#listened to housewife radio on repeat while doing this

[clegfly]

Hello three iromo au fans ever come get your food!!!!!

[lifesabe-ch]

sugar momma - jj m.

summary: you forget you had plans with JJ, so you make him tag along with what your doing. he swears he isn’t enjoying it... but he definitely is 

pairings: jj maybank x reader

warnings: none

a/n: more JJ. whoops. anyway, I wanted to do some kook stuff without the reader being all “I hate my life!” so... enjoy this mix of worlds :)

As you pushed open the door, you were greeted by a number of potent smells. The polishes were arranged neatly in rows, and the flower pots were freshly watered. The decor of the salon was simply enough, with black furniture and red accent pieces all around. The TVs on the wall were even on, playing some day time television show, the sound softly occupying the small space, save for some classical music seemingly coming from a back room. The space itself was air conditioned and the people seemed friendly enough. All and all, it was nice.

“This place has power and we don’t?”

Glancing over at JJ you shushed him lightly, smiling apologetically to the middle aged woman who was now giving the two of you a once over.

In a more hushed tone, he added, “Plus, it smells.”

Watching as he wrinkled his nose dramatically, you sighed, “Stop being such a baby. It won’t take long, then we can hang out.”

“Why can’t you just get your nails done tomorrow?”

“Because,” You said, already taking in all the polishes on the wall, searching for any color that stood out to you. “My mom is having this party and she needs me to look nice.”

“Ah, right. Forgot kooks have a standard to meet.”

Shoving him softly, you let his comment slide. You were used to hearing passing comments being made about kooks by JJ. Even before the two of you had started hooking up, you were used to the kook comments from his friend group.

Truth be told, you were an unlikely match. At first, the two of you couldn’t even look at each other. Your circles were taught to hate one another. But one summer, after your father had hired him to work on his boat, you realized that he wasn't all that bad. Sure, it took a little time for the two of you to warm up to the idea of one another, but that didn’t stop you from hooking up behind everyone’s backs. Hell, you were still doing it to this day.

No one knew the two of you were together. You always figured it’d be too much of a hassle to have to ease each other into completely different worlds. Besides, you liked having JJ all to yourself. He was your own dirty little secret.

“What about this one?”

Pulling you from your thoughts, you watched as JJ handed you a bottle he had pulled from the clear shelves. The color itself was a peachy orange shade. It wasn't so light that you could barely see it, but the orange tones weren’t so prominent that it was practically fluorescent. It was a perfect balance. And, it matched the dress he had seen hung on your door after sneaking into your room.

You grinned, getting on your tiptoes to lightly press a kiss to his lips, “It’s perfect.”

His annoyance seemed to disappear only momentarily, because as soon as you had made your way over to the free nail tech, he was already whining.

“Y/N, I’m thirsty.”

You sighed, “I have water in the car.”

He scoffed, “But it’s hot water.”

Having overheard your dilemma, the nail tech gestured to a small fridge in the corner, “We have water, if you’d like some.”

Grumbling as he walked over to grab himself one, he sipped it slightly as he stood over you once again.

In no time, he was back to whining, his hand finding his way to your shoulder as he leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Hey, are you almost done?”

“JJ… he just started.”

He groaned loudly, making you recoil from the sudden noise in your ear, “Hey!”

He ignored you, pulling out his phone and scrolling for a bit, before glancing back down at you. This time, he hadn’t even bothered to whisper.

“How long is this gonna take?”

“Like an hour,” you replied, watching as the chipped polish was wiped clean off.  

“An hour?” He exclaimed, “That’s so long! You just sit here and watch him do your nails for an hour?”

You shrugged, “It’s really not that bad, JJ.”

“What am I supposed to do for an hour?”

The man still listening, mostly due to JJ’s obnoxious whispers, and not-so-whispers, glanced between the two of you, before briefly gesturing over to his coworker.

“She could do your nails if you want.”

“No,” JJ spoke instantly, shaking his head, “Not happening.”

You were on a completely different page as him, thinking the exact opposite. Maybe this way, he wouldn’t whine the whole time, “Yes! That’s a great idea.”

“No. No way. I’m not getting my nails done.”

“You are,” You said, before looking back over to the lady who was patiently waiting to see if she had just gained a customer, “He is.”

“Ugh, Y/N!” JJ whined.

“Come on! How else are you gonna spend the time? Watching me watch him do my nails?”

“I’m just gonna mess them up anyway,” he shrugged, glancing down at his dirty fingernails subconsciously.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not paying for them then.”

“No, I’m not letting you pay for me to get my nails done,” He scoffed. “You pay to get my nails done? What am I, a housewife?”

Sighing lightly, you pulled your free hand into your pocket and pulled out a credit card. Gesturing to the girl at the front desk, you handed it to her as she walked over.

“Can you charge me for two manicures?”

JJ groaned, “Ma’am, no, please don’t listen to her.”

The woman looked between the two of you, your card in hand, unsure of whose direction to follow.

Narrowing your eyes slightly at the boy, you waved him off, “Don’t listen to him. And give yourself a $20 tip, too.”

With that, she was off to swipe your card and tip herself, JJ’s argument practically unmade.

Grinning sweetly at him, you pat his arm with your free hand, “All done. Now, are you really going to make me pay for nothing?”

As the woman returned your card, he begrudgingly made his way to the chair a table over from you, watching as the person seated across from him began working.

“For the record, I’m not going to enjoy this.”

Rolling your eyes, you looked back at your own hands, shaking your head to yourself.

“Your boyfriend seems like a handful,” the man filing your nails commented, reprimanding you as you recoiled slightly.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“And he’s getting his nails done for you?”

When you didn’t respond, he glanced back down at your nails, before adding, “Seems like he wants to be.”

Eager to defend yourself, you scoffed, shaking your head, “No, that’s not it. We’re not together… not like that anyway.”

“So, he’s just a sugar baby?”

Your eyes widened at the insinuation. JJ, your sugar baby? No. The two of you paid for things equally… you paying for the more pricey places the two of you visited, him paying for wherever he had chosen for you two to visit. It was fair… but glancing over at the blonde haired boy, you began to piece together why he thought that.

While you wore your most casual attire, it was still ten times pricier than what JJ had on, his loose fitting t-shirt and cargo shorts doing apparently all of the talking for the image he gave off. You didn’t mind his fashion sense. Sure, you didn’t like it, but you didn’t mind it. You liked how relaxed he looked. You also liked stealing his clothing from time to time. And you loved how his hair was always naturally tousled. It made you want to run your fingers through it, appreciating the lack of hair product he used.

As you admired the boy, you realized that the man may have been on to something. Not about the sugar baby thing, the other thing. The two of you weren’t dating, but that didn’t mean you didn’t want to be. You wouldn’t mind having JJ as your boyfriend.

Realizing you hadn’t given him a response, you looked back over, shaking your head, “No, he’s not.”

He only shrugged.

The rest of the time passed in relative silence. Even JJ didn’t talk much, only asking a few questions here and there about what that was and what this did. In about an hour, like you had said earlier, the two of you were walking back to your car.

“That guy back there asked if you were my sugar baby.”

“What?” JJ sputtered, shaking his head at you as he stopped examining his nails, “No! I’m not your sugar baby.”

Laughing a bit at his reaction, you shrugged, “I didn’t say it.”

Even though you were the one driving, JJ opened the door for you before running around and getting in on the passenger's side.

As he sat down, he shook his head, mumbling, “Now I’m a sugar baby and I have my nails done. Next thing you know, I’m gonna be jumping into bed with John B.”

Poking him gently, you grinned, “Hey, he’s not that bad looking!”

“Hey! Stop that, he’s mine,” JJ joked, smiling as he got a laugh out of you.  

As he scanned through your radio, the two you sat in silence. You hadn’t pulled out of your parking spot yet, instead just admiring his features.

Glancing over at you, he smirked, “Wow, already thinking about getting your hands on me again? Thought this morning would’ve been enough-”

You scoffed, cutting him off, “Shut up, asshole. He also asked if you were my boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

For the first time all day, JJ didn’t know what to say. He stared at you as he cleared his throat, fiddling with one of his rings, “What’d you say?”

“I said no.”

“Right,” He nodded. “Because we’re not dating. So… that makes sense that you said that.”

“Do you want to be?”

“What?”

“What?” You responded, shaking your head as a blush dusts across your cheeks. Uneager to repeat yourself, part of you hoped he hadn’t heard you and you could just pretend you hadn’t asked.

“Are you… are you asking me out?”

Your eyes trace along the hem of your top, desperately searching for something, anything, to look at that wasn't JJ, “Maybe? I mean, if you want. If not, we can just pretend I never asked.”

Gently lifting your chin with his hand, your eyes met his as he reached across the center console and pressed his lips to yours. It took you a moment to react, but your hand soon found its way to his hair as you got closer to meet him halfway.

Pulling away after a moment, JJ grins at you, “I can’t believe it.”

“What?”

“I’m really shacking up with a kook.”

“Hey!” you shout, playfully shoving him back into his seat.

He laughed, leaning back over to grab your hand, “I’m joking. But seriously, I thought you’d never ask.”

Smiling at him, you brought his hand up to your lips, kissing it softly, “Really? Part of me thought you’d say no after I made you get that manicure.”

“I mean, you’re no John B.,” you rolled your eyes at his comment, but let him continue, “But I don’t mind getting manicures every once in a while if it means I get to be your boyfriend.”

Later that day, JJ found himself back with his group of friends. The two of you had decided to keep things between the two of you for just a little while longer. At least, until you figured out how to tell everyone. So you had dropped him off near John B’s house after your afternoon together and headed home.

Now he sat on the edge of the boat, and examined his newly manicured hands, letting the sun bounce off the shiny surface, as he twisted them left and right.

John B. looked over at his friend, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead, “Dude, are you going to help?”

“I can’t,” JJ said simply. “I’m a new man, John.”

Rolling his eyes at the blonde, he paused his work on the boat’s motor and made his way over to him, “What?”

Wordlessly, JJ extended a hand, showing off his clear coated fingers. John B. examined his hands for a moment, before skeptically glancing up at his friend, “Did you get a pedicure?”

“Don’t be stupid, John. It’s called a manicure,” JJ chastised, pulling his hand away.

Making her way over, Kie stood beside John, crossing her arms over her chest, “How’d you afford that?”

“Probably stole it,” Pope added, glancing over from his spot in the shade, but not making any move to get up.

“I’ll have you know that this manicure was paid for in full. A tip was even left.”

“You shackin up with a kook now?”

Rolling his eyes, JJ shrugged, “Guess you could say I’ve got a sugar momma.”

[cranehusbands]

glory, to olympus

loba andrade/crypto | park tae joon; established relationship; hurt/comfort; post broken ghost; apex rarepair week; 1883 words

a/n: first thought is why the fuck did ao3 butcher crypto’s name so bad.. that’s not how his name is said. taejoon is one word. crypto im so sorry

secondly, this has been my agenda this whole time. welcome to cryptloba hell, population me. i absolutely adore these two with all my heart, i was so excited for finally write for them, and will be doing so later this week, as it’s apex rarepair week! the prompt i went for for this one was meet the parents and well... you get the idea. angst time baby

@apex-rarepairweek thank you for hosting this wonderful week!

likes < reblogs, any comments in the tags are appreciated

ao3 mirror in the reblogs!

Preview: The thief’s mouth hung open in her rambles, before she looked up to Crypto, still standing in the rain with his hands in his pockets, hair flat against his face. The shadow over her eyes fell now, mascara running down her cheeks as she wiped the nose with the back of her hand in an uncharacteristically sloppy way. “...Am I doing them wrong, Park? Have I done bad by them?”

The gentle sound of the radio was enough to not make the room sound so deafening in its silence, raindrops hitting the window like tears from the clouds, as if knowing the day to the date, and mourning on her behalf. The song was a lighthearted one, one about running away to the big city - an older one, from more than many years ago, somehow still prevalent on the radio stations that she tended to be drawn towards. Was it because this music was a comfort to her? Her father always cared a lot for songs like those, and he would whisk herself and her mother around the living room while some lovelorn fool sang about a Caroline or an Eileen. 

  Loba was gentle in the way she did her makeup, having mastered her technique in the past few years - her philosophy had always been to not get caught, but if she were to be, she had to look her best. She closed one eye, gently placing a synthetic eyelash over the smokey eye makeup she’d carefully painted on already, pulling away and staring at herself in the vanity mirror in her room, and hand running through one of the shorter braids, the ends of her hair no longer stark red and now simply a subdued blonde. Her eyes fell on a small polaroid in the corner of the vanity, moving to run two fingers of the faces of the two adults - a suited man and a smiling woman - staring at the young child with a wide smile and a small tooth gap. The thief smiled a little, at the way the girl was so oblivious to her future, her happiness at that moment forever caught, to be cherished and longed for. She stared for a moment or two more, hand pulling away to catch a glance of the two parents by the girl’s shoulders, just as happy as she, before she stood to her feet, grabbing the leather-gloved form the edge of the desk before she opened the door, and began heading out of the dropship, passing by the kitchen and listening to the clicking of her boots against the floor-

  “You’re awake early.”

She jumped at the sudden voice, shooting a glare over to the table in the dropship’s kitchen, where a pair of eyes stared back at her from over the back of a laptop. “For god's sake, Crypto, make yourself known. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry.” He almost looked sheepish for a moment, pulling down his laptop screen so she could see his face, the clear bags under his eyes from behind his glasses and the weak smile he gave. “You’re looking very… monotone.”

Loba hummed, doing a little half-hearted spin. “I have places to be. Quite in demand, don’t you know?”

“Hm. Visiting death, are we?”

“I guess you could say that.”

He frowned at her for a moment, brow furrowing before he closed the lid of his laptop and stood to his feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Grabbing my coat.”

“What- no, you’re not coming with me.”

He didn’t respond, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way back to his room.

“Crypto!” The thief called out to him, but again he didn’t respond, not even so much with a turn. And though she gave an exasperated sigh and folded her arms across her chest, she didn’t try to leave him behind in this momentary blindspot. Deep down, she was almost glad for the company. Especially his.

