, and had decided to descend on us, one by one." Over and over, independent or not, the reports were the same, "that for sheer speed, quickness of hand and deftness of foot, this wee kid was the pussy's lipstick." Wolgast ended up dominating Squires, throwing "punches of every description." #boxer #boxingfanatik #boxinglegend #boxing👊 #boxing #boxingjunky #boxinghistory #midgetwolgast #philly #philadelphia #Pennsylvania #southphilly #midgetwolgast #jeremiahpreisser #history #historical #flyweight #legend #champion (at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) https://www.instagram.com/p/B-23kApFgiQ/?igshid=1i8dzdir7nes9

[bonniejstarks]

I TRIED FOLLOWING A SCOTT BARNES & TATI MAKEUP TUTORIAL USING ONLY DRUGSTORE MAKEUP

I TRIED FOLLOWING A SCOTT BARNES & TATI MAKEUP TUTORIAL USING ONLY DRUGSTORE MAKEUP Tati & Scott Barnes Original Video:

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PRODUCTS // *Some links are affiliate, so if you purchase through my links I make a small % of commission. Always appreciate your support!

BROWS:

– NYX Micro Brow Pencil | Espresso – Arches & Halos Luxury Brow Pomade | Espresso – NYX Full Coverage Concealer | Beige – ELF Brow Wow Gel | Black

EYES:

– ELF Bite Size Eyeshadow Palettes – Essence Lash Princess Mascara – Eyelure Number 126 Lashes (similar to the ones I used today)

FACE:

– NYX Born To Glow Foundation | Medium Olive – ELF Cream Contour Palette – Covergirl Undercover Tru Blend Concealer | Buff Beige – Milani Silky Matte Bronzer | 03 – Burts Bee’s Toasted Cinnamon Blush – Essence Pure Nude Highlighter Palette – Catrice x Eman Highlighting Palette

LIPS:

– LA Girl Perfect Precision Lip Pencil | Bare – NYX Shout Loud Lipstick | Ala Mode – Essence Wet Look Gloss | Behind The Scenes

WHAT I’M WEARING:

– Bodysuit: Amazon – Hoops: Target

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Jasmine PO BOX 92 Birdsboro, PA 19508

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COUPON CODES – If you use my codes I do make a % of commission

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ABOUT ME:

Hi! My name is Jasmine I am 24 and located outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I am a Penn State Graduate with a Business Degree. Currently I am a full time YouTuber with a huge passion for all things beauty. I am half Puerto Rican/half Guatemalan & I speak fluent Spanish. On my channel you will find a variety of beauty + lifestyle videos which include lots DRUGSTORE MAKEUP LOOKS, DRUGSTORE DUPES FOR HIGH END MAKEUP, ROUTINE VIDEOS SUCH AS MORNING/NIGHT ROUTINES, SHOP WITH ME, HAULS + MORE! I hope you enjoy my beauty space. If you do don’t forget to SUBSCRIBE & leave me a comment! Thank you for stopping by, your support means so much

FAQ’S — Camera I Use For Beauty Videos: Canon 70D — Lense I Use: Sigma 18-35mm F1.8 — Vlogging Camera: Canon G7X Mark III — Lighting I Use: Ring Light from DVE Store Online — Mic I Use: Giant Squid Audio Lab Omnidirectional Microphone — Editing Program I Use: iMovie — What’s That Ring On Your Finger? I am married

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P.S this video is NOT sponsored.

xoxo,

Jasmine ♡ | JuicyJas source

The post I TRIED FOLLOWING A SCOTT BARNES & TATI MAKEUP TUTORIAL USING ONLY DRUGSTORE MAKEUP appeared first on Trends Dress.

from Trends Dress https://trendsdress.com/i-tried-following-a-scott-barnes-tati-makeup-tutorial-using-only-drugstore-makeup/ from Trends Dress https://trendsdresscom.tumblr.com/post/613757351159382016