  The hacker soon returned, now donning a fuzzy black coat, somewhat more professional and warmer than his normal attire, though still jarring to see him in something that wasn’t white or green… though, hints of his usual accent still came through, in the formal shirt and tie he still wore underneath. Hands were shoved into his pockets, clearly fiddling with the cube he always carried with him, more for comfort than out of function. Crypto shot her a small nod as she turned to look at him, quickening his pace a little to join her at her side. “So-”

Before he could finish, he was cut off as she ran a hand down his chest, feeling the soft material of his coat under her fingertips with a soft expression. It wasn’t often they shared moments like this - the two were discrete about their relationship, especially since their mission had led to both… complications and rifts in the group, but also new bonds being formed, including their own. Interactions between the two were kept strictly professional when eyes were on them… but now Loba fixed his coat collar, a sad smile on her face, perhaps getting a bit closer than what she would have normally. But it was the early morning, and the open kitchen was silent. It was just them. What did they have to hide?

Crypto’s smile was weak, and embarrassed, perhaps still not used to the shift between professionalism and PDA. His voice cracked a little as he continued with his train of thought. “S-so, where are we going?”

Loba pulled her hands away from him, tucking her arm into his with a solemn nod, as if to hype herself up. “The closest thing I remember being a home to me. ...To Olympus.”

  The ride was quiet, but they both were tense. Loba knew that Crypto never liked crowds, not much - it was bad enough that a handful of the legends knew who he really was, but being so visible was a threat, even if these people had never heard of Taejoon Park before. She reached a hand over to him without looking to make it obvious, feeling for his hand to hold onto for comfort, as she knew the way his eyes fell on her and his face softened in a way that only she knew. The thief gave him a glance, and a small smile, running a thumb over the back of his knuckles, to comfort him, but also perhaps to comfort herself, as through the window the overview of the city so foggy in her memories became clearer. It was so different, and yet... not at all. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it kept coming back, enough to make it hard for her to breathe as they left the landing zone and headed down a familiar road, being dropped off at the front of an extravagant building, where pedestrians entered through lavish double doors. She exited the taxi they had shared, a hand holding onto the door for a moment before she quietly shut it.

“Damn rain,” she grumbled, though it was certainly half-hearted, pulling out her cane and extending it to lean against it, in the way she usually did, her other hand over her eyes to avoid damage to her makeup.

Behind her, the taxi started up again, driving away as the hacker now joined her at her side, hands in his pockets. He hummed. 

“What?”

“You haven’t told me everything about yourself. If I knew any better, I would make a joke that this was your second home… the gaudiness is fitting. But…” He looked over to her, and the way she stared back at him.

Loba swallowed. “Yes, well I… the loss of my family to that… demon… meant I have lost my home, my heritage. I have no grave to return my good wishes to, so I…” With her cane, she gestured towards the building in front of them - to the restaurant where all but one little girl had lost her life over twenty years before.

  There was a long, drawn-out silence, the only sound being the sound of rain that his the pavement leading up to the glowing restaurant doors. 

“I feel my papa would have liked you.”

“Hm?” He glanced down to her, how the rain fell down the sides of her face and how the gloomy sunlight cast a dark shadow over her eyes.

“He would have liked you. From… what I remember, anyway. He was a kind man, a family man. ...Yes, he would have liked you.” Her voice quivered as she repeated herself.

“...Loba, I-”

“-And mama would have too. Oh, the things she would say, I can almost hear them, in a distant sort of way. ‘Mi yerno es un ángel.’, I think is the phrase she’d say… I-I’m sure she would call us married already, she was a housewife type despite her… her profession-”

“Loba.”

The thief’s mouth hung open in her rambles, before she looked up to Crypto, still standing in the rain with his hands in his pockets, hair flat against his face. The shadow over her eyes fell now, mascara running down her cheeks as she wiped the nose with the back of her hand in an uncharacteristically sloppy way. “...Am I doing them wrong, Park? Have I done bad by them?”

He didn’t know what to say. He’d never had this issue before, not for himself - what was done with him was done, and he had no one to mourn… no parents, and no sister. He quickly swallowed before he could ride down that thought path. Reaching a hand out of his pocket, he took hers and gently squeezed. “You… are an amazing woman. They know that, surely, from where they reside. Regardless of what you have done, or will do, you are still theirs. Be proud.”

That’s when her face, that had tried so hard to remain like stone despite her tears, wrinkled, and her grip on his hand grew tighter with a squeeze, before she burst into sobs and practically threw herself onto him, burying her face into his shoulder, as if to hide her dignity, her hands moving to claw onto his back and hold it as if he would leave her at a moments notice.

  He didn’t move, unsure if she would shatter in his arms like fragile glasswork, so perfect and delicate as she shook in the cold and the pressure of containing herself, but soon Crypto held her back, and brought her close, the warmth still foreign to him, even after all the times that had done this behind closed doors. No… it was never like this. Loba was strong, she held her cards close to her chest, and only let herself be vulnerable when she knew she had nothing to lose - and to her, she still had everything to lose. Losing her legacy, her revenge on the simulacrum that took her life away from her. The hacker held her close, holding the back of her head with a hand, quietly shushing her muffled sobs as he ran a hand through her hair, now knotted and wavy with the rain.

“Te amo,” she whispered into his neck, before pulling away and looking up to him, smiling despite herself as she wiped her eye, now red, though not like her usual makeup attire, with the back of her finger, smiling despite herself as she moved a hand to brush at his shoulder.  “Sorry about the makeup all over your coat.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, moving to cup her face with one hand and brush his thumb under her other eye, still wet from tears.  “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. You will be fine. Saranghae.”

[vampthropologist]

I've had this in my head for a while now, so I might as well put it out there.

Here's my Hazbin Hotel Nifty Headcanon for her life as a human:

I had been listening to Housewife Radio by Ghost and Pals on repeat when it inspired me to make this headcanon. Check it out:

Nifty is like Nancy, the singer, in Housewife Radio. Except, Nifty has OCD (I think this is why she cleans the smallest things and needs everything perfect). She planned to be the ‘perfect happy suburban family’ but her husband thought she was controlling. He later got bored and had an affair. Nifty killed the mistress and wore the lady's dress the next day, acting like nothing unusual happened. She blamed the lady for tempting her husband and let him get away with it. She thought he could do no wrong. Her husband had another affair later on, but this time Nifty decided that if her husband couldn't leave her, he wouldn't be tempted by other women. She locks him in the house and calls his job to tell them he is sick and must take a leave of absence. This is believed by her friends and her husban's coworkers because she was seen as the perfect houswife. She cares for him, but he tries to escape. Over time she grew more annoyed with his escape attempts, and kills him in a fit of rage (maybe by impaling him with a skewer, since it is similar to a sewing needle). She keeps his body in bed and believes he is still alive. When it starts to decompose, she moves it to the basement. She talks to her lady friends like her husband is still alive and they have a baby on the way (but of course there is no baby, she's delusional). She says her husband has behaved well, and allows him to go back to work, calling his job to tell them he is okay to go back. She continues sewing and thinks her husband will come back home from work ( similar to how Nancy believes her husband is the voice on the radio), but slowly realizes that he won’t ever return because she killed him so long ago. She tells her friends they had a miscarriag, and stops keeping up her appearance over time ( Nancy slowly looks more depressed throughout the song). Her friends and the husband’s coworkers go to the house to see find out what happened to Nifty and her husband. They find her in the basement pinning an unfinished suit on the body, with the pins in her arms instead of a pincushion (Nancy does this in the song). She is yelling that it was his fault and he didn’t come home on time, he ruined the family by not listening to her, etc. The friends call the cops. They barely recognize her as the perfect suburban housewife everyone knew her as. She makes a movement toward the police who assume she was about to attack with a weapon, so they shoot her (why Nifty has bullet hole designs on her dress in the pilot).

This is just my personal head canon until she gets a backstory episode or something. Feel free to use it in a fanfic if you want.

[papermoonloveslucy]

SPEECH FOR CIVIC ORGANIZATION

February 4, 1949

“Speech for Civic Organization” (aka “Liz Debates Alaska in Town Forum”) is episode #29 of the radio series MY FAVORITE HUSBAND broadcast on February 4, 1949 on the CBS radio network.

Synopsis ~ Liz, anxious to win the approval of an important dinner guest, simply agrees with everything he says. The guest is so impressed with her intelligence that he invites her to be a speaker at his next civic forum.

“My Favorite Husband” was based on the novels Mr. and Mrs. Cugat, the Record of a Happy Marriage (1940) and Outside Eden (1945) by Isabel Scott Rorick, which had previously been adapted into the film Are Husbands Necessary? (1942). “My Favorite Husband” was first broadcast as a one-time special on July 5, 1948. Lucille Ball and Lee Bowman played the characters of Liz and George Cugat, and a positive response to this broadcast convinced CBS to launch “My Favorite Husband” as a series. Bowman was not available Richard Denning was cast as George. On January 7, 1949, confusion with bandleader Xavier Cugat prompted a name change to Cooper. On this same episode Jell-O became its sponsor. A total of 124 episodes of the program aired from July 23, 1948 through March 31, 1951. After about ten episodes had been written, writers Fox and Davenport departed and three new writers took over – Bob Carroll, Jr., Madelyn Pugh, and head writer/producer Jess Oppenheimer. In March 1949 Gale Gordon took over the existing role of George’s boss, Rudolph Atterbury, and Bea Benadaret was added as his wife, Iris. CBS brought “My Favorite Husband” to television in 1953, starring Joan Caulfield and Barry Nelson as Liz and George Cooper. The television version ran two-and-a-half seasons, from September 1953 through December 1955, running concurrently with “I Love Lucy.” It was produced live at CBS Television City for most of its run, until switching to film for a truncated third season filmed (ironically) at Desilu and recasting Liz Cooper with Vanessa Brown.

REGULAR CAST

Lucille Ball (Liz Cooper) was born on August 6, 1911 in Jamestown, New York. She began her screen career in 1933 and was known in Hollywood as ‘Queen of the B’s’ due to her many appearances in ‘B’ movies. With Richard Denning, she starred in a radio program titled “My Favorite Husband” which eventually led to the creation of “I Love Lucy,” a television situation comedy in which she co-starred with her real-life husband, Latin bandleader Desi Arnaz. The program was phenomenally successful, allowing the couple to purchase what was once RKO Studios, re-naming it Desilu. When the show ended in 1960 (in an hour-long format known as “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour”) so did Lucy and Desi’s marriage. In 1962, hoping to keep Desilu financially solvent, Lucy returned to the sitcom format with “The Lucy Show,” which lasted six seasons. She followed that with a similar sitcom “Here’s Lucy” co-starring with her real-life children, Lucie and Desi Jr., as well as Gale Gordon, who had joined the cast of “The Lucy Show” during season two. Before her death in 1989, Lucy made one more attempt at a sitcom with “Life With Lucy,” also with Gordon.

Richard Denning (George Cooper) was born as Louis Albert Heindrich Denninger Jr., in Poughkeepsie, New York. When he was 18 months old, his family moved to Los Angeles. Plans called for him to take over his father’s garment manufacturing business, but he developed an interest in acting. Denning enlisted in the US Navy during World War II. He is best known for his  roles in various science fiction and horror films of the 1950s. Although he teamed with Lucille Ball on radio in “My Favorite Husband,” the two never acted together on screen. While “I Love Lucy” was on the air, he was seen on another CBS TV series, “Mr. & Mrs. North.”  From 1968 to 1980 he played the Governor on “Hawaii 5-0″, his final role. He died in 1998 at age 84.

Ruth Perrott (Katie, the Maid) was also later seen on “I Love Lucy.” She first played Mrs. Pomerantz (above right), a member of the surprise investigating committee for the Society Matrons League in “Pioneer Women” (ILL S1;E25), as one of the member of the Wednesday Afternoon Fine Arts League in “Lucy and Ethel Buy the Same Dress” (ILL S3;E3), and also played a nurse when “Lucy Goes to the Hospital” (ILL S2;E16). She died in 1996 at the age of 96.

Bob LeMond (Announcer) also served as the announcer for the pilot episode of “I Love Lucy”. When the long-lost pilot was finally discovered in 1990, a few moments of the opening narration were damaged and lost, so LeMond – fifty years later – recreated the narration for the CBS special and subsequent DVD release.

Gale Gordon (Rudolph Atterbury) and Bea Benadaret (Iris Atterbury) had not yet joined the cast as regular characters.  

GUEST CAST

Frank Nelson (Mr. Barton) was born on May 6, 1911 (three months before Lucille Ball) in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He started working as a radio announcer at the age of 15. He later appeared on such popular radio shows as “The Great Gildersleeve,” “Burns and Allen,” and “Fibber McGee & Molly”. This is one of his 11 performances on “My Favorite Husband.”  On “I Love Lucy” he holds the distinction of being the only actor to play two recurring roles: Freddie Fillmore and Ralph Ramsey, as well as six one-off characters, including the frazzled train conductor in “The Great Train Robbery” (ILL S5;E5), a character he repeated on “The Lucy Show.”  Aside from Lucille Ball, Nelson is perhaps most associated with Jack Benny and was a fifteen-year regular on his radio and television programs.

Steve Allen (Scott Campbell, Expert on Alaska) was a talk show and variety host as well as a published composer. Although he was seen with Lucille Ball on awards and quiz shows, their first time acting together on screen didn’t come until 1978′s “Lucy Calls The President”.  In 1980, Ball appeared on the premiere of “The Steve Allen Comedy Hour”. He died in 2000 at age 78. 

TRIVIA: Madelyn Pugh and Bob Carroll Jr. were writers for the Steve Allen radio show and left that job to write for “My Favorite Husband.”  They paid Allen to write his own show one week so they could focus on creating a script submission for “My Favorite Husband.”

EPISODE

ANNOUNCER: “As we look in on the Coopers tonight, they’ve settled down for a quiet evening at home. Liz has discovered an intelligence quiz in a magazine, but she’s having George’s attention, because he is lost in a gripping, blood-curdling murder mystery.” 

George is reading��“The Mummy’s Tummy” but Liz spoils the ending to get his attention. George can’t seem to answer any of the IQ questions correctly. 

Q: “What is the name for the chemical formula H2S04?”  

A: Sulfuric Acid

Q: “What does it say on the lid of a United States mailbox?” 

A: Pull Down

Q: “For what was Ma Ferguson noted?” 

A: The first woman Governor of Texas

George decides to quiz Liz, asking her a few questions. 

Q: “What is the poop deck of the ship?” 

Liz’s Answer: “The deck where the sailor’s rest when they’re pooped.”

Real Answer: “A raised portion of the rear deck.” 

Q: “Does sound travel faster or slower in water than it does in air?” 

Liz’s Answer: “Next question.”

Q: “Chicle is the main ingredient in chewing gum. Where is the largest deposit found?”

Liz’s Answer: “Under theatre seats.”

Liz realizes that they aren’t very smart and should probably do something about it. Dr. Guilfoyle, author of the quiz, suggests that a score under 50 needs to be addressed.  

Liz is going to send for his book “How To Improve Yourself.” 

LIZ: “Look at the people who recommend this book: Truman and Goldwyn.” GEORGE: “Harry Truman and Sam Goldwyn?” LIZ: “No, Sam Truman and Harry Goldwyn!” 

Harry Truman (1884-1972) was the 33rd president of the United States from 1945 to 1953, succeeding Franklin D. Roosevelt after his death. He implemented the Marshall Plan to rebuild the economy of Western Europe, and established the Truman Doctrine and NATO. Sam Goldwyn (1879 -1974) was a film producer best known as the founder of several motion picture studios in Hollywood. 

A few days later, the book has arrived and Katie the Maid notices Liz is engrossed in it. Liz states that the Doctor has three rules to impress people: 

Learn Ten New Words a Day

Be a Good Listener

Have One Subject Down Cold So You Can Steer The Conversation Around To It

Liz’s has already got her ten new words and has put them in a sentence.

LIZ: “By assiduous application, I have promulgated a plethora of altruistic ubiquity and lugubrious perspicacity.”

The telephone rings, it is George telling Liz he is bringing home an important person named Mr. Barton, to dinner.  

LIZ: “How important is he, George? Sirloin, T-bone, meatloaf, or hash?” GEORGE: “Strictly sirloin.” 

George explains that Mr. Barton is the one who picks the speakers for the open forums in town. George wants to get picked to be one of the first speakers so he can impress his boss, Mr. Atterbury, and possibly land a raise. George warns Liz to be herself and not try to impress him. 

Liz decides to enact rule #3 and cracks open an encyclopedia to pick the subject.  Much to her surprise, the subject she randomly picks is bees!   Walking up to the house that evening, Mr. Barton (Frank Nelson) confides in George that he is looking forward to meeting a simple housewife, since in his line of work the women are always trying too hard to impress him with their intellect.   George introduces Liz to Mr. Barton, who immediately notices that her vocabulary is amped up. Unfortunately, Liz is using the wrong words most of the time, saying ‘plethora’ for ‘pleasure’ and ‘diversify yourself’ for ‘divert yourself.’

George assures a nervous Mr. Barton that Liz is ‘just an old fashioned girl’.

MR. BARTON: “Sounds like she’s had too many Old- Fashioneds!” 

An Old Fashioned is a cocktail made by mixing sugar with bitters and water, adding whiskey or brandy, and garnishing with orange zest and a cocktail cherry. It is traditionally served in a special glass called an Old Fashioned glass.  A variation on this wordplay was used on “I Love Lucy” in “Million Dollar Idea” (ILL S3;E13) in 1954 when Lucy (disguised as an average housewife selected at random) describes the taste of Aunt Martha’s Old Fashioned Salad Dressing to deliberately encourage buyers to cancel. 

LUCY: “Looks like Aunt Martha had too many Old-Fashioneds!” 

In the kitchen, George tells Liz to stop using fancy words, so Liz moves on to rule #3 - her special subject: bees!  She no sooner starts buzzing about bees when she is chided by George. 

GEORGE (sternly aside): “Liz! Haven’t you forgotten? Mr. Barton’s forum!” LIZ: “Well, I’m for ‘em, too!”

Coincidentally, Lucille Ball was one of several actors known as ‘Queen of the ‘B’s’ - which referred to ‘B’ pictures - films that were done quickly, on a budget, with lesser-known actors. In 1963′s “Lucy’s Barbershop Quartet” (TLS S1;E19) Lucy suggests they sing about bees! 

Mr. Barton tells George he is going to sponsor a Shakespearean Company, if they can convince the City Council to fund them. 

LIZ: “To bee or not to bee!” 

"To be, or not to be" is the opening of a soliloquy by Prince Hamlet in William Shakespeare's play Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1. In the speech, Hamlet contemplates death and suicide. It is one of the most quoted phrases in all of literature. To Be or Not to Be is a also the title of a 1942 film starring Lucille Ball’s good friend Carole Lombard and Jack Benny, who later became her next door neighbor. The plot concerns a troupe of actors in Nazi-occupied Poland. The film was released one month after Lombard was killed in an airplane crash.

George drags Liz into the hall again, warning her to stop talking about bees! After telling him to “mind his own beeswax”, Liz reluctantly agrees just to listen attentively and agree with everything Mr. Barton says. This works so well, that Mr. Barton barely acknowledges George, but only talks to Liz!  He is so impressed by Liz, he offers to have her on the panel of their very first forum on Saturday night!  She instantly agrees!

Two days later she learns that the forum’s topic is “the effect of jet propulsion and supersonic flight on the future of aviation.” But Liz is un-phased. She has been preparing by buying a new dress, which she tells George has ‘a dive bomb neckline.’  

George and Liz role play to prepare for the forum. Against George’s advice, Liz intends to talk about the Wright Brothers!  

Orville and Wilbur Wright were inventors and pioneers of aviation. In 1903 the Wright brothers achieved the first powered, sustained and controlled airplane flight; they surpassed their own milestone two years later when they built and flew the first fully practical airplane.

At the meeting that night, Mr. Barton announces to the assembled crowd that their aviation expert, Colonel Davis, could not make it. 

MR. BARTON: “He started her from Los Angeles, but he got slightly mixed up in a snowstorm and has just cabled us from Bombay, India.”

Bombay, India is the capital city of the Indian state of Maharashtra. It was formerly renamed Mumbai in 1995 to better reflect the city’s roots and cut ties with its British origins. Coincidentally, a few months after this broadcast, the 1942 film Bombay Clipper was re-released. Although the Lucy gang never traveled to Bombay, it was mentioned in 1955′s “The Hedda Hopper Story” (ILL S4;E21) when everyone was looking for Mrs. McGillicuddy. 

RICKY (Into phone): “Do you have any flights numbered 930? You do? Where's it coming in from? Bombay?” LUCY: “Bombay?” RICKY: “Well knowing your mother... No, even she wouldn't fly from New York to Los Angeles by way of India.”

Instead, Mr. Barton announces that the guest speaker is a famous authority on Alaska, Mr. Scott Campbell (Steve Allen). Unfortunately, Liz knows nothing about Alaska - so she starts to talk about the Wright Brothers instead!

In 1949 Alaska was not yet one of the United States, but was a US territory. The statehood movement gained its first real momentum in 1946 and Alaska was officially proclaimed a state on January 3, 1959. To mark this event, Desilu created a special episode of “The Westinghouse Desilu Playhouse” in which the Ricardos and Mertzes travel to Nome to cash in on a land deal, although no actual filming was done in the 49th state. 

In 1952’s “Lucy Gets Ricky on the Radio” (ILL S1;E32) Lucy presciently (but incorrectly) answers the question “What was the last state to be admitted to the union?” by saying Alaska. At the time, the correct answer to the question was Arizona, admitted on Valentine’s Day 1912.

MR. BARTON: “No!  When are you going to get to Alaska?”  LIZ: “Let me get the plane invented and I’ll fly up there!” 

With nothing else to talk about, Liz starts to talk about bees, but Mr. Barton quickly cuts her off and turns the podium over to Mr. Campbell, who launches into a serious speech about the welfare of the children of Alaska. He suddenly turns to Liz and asks “Who is responsible for these children, Mrs. Cooper?” 

LIZ: “You really want me to answer that?  Wilbur and Orville Wright!” 

In the bedtime tag, it is 4 o’clock in the morning and Liz is eating crackers in bed. Wrestling them away from her, George gets cracker crumbs all over the bed. A few seconds later, Liz is eating an apple!  George takes it from her. He hears her eating a third time and goes to grab whatever it is away from her.  

GEORGE: “Whoah!  What was that!” LIZ: “A glass of cold milk. Goodnight, George.”

End of Episode

Bob LeMond reminds listeners that Lucille Ball will soon be seen in the Paramount Picture Sorrowful Jones. 

[iluvtv]

Still Watching: A Love Letter to my Mom

The content below has not been censored for your consideration as neither the Real Housewives nor my mother would have approved of such blasphemy.

The decline in blogging was conveniently intentional.

There were other projects.

My career as a TV critic wasn’t exactly gaining steam.

My readership technically wasn’t booming.

For a time there had been an unmistakable fulfillment in my blogging habits.

Full disclosure: this work held undeniable titillation, provoked as it were by the vain echoes of my own subconscious. It was too enticing not to indulge  the ego, booming, unselfconsciously through the page as I “eloquently” deciphered probable intentions of a writer’s room.

But was this self-aggrandizing, albeit surely intellectually stimulating task truly worthwhile?

I kept falling back on this tricky notion of time management. Was taking copious amounts of notes regarding my viewing habits (a laborious task which required endless rewinds and thusly an inability to watch TV with others) coupled with the studious investment of actually researching and writing a cohesive piece which included a clear argument for television as a medium and thereby proving a consistent thesis, truly a valuable use of my time?

Not to mention, of course, the added effort of finagling my mother to invest her energies toward a strong copy-edit.

It was an investment, sure. But then again none of it was necessarily difficult at least in the classical sense of the word.

Actually, the engaging my mother bit was sort of easy. Not only was I skilled at the subtle art of stroking of her ego; “Your attention to detail is just so much better than mine. You are so smart…” I also possessed a valuable trump card which, admittedly, brought as much pleasure as my own voice: she actually liked my writing!

To have known my mother is to know what a huge compliment this fan-dom truly was.

My mother was proudly authentic. She had no shame over her inability to “fake it”.

This personality trait demanded a certain dedication on her part. She was famous for telling my girlfriends they looked like sluts at our eighth-grade dance and embarrassing fits at the market while her younger children tried to disappear into the kid’s seat of the shopping cart. Patronizing eye rolls were par for the course. When a third grade Hebrew School teacher lauded my literary skills my loving, supportive mother made it abundantly clear she didn’t think I was a bad writer but maybe just too… precious?

Admittedly, poetry about attempted genocide from an eight-year-old may hold some tonal issues.

No matter, after 30 years of practice I had found my niche. I was everything she seemed to be looking for in a writer: I would rather drink turpentine than emote and I like really “got” satire. Finally, my words were funny and thusly, the woman who had helped foster this cynical humor had little trouble understanding my intentions.

We fell into lockstep. Her killer, critical eye and unparalleled editing skills were a welcomed privilege. I was no longer precious. A trait which carried over in my ability to “take a note.” I fully understood the value of a critical red pen from a grammar die-hard. Particularly one, who not only had a deep ceded appreciation for my style (she helped cultivate it, after all) but also a keen understanding of the objective, which only a mother could boast.

I was fully aware what a priceless service this was.

And so, I kept watching. My notetaking became obsessive. Whenever I pondered this expense of time, I considered the reality: rewriting dialogue was improving my own. I was becoming a better writer.

Since both my mother and I were committing countless hours to the free and underappreciated service of my viewing recommendations, it didn’t take long for the shows and topics I bothered dissecting to be unequivocally dictated by her unapologetic tastes. Or better stated, my own experience of such.

As an aside, I’d be remiss not to note that in losing both my parents it has become abundantly clear that one’s guardians (especially good ones) mostly exist in relation to ourselves and our already noted inflated egos.

Basically, the television I studied, the theories I pondered, the conclusions I drew had to appeal in large part to Dale Allen Boland. This was a nuanced role. An honest woman of remarkable talent she also happened to be the strict television gatekeeper of my childhood. Back in the 90’s a desire for this blue light pulsed through my veins like an addict in search of her next hit. I hadn’t been picky at all back then. This was a time in my life when even Jerry Springer reruns in black and white, streamed through bunny ears in my Jr. High weight room took the edge off.

To be frank, while at first her editing felt crucial so as not to embarrass myself on the interwebs it soon became clear that the bigger part of my ask was just any sort of consistent audience. In time it became obvious that my mother hadn’t only become a fan, but she was, in fact, my blog’s only fan.

And as any good writer knows, you gotta’ appeal to your base.

It helped, of course, that my mother had been my earliest educator (dictator) of media. The San Francisco Chronicle’s Datebook and the New Yorker were mainstays next to the can, meaning my earliest poos were made all the more pleasurable by the accompaniment of Adair Lara and John Carrol. By 34 I was not only well versed in what she found tolerable, but also possessed a keen understanding of how to stylize this appeal.

Simpsons? Yes. Danielle Steele? Not so much. Had she given Danielle an opportunity? Of course not! But I was willing to play her game.

We both were expending a lot of energies at this point and since any real readership was in the slim to none margins it was crucial that we at least reward ourselves.

In retrospect I understand that this was actually how we enjoyed time together.

After she died my father noted that my mother and I had always shared a very special intellectual connection. A greater compliment than sharing a literary bond with Dale had never been given. In fact, in my father’s wake it is easy to see that this final gift from him may have been the most important. In saying so, he finally acknowledged what I’d always longed to hear. He respected, perhaps even envied not only my intelligence, but my mother’s too.

While I had given up on blogging years before their deaths, my diligent notetaking continued up until them. I accepted that my time critiquing television for free to a marginal audience had not been without purpose (though I missed the motive of the maternal connection it fostered until just now). I am well aware that through my efforts I had gained the confidence to write a novel. I understood that to maintain this skill set a continued attention to television’s minutia was critical.

But then, she died. Suddenly, grief allowed me space to achieve an entirely different and antithetical goal I’d set years earlier and had made no real efforts to achieve: to do less.

Finally I was able to let thoughts wave over me. I allowed flashes of “brilliance” to be fleeting. I relaxed into a space of agitated ease. I exclusively sought joy. In doing so I concurrently and without coincidence leaned into a brand of watching which had always been considered “just desserts.”

Bravo TV became a life raft. I watched Real Housewives and Summerhouse with a certain amused stillness I hadn’t exhibited since my complacent years as a co-ed.

The day following my mother’s memorial I listened to “Radio Andy” on Siris XM in a monotonous loop throughout the entire 6-hour drive home. I slept to Bravo podcasts. I read tweets from Bravo fan accounts during session breaks.

I noticed Bravo was keeping me smiling. The network and commentary was rewarding me with a source to which I could focus. I appreciated the humor.

Two months later my father died. Mind blank I leaned in harder to the quiet blankness this watching served.

But then, I noticed something.

Watching Kathryn Dennis of Southern Charm open a coke can with her teeth in a loudly expensive living room, next to her foam roller it occurred to me that these women were the antithesis of my own mother.

Vicky Gunvalson whooping it up at a classy resort represented everything my mother had no tolerance for.

To see these women as satirical requires a certain level of empathy for their antics that would have eluded Dale.

Their bad behavior was just too black and white. For my mom there would have been nothing charmingly relatable about a woman like Lisa Barlow of Salt Lake City, placatingly sipping a constant stream of fountain soda through a plastic straw while proudly bragging she wasn’t “like a regular mom,” proving this factoid by feeding her children drive through fast-food for every meal and ignoring their calls when she was at a party.

These are women that bat fake eyelashes and scream at each other through plastic pumped lips. They float effortlessly in azul pools in Mexico boosted by the silicone in their tits.

My mom also wasn’t a regular mom but she wouldn’t have found this indulgent brand of opulence at all inspirational, aspirational or relatable. She did not identify as a “powerhouse” or a woman who needed to tell other women that she “lifted up other women” over an expensive cocktail brunch with “40 of her closest girlfriends” all of whom wielded designer purses like coats of armor.

This trope, repeated often throughout every Housewives franchise for the past 20 years would have just pissed my mother off.

It’s not that she didn’t relate to women behaving badly this just wasn’t her brand of bad behavior. She maybe could have sympathized if they’d been wearing Walmart rather than Prada.

Lorelai Gilmore? Sure, why not? Emily Gilmore? Definitely not.

It’s funny because in a certain sense my mother’s proud authenticity and lack of shame in her outbursts would have made her an ideal housewife. But the weight these women put on things and beauty would have been too damn distracting to her.  

In spite of being a woman whose love language was often a good screaming match she would have found any and all of the dramatic fights on Housewives absolutely insufferable.

And in spite of my deep love for the genre, convincing Dale that any of this was actually satire worth watching would have been an exercise in futility.

I embraced this factoid quietly and with little work on my end (other than setting the DVR to catch up on back seasons of Atlanta) I leaned into a space which never would have been tolerated.

It felt good.

It was my own.

In doing so, I came up with a million things about Bravo to share. Perhaps one day I will. God knows I need to create a new fan base.

But before I could even consider either changing the channel or sitting down to a blog analyzing how one housewife’s ludicrous and racist notion that eating chicken feet was somehow any different than eating chicken nuggets, I got this text from my mom’s best friend: “have you seen Derry Girls.”

Maybe an audience was asking for a resurrection, after all.

But as I flipped to Netflix and started a new note labeled “Derry Girls” it occurred to me that I first must come to terms with how much things have changed.

There is a certain level of self-actualization left amidst the cluttered grief of losing my parents. As I write this, I am continuously tempted to take a break for “Mom’s consideration”. Her feedback would have supplied an unrequited serotonin boost, like a gentle promise to my oh so evasive ego that there was purpose in my efforts, that the writing I was doing was valuable. When my mom was alive I always knew that someone would appreciate my continued efforts, making it tolerable to finish, and tidy, and publish. My mother was like a promise that not only my words but also I myself was worthwhile.

This chore of loving, maternal reassurance is, of course, now my own. A truth my mother, who never needed to brag about lifting up other women, would have celebrated.

Nothing would have made my mom happier than me making my own choices, editing my own words and being my own cheerleader Perhaps she died just to prove it. To know Dale Allen Boland is to suspend belief that she maybe could have made her last stubborn point through such dramatic means.

And to be totally frank; that is a storyline not even a housewife could pull off.

Thank you for being my greatest cheerleader. I love you Mom.

[aceyanaheim]

Dream Daddy Head-canons No One Asked For.

It’s Hurricane Time and I got bored. ( Keep in mind I’m still finishing the game) 

Robert’s been to jail before, misdemeanors and petty crime.

After getting bailed out he was made to work at the shelter with Mary and Damian.

His first reaction to seeing a shih-tzu was to shake it repeatedly because “What the fuck? Is this a dog or a rat?”

Damian had a talk with him about different breeds and “please refrain from shaking the living creatures in this facility, especially the small ones. We..kind of need them alive.”

That’s actually where he got Betsy. For all his hangups about smaller dogs who “don’t look like dogs” Robert wound up turning into a marshmallow around them.

Mary may or may not have arranged for him to adopt Betsy after seeing how good the volunteering did for Robert ( he drank and smoked less, tried to show up on time, he was always happy around the dogs)

She kinda wishes she had given him a bigger dog when the first thing Robert did was try to hunt for cryptids in the dead of the goddamn night. (Betsy’s a tough pup though. She does okay at keeping her human safe.)

Brian makes lasagna for Daisy every first day of school ( it’s her favorite dish)

Both Brian and Joseph have very...open reactions to anyone who suggests parents with Neuroatypical kids are burdened or need a support group.

They might or might not have egged the car of the last person who said that.

Brian and Daisy go on a camping trip the week before school starts every year.

Daisy’s first fishing rod was this tiny pink for-toddlers-rod that she still keeps to this day.

Amanda tutors Daisy in Social Studies, Daisy ends up helping her with English. ( that kid is smart) 

Lucien has the best English grade in Hugo’s junior class.

No one but Mary knows that it’s because when he was little he and Damien would have readings of Victorian novels.

Sometimes Mary and her kids would come along.

Lucien actually winds up babysitting the Christiansen kids a lot.

It is entirely possible that he’s the one who taught them to amp up the creepy twin factor to keep bullies away.

It is also entirely possible he makes sure he scares off the ones that the twins don’t creep out.

Not that he’ll ever fess up to it.

Christopher's middle name is Robin ( because Mary couldn’t resist)

Christian and Christie’s middle names are Matthew and Ruth respectively.

Mary and Joseph may or may not have been trying to outdo each other on who could come up with the most religious name.

Mary’s still not sure how much morphine she was on that she allowed that but she’s decided her kids just need enough confidence to carry the -slightly ridiculous- names.

Crish lucked out -sorta?- and didn’t get an uber religious name.

Chris spends a lot of time with Crish while the twins wander off. He almost prefers to hang out with his baby sibling over anyone else.

Carmencita and Ernest switch to Spanish at near every social gathering and it drives everyone up the wall.

Robert always eggs them on, he likes the chaos.

Robert also refuses to tell just where the hell he learned Spanish “it’s classified”

Robert has G.A.D. which he self-medicates for both by drinking and smoking

The dads have actually talked about getting him to quit because “Jesus Robert you’re not even like a chill stoned person. You get outright paranoid.”

Having Betsy helps him with it a lot. He has to keep things away from her so she won’t get into them and sometimes it leads to him even forgetting he has it.

Robert has a weird rule about smoking in front of the kids. He just won’t.

Lucien finds this hilarious and kind of annoying because “I’m your provider!”

“Well yeah but you’re still a kid”

Daisy learned to read when she was four. Brian found her hoarding t.v. manuals and car magazines and fishing books and..basically if it had letters in it she had it in her room.

She at one point made a fort out of them. He still has the pictures.

Chris scripts and stims a lot. He usually sings songs he hears on the radio and rocks on his feet. He’ll occasionally repeat lines from his favorite movies.

The real reason the twins were quoting The Shining was they grew up around Chris scripting and...also started talking in t.v. quotes ( since to them it just looked like A Thing Chris was doing)

The three of them can actually speak to each other in t.v. quotes and understand each other completely. ( everyone else, however, is clueless. No one’s figured out how to get them to stop. Robert also thinks this is hilarious.)

No one can figure out if it’s better or worse than Ernest and Carmencita's  bilingual shtick.

Both Hugo and Mat slip into Spanish from time to time.

Hugo has family in the Dominican Republic and P.R. but also in New York. ( it’s where his parents emigrated to)

Ernest actually really doesn’t like his name.

He went up to his dad once with a two-page long list of Hispanic Authors and asked why he couldn’t be named after one of those.

Hugo and went on to answer that he had family members named Usnavi and Usmail and Hugo’s middle name was Valentino and “honestly, just count your blessings-no you’re not drinking coffee.”

He was secretly really impressed because damn these were good authors and his kid knew about them? Since when? ( why isn’t he getting better grades?)

Craig spent a good amount after college just...drifting. He went there because he was told to and didn’t really find his drive for doing something until much later in life.

Because of that he kinda gets Robert. He can tell he’s kinda lost too.

Lucien used to have a baby cape.

He still dresses up in Victorian clothes for his dad’s birthday and special occasions.

A lot of conversations about media analysis between Mat and Hugo usually wind up with their kids weighing in.

Ernest tends to take Mat’s side just to be contrarian but he’s learned a lot about his dad from listening to his side of the conversations.

Mary has a favorite dog at the shelter. It’s this scraggly looking greyhound mix she named Stella.

Damian’s the only one who knows, she’s sworn him to secrecy.

She’s that volunteer that checks out all adoptees and flirts her way into convinces people to take “risky” cases home.

Damian wants to be mad but...well it’s not like it doesn’t work. He hates that they can’t use a kill-free policy, with Mary terrifying everyone they kinda do.

Damian Mary and Joseph all go way back. They met a youth service.

Mary was notorious for getting into and starting fights back then.  She had opinions on how Christianity saw a lot of things and no actual fucks to give about arguing with teachers and preachers and other students alike.

She usually wound up kicked out of Youth Ministry/Religion Class ten minutes in. You could set your time by it.

“Oh nooo now I get to do whatever the damn hell I want for thirty minutes whatever will I do with myself”

If Damian hadn’t been there, no one’s sure how long she-or the church would have lasted.

Mary was that Christian girl. The one that rebels hard and parties harder. The church was small, and every knew and talked about what she did and who she did it with and it made her smile.

When Damien started transitioning anyone from the Youth Group who so much as looked at him crooked inherently made things physical. ( but damn if Mary didn’t scare everyone just by looking at them. )

That’s where Joseph meets her. Joseph, who looked the part of the rebel, with black leather and piercings but whose biggest act of rebellion itself is sneaking rock music past his Very Christian Parents.

Mary takes one look at him trying to be “bad” and nearly bursts out laughing all the same feeling fondness for the kid. She figures if she doesn’t keep an eye on this dork, someone’s gonna eat him. 

Friendships can come from a lot less.

It’s the softness in Joseph that really gets to Mary, the same softness she found in Damian. It’s the fact that he refuses to judge her, it’s the fact that he nearly bursts out laughing at every argument she starts with other people. That’s where the friendship’s really born. That’s when she starts trusting him. By the end of the year, he’s as close to her as Damian. ( and she’s just as willing to tear people apart for him)

There’s a lot of conflicts and tears for the three of them on their orientations ( because no, Mary isn’t straight either) and their religion and their faith and those who share it. There were nights spent at couches where Mary couldn’t stand to be with her parents and long silent months were Joseph just went radio silent. ( Damian’s parents were actually hella accepting and the main crashing place but Damian had things to deal with too)

It’s what made Joseph want to be a Youth Pastor. He wanted a church that was friendly, he wanted to keep his faith. He wanted to keep other children from not feeling safe in a place where you’re supposed to. He wanted to tell kids that things always get better. He signed up for a degree in Biblical Studies the moment he was able to.

They moved to the same neighborhood on purpose, the three of them ( and Lucien eventually) like it always was.

Mary started dealing with depression after having Chris.

A big contributing factor was that Joseph had the ministry and Damien had Lucien and Mary...Mary didn’t have anything. She had no life outside of being a housewife. Eventually, Chris went to school and she had nothing to do but keep house.

It started slow but it grew, she was told having more kids would help ( and when she held the twins, she was happy.) but of course it didn’t make things better.

It’s really what killed her relationship with Joseph. It killed her a little each day too. She was told she’d be happy if she married and had kids, she wanted to be happy ( so why wasn’t she?)

She started resenting him, resenting her life, feeling trapped in it. This is around the time she befriended Robert.

Robert, who also hated himself, and his life, who was also miserable. Robert who she could tell her worst thoughts to ( “sometimes I wish I wasn’t a mom. What kind of parent am I” “Trust me I’ve seen worse”) things she wouldn’t want to tell Joseph, things she couldn’t even tell Damian.

Their friendship is based on wasted chances and miserable thoughts and an unabashed acceptance of both.

When she found out he slept with Joseph she gave him the silent treatment for a month. ( Damian of all people told him off. Mary’s still his best friend. This isn’t done.)

Eventually, Robert wears her down, begs her to get a drink and says he’s miserable and sorry and miserable and the next morning he makes her a hangover remedy at his house and they bury the hatchet.

Robert tries to bury an actual hatchet in the backyard, Mary laughs calls him an idiot and “where did you even get a hatchet” “shh don’t worry about it” and that’s when they actually make up.

Joseph took up carpentry as a hobby ( he thinks it’s funny how it plays into his name.) he built the kids a treehouse in the backyard and has made them a couple of toys.

Mary always loved horses. It’s something she shares with Christie, who she’s indulged in exactly 245 My Little Pony dolls.

One of Chris’ special interests is fishing lures ( not even fishing just the different kind of lures you can use) he’ll talk Brian’s ear off about it whenever he can find him.

One of Daisy’s special interests is marine animals, she’ll talk Hugo’s ear off whenever she can find him.

Ernest is absolutely not jealous about his dad talking to this other kid. Nope.

Mat’s coffee shop became The Place Where All The Kids hang out ( a few of them want to work there) and he’s somehow become the person they all talk to if they ever have a problem they can’t talk to their dad about. ( Also Pablo’s there and Pablo’s hot, and the older kids can appreciate that)

Unlike Ernest, Carmencita doesn’t mind sharing her dad. She’s actually gotten really good at advice and conflict resolution because of all the problems the others ( including Pablo) ask Mat’s help with.

Because all the parents get together so often -apparently- for barbeques and stuff the kids have kind of made up their minds that they’re all their parents. They have a dad for each occasion. If someone picks on you? Go to Brian, he’s the one who will tell you ( and teach you to throw a punch, just ask Daisy)  Homework problem? Go to Hugo. Fashion advice? Go to Damian.

There have also been talks had by some of the kids about whose parents could end up with whose. ( except for the Christiansen kids.) 

They might or might not be keeping an eye on Dadsona and who xe winds up dating.

[joey-gatorman]

“Take It Easy Before Dinner”

Fini-Mun’s posted some terrific, informative retro food posts on his tumblr lately, so in honor of this I would like to post excerpts from a 1945 cookbook by Ruth Langland Holberg entitled Take It Easy Before Dinner. No pictures, but the written goodies within tell tales of mid-1940s America. As an example I would like to start off by posting her introduction in full, written mostly with the housewife in mind:

INTRODUCTION

HUSBAND

I believe that the hour before dinner should be gracious and peaceful with no creaking of domestic machinery, or frequent and frantic trips to the kitchen. This is the time when menfolks are home from work and the time when the best meal of the day should be planned for their pleasure. Men enjoy a cocktail or a quiet chat with an unhurried companion. They like to listen to the radio and make informative remarks on the news to the lady of their choice. If you don’t agree with his views, save your comments for after dinner. A man’s disposition after a good meal is enormously improved.

GUESTS

If you are having a party and the guests are present, you can be as calm and relaxed as though a battery of efficient maids were in charge of the kitchen. The well-known panic of wondering whether the dinner will be successful and whether the guests will enjoy the evening will be eased off if you are not scrambling around the kitchen with one eye on the clock and the other on the food you are preparing. To be cook, hostess and waitress and to preserve tranquility is not impossible if you know that nothing in the kitchen needs your attention this last hour. You can receive your guests and stay with them until cocktails are over.

EVERYDAY

For everyday living these recipes will suit the clubwoman or give a free afternoon for a matinee, shopping or charity work. They will suit the career woman or the woman who has a maid mornings only. A part-time maid can prepare things ahead of time if you have her use this book. If you are an author, painter, musician or teacher, this is the book for you. It sounds like a sales talk, you say. Well, it is. You will find these recipes really work.

BABIES

If you have babies, it is possible for this hour to be given to putting the infants to bed. Small children in the family can be given this time for reading and repeating their prayers, with your undivided attention.

WORKING GIRL

Are you a working girl or a busy executive wondering how you can find time to entertain guests at dinner? These recipes are designed for you. Many of these dishes can be made the night before, kept in the refrigerator and baker or reheated with no bothersome watching. Long, slow cooking develops and blends flavors. All dishes that need high heat and fast cooking are left out of this book. There will be no smoke from the broiler and no smell of chops permeating the small apartment the night you are having guests. This is the complaint of one of my friends. That’s why she says she is all agog waiting for this book.

METHOD

The secret of leisure simply is careful planning. My method of giving a dinner party is this. Several days beforehand I write down a menu suitable to the time of the year, my finances (usually low) and what the markets have to offer. I look over my collection of recipes and, after selecting a main dish, I check over my supplies at hand and make a list of what to buy. If I am increasing the recipe to serve eight or more instead of four, I multiply carefully because I am an idiot at figures.

It has been a hobby of mine to collect recipes from the magazines, newspapers and my friends. They are filed in stout envelopes that once brought me a monthly poetry magazine. The women’s magazines print delectable streamlined recipes that you should clip for your files. The food ads are worth reading and all their free booklets are an addition to the cook’s library. Experts on the radio give you all sorts of good ideas.

HERE’S HOW

I make out a menu that can be prepared a day before or during the morning of the day. I have never been able to give an entire day to party preparations. I have too many other irons in the fire. I set the table during the afternoon for a sit-down or a buffet meal. Dishes to be used in serving are laid out on the kitchen table. The dessert dishes and silver are ready, the tray of coffee cups, the tray of cocktail glasses and a bowl for cocktail crackers are arranged. Coffee is measured into the drip pot. Water for it will be set boiling when the dessert is being taken in from the kitchen. Everything that should be chilled—tomato juice, fruit juice, butter, the salad etc.—is in the refrigerator.

GREENS

When greens arrive from the store they should be washed, drained and patted partly dry with a dish towel. A head of lettuce soaked in ice water, the core removed, then kept in a covered dish, will stay fresh and crisp for an amazingly long time. The same goes for celery. Other greens are stored in a covered pan in the refrigerator. Keep parsley and watercress in covered jars after they have been washed. The salad for dinner can be mixed and kept in a covered bowl. But for goodness’ sake, don’t add the dressing until time to serve it, or the greens will wilt.

FRENCH DRESSING

Make a large jar of French dressing and keep it in the refrigerator. A clove of garlic should repose in its depths. Shake well before using. A refrigerator can do a lot of work for you. Be sure to let it.

ODDS AND ENDS

Vegetables can be prepared during odd moments. The main dish has been made ready and is either waiting to be baked, reheated or assembled. Rolls are in a paper bag to be heated a few minutes in the oven. Look around and check up on everything.

Now, this is important for your peace of mind and an uncluttered kitchen. There should not be an unwashed dish or pan in the kitchen. Clean up as you go along. Now you can put on your party dress and relax.

INCREASING RECIPES

This is a very personal and informal cook book. The recipes have been tried many times. They are designed for four or six people as a rule, but they can be increased to serve twelve or sixteen people with very little more work than is needed to prepare for four.

GUEST HELP

When you are having guests for dinner, delegate one of the men to help you. Let your husband remain at the table chatting with the guests. It causes less flurry and your helper is flattered. He can carry the plates and silver to the kitchen where you scrape, rinse and stack neatly.

DESSERT AND COFFEE

Get the dessert ready for him to carry in to the table. Pour boiling water in the drip coffee pot and join your guests, bringing in the coffee tray at the same time. Perhaps you missed some good jokes and witty remarks, but your guests are having a good time. It looks as in the party were a success.

Finally, you say when the last drop of coffee has been sipped, “Let’s find more comfortable chairs.” Men get restless if kept too long in the same chair. Or else, serve coffee in another room from a low table. Someone takes the last dishes to the kitchen. You scrape, rinse and stack them and put away leftovers. I hope you have a little mirror in the kitchen with a lipstick and some face powder. Make a few repairs if your face needs it. Turn out the light and proceed to enjoy the rest of the evening as much as you did the first.

DISH WASHING

Those stacked dishes can be washed in a jiffy when the party is over. It is fun to talk over the evening with your husband and to hear the stories you missed while you were out of the room. Your husband will hardly know he is drying the dishes, especially after a jolly evening.

KEEP ON HAND

ADD IMAGINATION TO THESE

Biscuit mixes, muffin mixes, cake and pie mixes.

Pudding and gelatines in packages.

Cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, cloves, allspice, ginger, mustard.

Vanilla, lemon, orange, mint and almond extracts.

Celery salt, celery seeds, onion and garlic salts, curry powder, chili powder, parsley flakes.

Dehydrated sauces, such as mushroom, spaghetti, white and brown.

A SUGGESTION

Examine the grocer’s shelves for new products and try all short cuts.

Do a lot of canning and preserving or else buy relishes, jams, jellies, chutney and chili sauce.

There are many sets of herbs with directions for use. The most valuable to me are tarragon, basil, thyme, dill, parsley and chives. There are some mixtures suitable for meat dishes or cheese dishes and there are soup bags for different kinds of soups.

Doughnuts, cakes, cookies and pies bought from a fine bakery will save baking. Ice cream and sherbet are perfect desserts. I have included a few of my favorite desserts.

Buy good coffee and serve it hot or iced with every dinner.

Every now and then have an old-fashioned baking day and turn out a batch of cookies or a fat layer cake with a delicate filling and frosted to perfection. Make a pie and keep some pastry in the refrigerator for another day.

How about a special coffee cake or fancy bread or tiny rolls? And by all means, bake bread. The delectable aroma of bread baking is wonderful in a house and homemade bread is wonderful to eat, too.

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Soft Names, Soft Touches

Chapter Nine

Previous Chapter*

Pairing: Bucky x OC | Word Count: 4.2K+

Warnings: Angst. Russian that may or may not be correct.

 Folding in the middle, Franki dove under the water and pushed against the wall with her feet as she started a new lap.

It had been nearly three weeks since the morning she’d woken up in Bucky’s bed. She’d come awake to find her pillow much too warm, rising and falling beneath her ear, a steady beat thumping away in it, and had lifted her head to discover her arm wrapped low over Bucky’s waist and her pillow his spectacular abdominals. Her leg was thrown over his thigh, her knee resting dangerously close to a vital part of his anatomy, and her foot was snuggled up in the space between his calves. She was wrapped around him like a creeper vine and snapped her eyes to his face in shock. Blue eyes had been watching her with amusement, and she was sure she’d blushed as red as Nat’s hair.

Then, the rest of the night had come crashing back, and she’d scrambled upright, nearly falling backwards off the mattress, before the super soldier in the bed with her had leapt into action, and she found herself pinned beneath him.

“Running, malyutka? That’s not like you.”

His eyes had still contained amusement, but there was a hint of rejection and pain there, something she never wanted to be responsible for and instantly softened her rigid body. “Just surprised, snegopad, not running.”

“Really?”

He’d looked so uncertain, so skeptical and wary, she slipped her hands from between them, running them up his chest, over all that hard flesh to wrap behind his neck and pull his head down to hers. “Da. Why run from the one who has already caught me?” She’d felt gloriously alive with him pressed against her. All that hot, hard muscle hers for the touching. His smile was so big she thought it might crack his face and she giggled, shifting her fingers to his cheek. “Did you mean it?” she whispered, teeth worrying her lip. She may have been tired and said things she hadn’t necessarily been meaning to say so soon, yet she had meant every word. But had he?

“That I’m stupidly in love with you? Yeah.”

He’d nodded, his hair falling around his face, and she pulled him down to kiss him. Her heart had been so very full and her body so very awake, she’d wanted nothing more than to repeat their experience from the night before but with Bucky making love with her instead of only to her. “I want you, snegopad,” she murmured against his lips as his big hand snuck beneath her shirt to cup her breast and tweak the rapidly responding nipple.

“Are you sure, doll face? I don’t want to rush you.”

She’d arched into his palm when the delicious rush of heat and need streaked to her center. “Yes! I want you, Bucky!”

Those words had barely cleared her lips when a pounding had started on the outer door, and Steve had come charging in. Bucky had been up and off of her in a flash, his hand gripping the bedroom door tightly as he blocked the view of her in his bed and intercepted his best friend.

“Bucky! We’ve got to go! Grab your gear.”

Those eight words had plunged a dagger in her chest, and she’d grown instantly cold. Bucky, Cap, and Sam were heading out on a mission that would see them gone roughly three weeks. It was important, they always were, but it couldn’t have come at a worse possible time. He’d placated Steve, telling Cap that he’d meet him and Sam at the quinjet in ten minutes, and had to nearly throw his best friend from the room when Steve had insisted on helping Bucky get his gear together. They all knew Bucky had an exceptional amount of weapons that he carried, but this one time he really didn’t need the assistance and had practically kicked Captain America out the door.

It would have been funny if her heart hadn’t been breaking.

Even now the memory of rising from his bed and moving to the wall of weapons, swiftly taking them down, checking them, and placing them in the duffle he liked to use, was a bittersweet one.

He had been stunned that she knew him so well. That she could pick and place exactly what he would want and she had smiled a small twitch of lips, commenting on how she would make an excellent assassin’s housewife. She couldn’t make a decent sandwich, but she could pack a weapon’s carryall with the best of them.

His arms had wrapped around her, and she’d held them to her chest, fighting the need to cry, knowing it would only make things harder. This was his job. Their job. It was their life, and they would adjust. The week they’d had together, learning and falling deeper in love had been wonderful. Now, reality was intruding. He’d kissed her cheek and left her to her task, going and getting dressed; strapping on his tactical gear.

The vest was a gift from the King of Wakanda and had been lined with vibranium. There wasn’t a bullet on earth that could pierce that armour, none that they knew of at least, and when he returned to her in his gear, booted feet and heavy cargo style pants, holsters and straps waiting empty, she turned back to the wall and shelving. Pulling down the Gerber Mark II knife, she thrust it into the sheath on his right thigh, the Benchmade dagger followed. Two more blades went into the sheaths at his low back, a SIG Sauer into the holster on his left hip. A COP.357 Derringer was shoved into the holster on his right hip and an Intratec TEC 38 into the straps beneath it. Grenades were tucked into the loops along his belt before she started adding extra clips and magazines.

When she was finished, when nothing was missed or misplaced, she placed her hands on the shining silver plates of his arm and drew them slowly downwards. “Will you need the Barrett?” she’d asked, her voice betraying her when it had broken.

He’d reached above her head and taken it from the wall, but she knew his eyes had never left her, just as hers had not been able to lift back to that vibrant blue gaze once since he’d stood for her to kit him out. The Barrett had dropped on top of the rest before his hand had found her cheek. She’d looked up then, finally, and into blue eyes so full of… everything, she’d been unable to stop the hitch in her breathing or the way her eyes had watered.

He’d kissed her, soft, tender brushes falling into deeper, sultry pulls and she’d swayed into him. He may have been packing more weapons than any one person would see in a lifetime, but that mattered little when he’d wrapped her braid around his hand and tugged her head back. She’d thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him like her life depended on it. Like his life depended on it.

“Franki…”

His time was up, and she knew it, but dear god it was hard! “You come back to me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Ya vlyubilsya f tyebya s pyervava f sglyada,” he murmured against her cheek.

“At first sight?” How could he have fallen for her at first sight when first sight was in her private hell?

“The moment you looked at me with these eyes,” he held her gaze and searched deep, “I just knew. I love you, Franki. There’s nothing that will stop me from coming back to you.”

He’d kissed her then. Deep, hard, long, and drugging, before he’d lifted his head and looked down at her with eyes grown dark with passion and growled out that he expected her to sleep in his bed while he was gone. That his sheets better smell like her when he returned, or he’d be very annoyed. Then he’d plucked up the Barrett, the duffle full of weapons, and a second bag of clothes and was gone out the door.

It wasn’t until hours later that Natasha finally found her curled up on the floor, tears dampening the carpet beneath her. It had felt like someone had ripped away the sun. Like she had finally been granted a reprieve from the darkness, been allowed to step into the light, only to have it jerked away from her. It was a cruel joke.

The first week he was gone was a new level of hell. She couldn’t even talk to him. They were radio silent, and it had driven her nearly mad with worry. That week she’d refused to sleep in his bed. What would the others think? How foolish it would seem. They’d dated all of a week at that point, it wasn’t like they were married or something.

She’d had the worst of the worst nightmares that week, and not even Natasha’s presence had been able to keep them at bay. By the end of the sixth night, she’d given in and crawled into Bucky’s bed. It smelled like him, and she’d had the first decent night’s sleep in a week.

Vision and Wanda left the next week. Their mission a recon one that didn’t require either her or Nat’s expertise. That was fine by Franki. She didn’t think she could concentrate long enough to be of any help as it was.

That week had seen her ghosting around the tower. Sleep had been elusive, even in Bucky’s bed, and she’d taken to wandering into Tony’s lab at odd hours.

He’d been kind again, though he tried to be condescending and snide, and had taken her under his wing, showing her all kinds of neat tech things. While she knew computers well enough to get by and do her job, she was indeed no genius, but he had her working on simple things, small welds, connecting circuitry, grunt work that kept her hands and mind occupied. And they had talked.

At first, it was small things, likes and dislikes. Movies she’d seen and should see. Then, Tony had started to talk about the battle with the Chitari, about taking the nuke through the portal, and about nearly dying. He’d talked about panic attacks and how hard it had been, how they came out of nowhere and were often triggered by the littlest things.

Franki had listened in fascination and just the slightest bit of sadness. He had been through a lot, more than she’d ever expected. Then he’d talked about Pepper and the Mandarin, Ultron, the Sokovian Accords, fighting with Cap and learning about Bucky, and the cost of such a battle – namely Rhodes and the injuries he had suffered, as well as the rift within the team and the good friends he’d nearly lost.

Because of his honesty, his openness, it had allowed her to do the same. She’d talked a bit about her life in the Red Room and about going to China with the others. About fighting the Weapons and how hard it was to continually be on guard.

One particularly dark night she’d sat on his sofa and talked about what it was like to feel… nothing. It was both cathartic and draining. She’d talked as he’d worked and hadn’t realized how much she’d said until her voice gave out. He’d stopped working and sat with her. Just sat quietly, but Tony didn’t do quiet or still well or for long, and he had jumped up and motioned her back to the welds he’d tasked her with once the silence grew too heavy.

It had made her chuckle softly and sigh in relief because he hadn’t made it weird or awkward, just accepted what she’d said and put her back to work. The bonus came when he reached for her hand that night, unthinkingly, to adjust her weld and she simply accepted it.

It wasn’t until after the fact that she had stopped, stunned, to stare at the billionaire like he had three heads. Just to make sure, she’d held out her hand to him, and he’d touched it gently. Her shiver at the contact had been minor, and she’d laughed before she’d cried, and he’d danced her around the room.

The third week was better but no less heart-wrenching. Tony had put her to work on the hard drive she’d stolen from the Hydra base so many weeks prior. It was encrypted, and she was slogging her way through the protocols to unlock it. Again, she wasn’t a tech genius, and she didn’t know why he’d stuck her with the task, all she knew was by the time she’d developed a headache, she’d wanted nothing more than to throw the whole freaking works across the room. Friday had offered assistance after that, and she accepted, gratefully, retreating to swim laps in the pool and clear her head.

Tony had informed them only a few days ago that he was throwing a Halloween Party the same night that the teams were due to return and, yes, it was costume mandatory. Having no idea what one wore for a Halloween costume, her arrival in the tower coming after the candy coma-inducing holiday, she’d done an internet search and, armed with a fount of new knowledge, had found a costume shop not too far away that she and Natasha could visit.

It had been an interesting experience, to say the least. Natasha was nothing if not thorough, having been a spy, and insisted every aspect of their costumes were perfect. Price was not an issue as Tony was footing the bill and they’d spent a fun afternoon digging through dusty racks. Well, Nat had dug. Franki had done her best to stay out of the other customer’s way. There had been a lot, and she was practically on sensory overload by the time Natasha pronounced she was satisfied.

Franki had spent nearly three hours in the pool after their little adventure. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said her skin hurt. Natasha had been busy with some news release, or press conference, or something and had been unavailable to spar with. Franki had desperately needed someone she could fight to shut down the sensitivity, but Tony was busy, Peter was in school, and everyone else was gone, so the pool had been her only option.

It had since become her drug of choice. The cool fluid moving over her was just enough stimulation to be felt, like a gentle caress. The pressure was perfect, and on the nights she couldn’t sleep, she had taken to floating in the water. Floating and thinking about Bucky.

She turned and started a new lap. Nothing about it made sense. Bucky had left the tower before, had gone on missions, longer ones even than this one, but she had never felt so despondent before. Never felt like someone had ripped out her heart and stomped on it. It was like a part of her was missing. Like they’d torn off her arm, her leg, her heart. A vital piece was just… gone.

It hurt.

Where once she had never felt pain, this felt like dying. She couldn’t sleep, could hardly eat, and had lost weight since he’d been gone. Natasha was worried, so was Tony, but she brushed their concern aside. What could she say? That she was heartsick? That she felt like she’d taken a bullet to her chest when she didn’t even know what a gunshot felt like? How could she explain that it was like someone had broken her in half when, really, after everything she’d gone through in China, this was suddenly the hardest thing she’d ever done?

Reaching the center of the pool, Franki let her feet drop, and she floated there, treading water, tears streaming down her face as a sob caught in her throat. What the hell was wrong with her?

In the control room of the tower, Natasha stood shoulder to shoulder with Tony and watched, heartbreaking in two, as Franki swam to the side of the pool and sobbed into her arms.

“This isn’t right,” Natasha murmured. Franki was acting like Bucky had died, not just left on a mission.

“You’ve got that right. What the hell is going on?” Franki was tough, a fighter. She didn’t crumble and fall to pieces or waste away like this. Sure Tony knew she and Barnes had a thing, who didn’t? But to see her just fall apart over the man was so very wrong.

“Try Cap,” Natasha muttered. They should be heading home by this point. Radio silence was no longer needed, and this constituted an emergency if she’d ever seen one. Stark flicked his hand at one of the many screens and waited.

“Hey,” Steve answered, looking a little beat up. “Was just about to call you.”

“How’d it go?” Nat asked.

“We cleared them out, rescued the hostages, but… it was a rough go.” Steve’s eyes darted to the left before returning to the screen.

Frowning, Tony murmured, “What’s wrong?”

Sighing, Steve slowly shook his head before turning the camera so they could see the form of the Winter Soldier. He was sprawled out over the seats of the quinjet like he’d been dumped there haphazardly. “Something… weird is going on.”

“Damn…” Natasha hissed. “He’s not hurt is he?”

“Nah. I had to knock his ass out when we got done. He hasn’t slept more than… ten hours this week, if that.”

She could hear Sam’s snort from the cockpit before his irate voice called out, “How the hell he kept going is a miracle!”

“What?” Tony asked, shocked.

“Bucky… he’s…” Steve didn’t know how to explain it.

“Walking around like the living dead? Not sleeping, not eating, and throwing himself into anything physical because it’s the only thing that keeps him sane?” Scrubbing her hands over her face, Nat sank into a chair.

“Yeah!” Steve looked as shocked as he sounded. “When we went in to take this group of mercenaries out… I haven’t seen him fight like that since… before.” He didn’t have to explain which before. Bucky had been single-minded, a terror, and so brutally efficient it had almost felt pointless to have all three of them there. “They had women and children in cages, it was the only thing that gave him pause, and then he was just…”

“Shit…” Tony hissed, dropping down beside Nat. “Franki’s… she’s like living with the walking wounded.”

“She’s becoming a damn ghost, Steve. She won’t eat, barely sleeps. Spends hours swimming laps… what the hell is this?” Natasha snarled, slamming her fist down on her thigh.

“I’m going to call in Helen. She needs to look at them both. Something is going on with them, and it didn’t start until they got together.” Tony was already up and moving, phone in hand, ordering Friday to have the jet on standby to leave as soon as possible.

“We’re on our way back. Be there by eight.” Steve nodded, determination hardening his features.

“Costume party tonight.” Nat smirked, “I picked out everything you gentleman will need.”

“Nat…” Steve sighed, “Is that a good idea?” If they didn’t know what was wrong with Bucky and Franki, was throwing a party really the right thing to do?

“Too late to cancel. Just,” she waved her hand at Bucky, “Clean him up, get him dressed, and hall his ass upstairs. Franki will be there waiting for him. She went costume shopping with me. The only thing she’s shown an interest in since you guys left. Don’t fuck this up, Steve.”

“Natasha.” He just looked at her.

“Bye!” She grinned and hung up on him.

************

Bucky walked into his room and slammed the door shut. It wasn’t often Cap pulled rank and the fact that he had chosen to now of all times pissed him off. There was nothing he wanted more right this second then to find Franki and finish what they’d started three weeks ago.

He ached all over. Every cell in his body hurt with how badly he needed to see her. The last three weeks had been hell, and they were finally over, but instead of finding his little shadow and stripping every stitch of clothing from them both, he was being forced to clean up, dress up, and go to some damn party that Tony was throwing. The only thing that made it even remotely worth his while was when Steve had made mention that Franki had been excited about it. She wanted to be there and had gone costume shopping with Nat.

The fact that she’d gone out at all made him happy. He hated the idea that she would retreat back to her former ways and avoid leaving the tower when she’d been doing so well and had been so happy to be out in the city with him. Her enthusiasm was, quite literally, the only reason he was doing this.

Dropping all his stuff by his weapon’s wall, Bucky started divesting himself of his weapons, putting everything that needed cleaning to one side. He would have done it all on the flight back if Cap hadn’t clipped him in the head with his shield.

Accident my ass. Steve Rogers didn’t just accidentally smack anyone in the head, especially not with his shield. The damn thing was an extension of his arm and, as Peter had once put it, defied the laws of physics.

At least the forced rest had done him some good.

He knew there was something off with him. God, how could he not know, but he didn’t know what and how was he to explain to his best friend that it felt like someone had ripped the most vital part of himself way? That he had never done anything as hard as walk away from Franki three weeks ago.

She’d been so damn strong. He’d never been more impressed with anyone than he was with her when, after he’d kicked Steve from his room, he turned around only to find her standing before his weapons filling his go bag with the efficiency of one who just knew. It had stunned him. How could she possibly know him so well? Her comment about being an assassin’s housewife had caused his heart to clench violently, his eyes falling to her bare left hand, and deep, long locked away desires to suddenly resurface.

He’d needed to hold her, touch her one more time before he faced his duty. The fact that she’d held his arms to her, clutched them tightly, had damn near broken his resolve. But he’d kissed her temple and walked away to get ready. This was his life, their life, and he had a duty to Steve and the team. One he couldn’t deny.

And, when he’d returned to her… dear god, it had been both pleasure and torment to stand there and watch her fill every sheath, every holster, every strap, exactly as he would.

She knew him.

She knew it all, and it filled him with an emotion that was nothing but bittersweet. Then, her voice had wavered… and it tore at him. It broke something inside him. Just opened a wound that seemed to bleed for days and even now still wept.

It was as if everything that was good and right and pure in his world was left behind with her. Had stayed behind in his room when he’d walked out. She’d been so strong but her sweet voice asking him, begging him, to come back to her… it had nearly driven him to his knees.

He loved her more for that. She wasn’t trying to stop him from going, she never would, but she would be there for him when he came back. She needed him as much as he needed her.

The demand to have her sleeping in his bed was as much for his own sanity as it was for her comfort. Imagining her there, curled up, safe, waiting for him, had gotten him through many long nights.  

His head came up like a wolf on the hunt, and he turned towards his room, shedding gear and clothing as he went. Standing in the doorway, he took a deep breath and closed his flesh hand around the doorframe.

Frost and vanilla. She’d stayed.

A nearly feline purr of pleasure escaped his throat. She was close. A few floors away and he need only change and go to her.

Striding into the bathroom, he paused when he noticed a brush that wasn’t his, a bottle of lotion that when he smelt it was where her vanilla scent came from, and more vanilla scented products in his shower. It was little things, but she was there. She wasn’t a dream or a fantasy. She was real, and she was close. Bucky wasn’t sure he had ever showered so quickly.

With a towel around his waist, he stalked back to his bed and narrowed his eyes at the garment bag hanging from the door. Natasha better not have left him something stupid.

Jerking down the zipper, he peered inside, cocked his head, and smiled. “That will do.”

Next Chapter

[undermycitadel]

Evangelina//Request//Part 3

I aroused that next morning from my dreamless slumber by the strong aroma of rose perfume. My eyes barely peered through the sheets to protect my eyes from the sunlight illuminating what seemed to be only in my direction. Where was I? Why did I have a wicked headache? Why was I in a mysterious room? The warmth of the blanket was like an oven cooking me underneath, burning me into the bed, bound by the sweat of my brow. I was opposite a bed with another snoring body under its velvet blankets like how I slept, on my side. If I paid close attention to my surroundings the night before, I would have known but It hadn’t dawned on me that I woke up in the place I resigned last night. I turned in the blankets, away from the world, and to the wall, groaning into the cause. Wherever the clock lay, it was too early for me to care. Later when I’d had enough, my legs took to the vanity mirror. The mirror was very beautiful. Like an object, my mother would plastic and never let me breathe on. Carved by the gods, the wood frame was a rich, chocolate brown, and if I squinted, I could see through the crusts in my eyes the delicately carved flowers in the wood. Marvelous. Unlike the vanity, I was horrid. My makeup was smeared, hair was weathered. You’re only as old as you feel, I thought aloud. I winced at the thought of finger-combing the knots out of my hair. “Fuck,” I grinned because no one could hear me. My skin was so horrible it was hysterical. If you squinted then you could detect some scarce pimples on a bad day. Crust under my eyes and dried up saliva on the corners of my dried lips. The classic example of a wreck. Maybe I giggled a bit louder than I’d like to and caused a stir from the other bed.

“Mmm...No, pas bon, Gaston. Oui, pas bon…” muttered the dead body.

“Oui?” I repeated, not knowing what language she was dreaming in.

Without waking the other body in the room, I slipped a towel from my bag and snuck into the bathroom down the hall. Before noon any sound I made was loud. The tiniest toe on the floor boards would wake my parents in a frenzy. On that Saturday morning, the clock struck ten and my steps were comparable to those of an elephant. Unlike the night before, I cared. Therefore, I made an effort not to wake up the house. My manners.

I was fine, finally. My long hair was tamed with an elastic, my wardrobe made an effort to brighten my mood; rose gold silk skirt, flat shoes, and a white blouse. No black, nothing black for my sake. With an outfit as sweet as this there had to plan for the evening. Brigitte would think of something. She had a million things in her mind scrambled. Even without plans, we’d walk around Dartford past the ugly bits where craters melted into the grass fields from the war. Strawberry bushes where we’ll pick from the earth and eat till we hate them. I needed a distraction from my rituals because I’d go crazy sitting down when I have freedom to do what I please. What I could never do in NYC.

When I opened Brigitte’s bedroom door I should have known to knock. She was in her undergarments, pulling a teal jumper over her gray mop of hair. She wore nothing to cover her pubescent breasts but the sweater she was tending to. Her legs were shaved and I was jealous. Mother never let me shave. But I also never saw an undressed girl before; Dad hid his Playboys. I dropped my bag, eyes wide in her glory, and my mouth was parted slightly as I failed to muster any words in my defense. Brigitte was only startled by the sudden plop of fabric on the floor. She turned, ready to shield her modesty but she let her guard down once she says it was me. Her furrowed brow eased and her squinted eyes squinted even more because she was laughing. “Oh my god,” she giggled. “You scared me half to death.”

I responded with a nervous laugh. “Sorry.” While I was relieved that no boundaries were pushed, I was still on edge. An ounce of myself still thought I would be in hot water after Brigitte signaled things were cool. I’ll blame Mother for that.

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Evangelina. No shame in a bit of skin, eh?” She continued to dress. There certainly was no shame in her nudity. She was beautiful and had no reason to feel ashamed for other people watching. Maybe that’s why she didn’t mind getting close to her friend, Mick. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I didn’t have her confidence. I nodded in agreement as I got the bag up then set it down on the bed where I sat Indian style. I watched her open her dresser and pull out a folded pair of black hot pants and dress.

“What do you want to do today, Angie?” She asked as she put her left leg in.

“I haven’t thought about it much, really,” I lied.

“Good.”

“Good, why?”

“Because I know what we’re going to do today, silly,” she snickered.

I loved her laugh.

“Remember Mick? The sonofabitch you met yesterday, right?”

“It’s only been one day. That’s entirely too short of an amount of time to forget a face.”

“Well after you fell asleep, he called. Said he was going to a bonfire with some of his friends and we should come.”

“Okay...so are we going?” My excitement blossomed. I’d always wanted to participate in a bonfire, however, you do so. The urge to jump out of my skin and prance around submerged me. The best I could do to suppress it was to tether my hands under my thighs.

“Obviously, Angie. He’ll be over at around six.” Her sarcasm didn’t bother me like it should have. “I think he likes you,” she gossiped.

My heart dropped. No boy ever had the hots for me in school. Boys would never approach me either. Often when a boy in my class came up to me the purpose was to either ask for answers to an equation or to poke fun at my thick eyebrows. I’d only known of Mick Jagger for less than twenty-four hours and he thought I was cute? Likewise, but I wasn’t going to protest. I supposed every girl would love to steal a kiss from him.

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

Brigitte giggled,”With the way, he was staring at you yesterday, anyone would believe me.”

“He wasn’t staring!”

“You weren’t looking!”

I shot her a look of confusion. One to say, “elaborate,” and she did, giggling all the way.

“Mick’s always been so obvious to me when he was interested in the opposite gender...And he’s always told me.”

“...He’s told you?” My cheeks began to flush through my seemingly calm demeanor. Who would I be out of character if I were to flake out over an alleged love interest? But my face was on fire, and smiling like a toddler with sweet would only cool it. Brigitte saw me and caught the drift and was quick on her feet to interrogate.

“...You like him, don’t you Evangelina?” She scurried to my bed. Bless her,

“I don’t know,” I blushed, “I mean, he is handsome-”   

“Of course he is,” she shouted after suddenly covering her mouth. She was surprised by her outburst of excitement and so was I. She giggled in spite of herself. Crazy girl, yet she continued. “He’s such a sweet lad, he even has a band- oh, and he’s loyal, too! He never tried anything on me and was always there for me when my boyfriends broke up with me.” As she came to the close of her lecture I could barely make out the words because she sped up due to the overpowering excitement. “A band” was what I heard over everything. The power of one-thousand strongmen was the only force to stop myself from sputtering with laughter but I was all ears. I was listening to the potentially valuable information about Mick.

I wanted to know more about him because If I was found attractive by him I wasn’t going to let an opportunity pass to get closer and perhaps spare a date. I could never do this at home. Never, but I wasn’t there and far away from it, too. He did look good. I could be bold this one time… She continued.

“He’ll be at the bonfire and you two will have plenty to talk about,” she strutted to the mirror to check herself out. But I still had questions to ask her. And I told her of my concerns. “Nope,” she declined any further interrogation, “you’ll have to ask him yourself, love.”

Bonfires were off limits back home. My school friends would often invite me but I had to decline because of the consent of my parents. Mother saw it unladylike to burn literature and dance with boys to rock and roll music bursting from the radios. Dad didn’t want his precious daughter’s mind corrupted by a bit of communal gathering. The last time I asked to go he made the argument that a lady should have more pride than to make her parents look bad. I could never make my parents look bad. But they’re far away. I can do what I please.

The simple pleasures were what I lived for. To pass time, Brigitte and I walked around the hollow melodies around the streets and telling old stories and made up tales. It felt nice to connect with another girl my age, again. Yesterday was so corrupt. Brigitte must have noticed my moodiness and made it a priority to make me smile at every other word she giggled or emphasized. Her Brothers, again, were out looking for work and playing sport, and her parents were out to work. We saw Mick down the block near 5:20 p.m. dressed rather dapper for a bonfire. Sort of mod; striped sweater and slacks. I’d never been to one, but my school friends talked it up to be fun. Anything fun was bad.  Brigitte and I sat on the stoop of her house making up for lost time. When she saw Mick, she went ballistic. As if Mick was her husband coming home from war and she was his troubled housewife. Then, I doubted he even liked me and preferred Brigitte instead. And he greeted her with open arms. How sweet. How friendly. You could never be as friendly in New York. I couldn’t hear their brief conversation, as they were farther down the block, but innuendo concluded I was the topic of gossip. On the stoop, I sat patiently while they conversed. Brigitte’s neck turned around to my attention every so often, peaking my curiosity, and the creases on the older boy’s face showed when she’d crack a joke, or he’d smile or react whenever something was said at my expense. I appreciated the little things about his face that I could observe from afar without him catching my peering eyes. The way he could bust a gut, yet, find the composure to transform into a serious state. Our relationship barely reached a ‘hello’ but already I felt a familiarity between us and my feelings towards him. Schoolgirl crush, I suppose. I felt at home, where my parents would chatter about my progress in school or how little I ate every day. They judged me and I didn’t like it, and I didn’t like those figures gleaming through the two teenagers who were supposed to be like me and not like my parents. I rest my elbows on my bare knees, risking the pink pressed color if put too long and allowed my shoulders to dip a bit. At least while they talked of me I could be comfortable. Maybe the chat was of the fun at the bonfire. I’d never been to a bonfire so I wouldn’t know. I must stop assuming things. It’ll only depress me to believe a loved one would suppress your good name.

A bit of laughter cluttered my post. No male voices. Only Brigitte supported by a Mick embarrassed to be seen with such a mess. I was polite so I stood to greet them like Mother taught me. A strange feeling came over me when my eyes met his. A pit formed in my stomach and a clam in my throat forced a cough into my elbow. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” I chuckled nervously. Brigitte was still coming down from her fit, and Mick didn’t seem to be upset by the supposed impoliteness on my behalf. He sprouted a few chucks, himself. Mom would have smacked me if I pulled something like that in front of my Grandparents. Even worse if she’d seen the bonfire.

“Hi Evangelina,” he greeted me. “I hear this is your first bonfire, is that right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it is. I feel as though my trip will be full of firsts and this is just the first one.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he chuckled. “I’ll be sure to stick around long enough for most of them… You look nice this evening, Evangelina-”

“I thought I looked rather lovely, too, Jagger,” pouted Brigitte.

“And you do, love, but I do think Evangelina’s skirt is very pretty.” And I blushed and Brigitte agreed with him. “Don’t mind Brigitte, she’s a bit off on some things. Doesn’t know when to recognize a true beauty- can you believe her?” And I giggled modestly.

“Oh, piss off, Mick,” Brigitte smacked the base of his neck.

“Evangelina, do you now see what I have to put up with? I-I can’t get rid of her!”

“Unfortunately-,” I nodded, head slowly tilting to the ground, “and you don’t have to call me ‘Evangelina’. I know it’s kind of a mouthful.”

“How would you like to be addressed then?” he smirked.

“Everyone calls me Angie but that’s been so overused- I think. Few people at school call me ‘Lina’.”

Brigitte smiled, “That’s pretty Angie, I wanna start calling you that too!”

“No,” Mick mocked parents enforcing a rule, “That’ll be my name for her while she’s here.”

For a second my eyes looked past Mick to the winking Brigitte standing in the back of him. As if she’d planned for him to get defensive over me. God, if she planned this then she was much smarter than she led on.

Jagger’s eyes squinted as he sized me up, probably silently testing the name to see if it matched my exterior. Lina is most commonly used with girls with curvaceous bodies, alluring voices with long golden-blonde hair and cigarettes. I wasn’t too far off. I was quite thin, had curves for a girl my age, I didn’t smoke, and although my hair wasn’t blonde it was long enough and had my mother’s volume. And I loved her hair. So maybe I did have a chance. He saw the name fit and nodded his head.

“Lina…” the name lingered on his tongue. “I rather like it.”

Brigitte checked her watch. “Mick, who’s supposed to be there again? I remember Monica, Edgar, and Petra but I’ve forgotten who else.”

“Um, I believe Dolores was bringing Abel- and probably Giselle...” he started to walk forward, Brigitte followed next to him and I trailed close behind while he listed the friends to show up.

The prolonged walk to the designated area for flames took an hour of our time. After arriving I was no longer concerned about his early arrival because we’d arrived on time. Usually, I didn’t like walking for too long but I didn’t mind it once smothered with conversation. Like an Oreo cookie, I was sandwiched between them as we walked down the sidewalks, passing streets, and stepping stones to cross ponds. Brigitte held my hand the entire time. “You’ll get lost without me,” she reasoned, “hold my hand, love,” and I didn’t protest.

“Okay Mum,” Mick answered for me, causing Brigitte to break open the Oreo cookie bond to hit Mick, fulfilling the Mother character bestowed on her.

“I wonder how much you two go at each other,” I smiled modestly, giggling because Brigitte and Mick were too entertaining.

“Just a bit of fun, eh Brigitte?” Mick upped the intensity on his posh accent.

“Yes, Mr.Jagger, fun indeed,” she agreed, continuing the gag. Personally, I saw this as an attack to make me laugh. I did what I could to prevent any wheezing and snorts from escaping my mouth, and it was quite difficult when every other word Brigitte says is joke bashing Mick Jagger’s lips.

Walking wasn’t bad at all and we were to the scene in no more than thirty minutes just in time to meet the setting sun and flickering of fireflies. The fireflies in my stomach erupted again during the voyage. Every joke he made caused me great joy, every interesting fact he told us was extra interesting, and every detail on his sweater was clearer to me than a solution to an arithmetic equation. Obviously, the normality of my feelings was crushed and more frictionally driven. And the dimmed scene and fresh air certainly contributed. I was deprived of this joy elsewhere. Unlike the attention I’d receive back home I felt Mick was genuine and funny. I’ve felt this way before in elementary school over another nice boy in my class. I didn’t want it to be the same feeling, though, Mick had to be different. My first real crush.

However, my anxiety was the instrument of my demise. As more kids came to the bonfire I felt less of the good fireflies and more bees in my chest. I knew none of these people and were intimidated by the lovely looking girl with painted lips and shaven legs. I’d began to rethink my choice of hairstyle. Hours in, I tried to absorb the beautiful sight of the blazing flame, ombre sky, and glittery lake but I couldn’t bring myself to fully commit. So I sat on a log by a rich apricot tree facing the water, hoping to cool my pink face but then I heard his voice again. “No, no, no, you can’t fool me twice!” I heard Mick laugh. I turned around on the log to trace the voice only to see him close with a friend who wasn’t my cousin. Was I not good enough? I contemplated for a bit whether or not I should hang around or split and find my way back home. I wouldn’t be missed. And so I fled the scene, and sure enough, no one noticed my absence.

Isn’t it sad of familiar the night hours are? There I sat, on the stoop again, my head slung over my shoulders and blinded by the waves in my hair. Nights prior, I would do the same when my parents worked overtime or left for business trips while I stayed home on breaks. I was supposed to have fun. I was supposed to forget about what troubled me and now I felt the hurt more than ever. But I didn’t even make it to the damn fire. What the fuck? Feeling neglected was familiar already but something about being left out by someone you admire leaves a pit in your chest, unlike the whole in your heart that is left from parental neglect. felt right at home. Home was what I was trying to get away from but I wanted to go. Reader, understand how my hormones may have affected my internal conflict. Picture a teenage girl, practically flooding with estrogen and hopes too high for her own good. I’d always been this way, why had I felt any different-thought-I would feel any different? Those night hours were haunting. Where I sat, by my lonesome, a ghost of nightmares shadowed over me. I shielded my eyes in my palms of my hands. Just then I heard drunken chatter from my right side fading closer. I didn’t care to look up. I didn’t care that Brigitte had a few drinks and was stumbling up the stoop with Mick’s assistance. “Lina! We missed you,” I heard her slur, but no trace of a face was seen. I didn’t dare look up. The front door closed shut. I heard that, too. I removed my hands when Mick joined me on the concrete. I felt the footsteps and the eyes on me.      reminded

“What happened?” Mick asked tone stalled on the now calm night.

I sighed and rested my head on my folded arms. As I looked up at him, his eyes gleamed in the moonlight. I could only imagine the sparkles I would have seen had I been to the past event.

“If there’s anything I did-”

“No, you did nothing wrong, Mick. I just… I don’t know. I wasn’t feeling it tonight.”

“What’s upsetting you then? I know you’ve only you a few days but surely you can tell me a wink of your problems,” his head draped over folded arms, mimicking my pose to face me.

I couldn’t speak.

“...I see. Do you want to go for a walk to clear your mind?”

I nodded.

We stood up and clicked our heels to the right of the street. The moonlight was beautifully sprawled on the stone street. I didn’t know where we were going at first. We walked in unison. Our feet hit the stones in perfect sync and I blushed at the thought of my doing anything as together as this with a handsome boy. My blush did not mask my original annoyance with myself. Inside I felt a variety of colors: blue, red, dirty brown. Mick was probably on the rainbow side of the rainbow. Brigitte was fucked up, even he’d agree, so his time at the party was not entirely spent on my problem. Whatever it may be. This was a first for me. Walking about after midnight, being with a boy on top of that, and being so in love with the willingness of a “stranger”. Mick shouldn’t be a stranger for much longer, though.

We walked over bridges, skipped stones, and watched frogs jump in ponds until he finally found where he wanted to take me. One would think him to be a Casanova because the place was too beautiful. By the water, grassy field, apple trees… The finest jewelry couldn’t have taken my breath as quick. It took very little to impress me, actually, so I appreciated the gesture. I looked back to him next to me. Mick’s face was cursed with grin. As much as I wanted to stay hurt and play victim I had to give him credit.

“Where did you find this place?” I asked. I trotted forward, wanting to drink in the summer night.

¨I always come here. Never had a girl up here. You’re the first,” be kicked dirt into the sweet air.

I took what he said into consideration with the nod of my head. He stepped past me to sit on a textured brown and green log that must have fallen off the thick oak tree it laid dead next to. He looked so beautiful as the wind blew back his fringe. I wanted to find the lie but the night was so sincere. “I don’t believe you,” I told him as I went to sit down next to him.

“I’d only take a girl up here if she was worth my while.”

“So you’ve taken Brigitte up here then?”

“No, she’s different,” he shook his head. “She’s like my sister. I couldn’t be up here with her. You’re different…”

My cheeks grew warm. And although the same breeze that made Mick mesmerizing to look at flew past, it did nothing to calm my growing anxiety, and for once I didn’t mind it. He pulled down the rolled up sleeves of his striped sweater and made eye contact with me. I feared awkwardness so I tried for another meaningless conversation, or what I thought would suffice as ‘meaningless’. “How so?” I smiled modestly.

“Well, um… Sort of…” he looked to his shoes, stuttering a bit. “I don’t even know how it happened, but I’ve sort of fancied you since the sweet shop.”

I didn’t understand the regional slang. “Fancied?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

Mick chuckled, then looked at the moon. “I forgot you’re not from this area for a moment. “Fancy means ‘like’, and that’s been my place with you for the past day.” His eyes fluttered from my own and to the floor, deciding which to focus on.

“Oh,” I nodded, “I get it, yeah.”

“Mhm.”

Was I dreaming? Mr.Confidence was shy! I couldn’t believe that for once an interest of mine was in the same place as I was of him. When Brigitte told me of his fiend for me, I was very hesitant to believe her. Because he was such a doll, I was sure he could get any girl and then toss her when he was through but his regular teenage play with my cousin showed me a side of him more to my liking, rather than what I assumed him to be. One would call this a dream and I would agree. Right there, with the night just right and nature around us, it was too good to be true. Already I could see our children playing in the lush yard of our Manhattan mansion near the flowers of blue and magenta. Our wedding venue would be lovely: a private affair atop a deserted hill. My eyes were glossed over with a hope of a lust I would encounter. I suppose I fancied him, too. Him and most of the habits of his that I’ve encountered over my stay so far. The butterflies transformed to wasps and the familiar tingle returned from the day I first saw him bother the owner of the sweet shop. The night hours weren’t as bad. However much I “fancied” Mick, I couldn’t slide past our familiarity with each other. As familiar as I was with my joy, it was the opposite with him although it felt like much longer than a few days. I felt goosebumps prickle up the exposed skin on my arms.

“I think I could say the say the same,” my mouth twisted, “but it’s crazy how we’ve known each other for a couple of days, right? To me, it feels much longer.”

Mick looked up to me, relieved almost. I must have reacted cooler than he had in mind. “Yeah, I normally don’t act so fast… But you’re different,” he said once again. “And you’ve hardly spoken three words to me it's been driving me crazy,” he half smiled.

I giggled, tucking a stray strand of golden brown behind my ear. “How am I different?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged as he stood up, using his knees as leverage before walking around the grassy plain. “It’s, like, when I saw you, you stood out to me. You looked so pretty and shy. I kept talking to Brigitte about you.”

“She told me about that earlier-or, yesterday, I suppose.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” I nodded, “got real excited about it too. Told me ‘bout your band…”

Mick’s face drew a smug grin. Must be proud of it. “She tends to brag whenever I tell her such things that could impress. I dunno… There are many girls my age around who act so rebellious and misleading like they only want to piss off their parents. That’s nice and all but those girls aren’t the type you’d put effort into, much.”

My face turned a shade of red. “What are they like, then?” I asked, genuinely curious. Because you never know, girls in the UK could be different from the ones back home.

“You know…” he walked further away from me and towards another towering tree, “the girls who get bad reports in secondary school and talk don’t clean their rooms and become a nuisance after some time-”

“So unhygienic?”

“Not as much ‘unhygienic’, more so ‘unmannered’. The girls have no idea who they are themselves, yet, they want to change a boy ‘for the better’,” he leaned against the tree as he picked the silk petals from another rose picked fresh from the earth. The clover was tucked behind his ear safe and sound. “I didn’t want to make too many assumptions about you but by the looks of it, you don’t seem very much like that at all. I mean, you could barely hurt a fly, could you?” Unintentionally, my eyes were innocently looking at him in place of my verbal response, still answered the question sufficiently. I was as green as the grass below me. I was so underexposed to the mature things in nature that supposedly come naturally for those of my demographic. The girls of Mick’s description were similar to the mean girls who attend my school. Those girls talk back to the teachers, get no consequences, but do receive anything they want from their parents from dresses to makeup to the latest fashion magazine. I was proud to have his assumptions be true because I didn’t favor the girls too much and wasn’t similar to them. Personality wise, I was much too forgiving and empathetic to be accepted into their social groups. Mick obviously dealt with those time wasting girls in the past. I could tell from the virtue in his tone as he spilled his guts to me. He didn’t deserve that treatment and wasn’t a skirt chaser from what I saw in his efforts. He wouldn’t have that with me, certainly.

The silence gave my mind enough time to scurry. Of the possibilities of things to go wrong, my parents were the forefront of all worst things. The little things that could slip through the cracks like receiving a surprise call and I’m not around to answer because in a grove with my new boyfriend or my parents, for some reason, flying up to Dartford to see how I’m doing away from home. Mother and I never had the conversation about the birds and the bees. She only told me that if it were to happen without her consent, she never had a daughter in the first place. Just thinking about it made me uneasy. But I also knew how my mind worked at this point; i’ll think of a ludicrous situation-purely fictional at that, and scare myself straight into doing anything put stepping out more than a few times a month. For me to have a first here, I would have to listen to what I wanted rather than what I was tricked into thinking I needed.

He turned in a circle while still glaring at the floor. He hadn’t made eye contact with me for a while.  Finally, he picked a four leaf clover from the abundant grass. What luck, I thought to myself. Out of desperation, he came to me. I could thank him at least for taking the initiative to talk to me after I bailed on the bonfire. Rather selfish on my part, but at that point, I could do nothing about it.

“Do you like compliments?” We made eye contact. For once it wasn’t awkward, rather, it was surprising. I wasn’t mad at it.

“Not particularly, no,” I tucked another loose strand behind my ear. Part of my humble character was to discourage any confidence boosting calls. I never did like compliments. Probably because whenever I felt beautiful or even remotely, I’d see another youthful, slimmer, prettier girl than myself. He’d probably seen prettier than me, too.

“Well, I’m going to give you one.”

“Um, okay,” I giggled, embarrassed. How could I decline now?

Mick laid his hands out in front of me, to which I carefully took hold before he pulled me to my feet. I stood a few inches away from him. There I was able to see the smooth surface of his skin, a better version of his baby blues, the light brown of his hair under the moonlight, and each and every wrinkle of his kisses. I drew my lips between my teeth as I waited for his words. I paled, I was so nervous.

“You have the most beautiful hair I’ve seen in some time, Lina,” told Mick with a boyish, yet, determined tone. “ And I want you to be with me-at least for the time you’re here. I don’t want to see you and let you past. There’s something here worth my while and I want you to see the same in me.” Mick kneaded my hands between his fingers. I wanted to kiss his hands all over. My eyes met his and I noticed the involuntary pout of his lips. After his hands, I wanted to kiss his lips all over, make it another first. Still, through the goodness, the bad elements still stood tall.

“I don’t know,” I simply said, looking away from each little pore and wrinkle.

He came closer. “What can I do to make you stay?”

“I don’t know,” I said, knowing nothing else to say to him. I honestly knew nothing of how to maintain a healthy relationship as this would be my first. I was growing tired but didn’t want to move a muscle without him being with me. The wasps calmed down to dainty butterflies and I wanted nothing more than to be held by Mick Jagger. I came closer to him and hugged him at the nape of his neck. He held me at my waist, locking his hands in place at my lower back. I rested my head on his shoulder and together swayed to the baseless tune of the wind and chirping magpies. I inhaled the scent of his musk and he did the same with my lotion and perfume.

“Will you me my girlfriend?” Mick asked, voice hardly above a whisper.

[artificialqueens]

UFO (Katlaska)- Squeaky

The year is 1921. Katya is sent to a farm in Kansas for a year of independent witch study, but she finds more than cows there.

OR: The love story of a witch, an alien princess, and a pink milkshake.

CRASH LANDING

Katya is sixteen, the year in which a witch comes of age, when they send her to Fame’s Farm. She thought the term to be a euphemism and fully expected to arrive at the gates of a mansion. Instead, Katya finds herself, broom in one hand and suitcase in the other, at a wooden doorstep.

“You must be Katya,” Miss. Fame beams. She’s got a chicken perched on her hip, but she looks a lot more like a graying glamour model than a farmer.

“Uh, yes. And you must be…Miss. Fame?”

“Come in. Come in,” Miss. Fame clucks as she takes her luggage and carries it to a small bedroom. The room is so dusty that it makes Katya’s eyes water. A sullen cat slinks out from under the bed. It might have been black a long time ago but now it’s been stained white.

“Fuck off, buddy,” the cat hisses as Katya goes to pet her.

She pulls back her hand: “Is that your familiar?”

“Betty? Goddess, no! She’s a human trapped in cat form. One of those 100 year punishment or whatnot for upsetting a powerful warlock…or maybe for stealing a goblin’s painting. I don’t remember.”

“Oh,” is all Katya says as she uses her broom for it’s intended purpose of cleaning. Sweeping swiftly, she manages to get it spotless before dinnertime. She’s brought nothing but her dresses, tarot cards, and gems, so it doesn’t take long to unpack.

By now the house smells like sizzling bacon and eggs. Fame has loaded the table up with so much food, it sags under the weight. After her long and often disastrous flight here from New York, Katya’s ready to eat.

“Wait! We have to thank the old witcher goddesses,” Fame interrupts. Katya pulls at her collar as the woman starts to babble in Latin. She stares out the window and holds her breath, trying not to inhale any of the mouth-watering food. There are miles and miles of dark fields that extend past what her eye can see. In New York, she lived in a bustling neighborhood of witches. Why did her mother send her here? Nowhere land?

By the time Miss. Fame has finished babbling, the food is cold. Katya digs in anyways.

“So you flew all the way? Very impressive,” Fame compliments.

“I guess,” Katya says even though most girls can mount a broom by age ten and fly across the state by thirteen. The hardest part was keeping on course, but she stopped at a couple of small towns for directions.

“So are we going to start lessons tomorrow, Miss. Fame?”

“Of course.”

“Yes! My friends have come back from their year knowing how to turn mice into teacups. I thought we could start by learning how to brew love potions-”

“Well, we’re not going to focus on parlor tricks like that. Your education will consist of practical house cleaning magic, Latin, and chores.”

“Chores?” Katya repeats. The word sits heavy on her tongue. Latin? Cleaning magic? That sounds like such a waste of time. Katya wants to become a powerful witch not some rich Wizard’s housewife! It would be rude to say any of that, but Katya’s tight lips and crossed arms say it all.

Fame turns on the radio and happily hums along to the tune of a slow country song. Katya grimaces. If she had the freedom, she’d turn the channel to listen to some jazzy Louis Armstrong. Instead, she closes her door, throws herself onto her bed, and screams into a pillow.

“Anger management, sweetie,” Betty chuckles as Katya sharply turns and throws the pillow at her.

She crawls deeper into her bed, tries to slow her breathing, and wishes she was back in New York. Katya misses the hustle and bustle of the automobiles. She misses the sweet swing of the streets. Most of all she misses her witch sisters- Violet, Ginger, and Trixie. Katya hopes that they’re off to more exciting adventures than she is.

Katya dreams that they’re holding a seance on the rooftop of their building. All the girls’ hands are linked, and they’re rising up higher and higher…until Katya’s drifting alone among the stars. She opens her mouth to scream, clinging to the silver moon, but all the oxygen is gone.

She wakes up to Miss. Fame ringing the bell. The sun isn’t up, and Katya isn’t up either. She tries to go back to sleep but Betty jumps on her face and pulls at her earrings. Katya hisses back at her.

Finally, she pulls on a baggy, shapeless dress. She doesn’t care if it gets dirty. Fame shows her how to milk a cow so as not to get kicked, how to collect the chicken’s eggs, and how to brush all the animals. Katya yawns and tugs down the brim of her floppy hat.

“Pay attention,” Fame warns. “You’re going to have to do this all by yourself tomorrow.”

Katya fantasizes about grabbing her broom and launching herself into the sky, flying up, up and away from this dull, old farm. Instead, she sweeps the doorstep. Then come the Latin reciations, goddess prayers, and peeling potatoes 101.

“What’s the point of this?” Katya asks on day three as she brings in the eggs and milk. Her dress is scuffed with dirt and her hands are calloused. She can babble now in Latin, but she still hasn’t learned a single, useful spell. She’s cooked chicken soup, but she hasn’t learned to make a witches brew.

“Building character,” Fame tells her. “You have to be tough. You hear about the stories of girls turning themselves into frogs? Blowing up barns?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Katya whines, sounding more petulant than she intended. What she meant was- can I please learn some magic now?

“I know I don’t look it, but I’m a hundred years old, Katya. I know what young witches are capable of when they don’t control their powers. There’s a method to my madness, and you’ll understand soon enough.”

“Can’t I at least send a letter to my mother?”

“You know the rules, Kat. No contact.”

“Yeah…I know I’m just…” lonely. “Never mind.”

Her whining earns her a long trip to the brick well.  At least she’s allowed to ride her broom there. Still, after a day of hard labor, Katya can barely grip the handle.

“I hate this,” Katya whispers into the well and then kicks the side of it. “I hate this. I hate this! I. Hate. This.”

The sun is setting, and her stomach growls. Instead of riding back, Katya sits on the side of the stones and buries her face into her hands. She cries as she thinks of all the spells that Ginger must be learning in New Orleans or Violet in Ireland. Why Kansas?

The last of the sun slips down as Katya’s heart sinks. Her cheeks are covered in tears. Katya’s not religious but she folds up her hands anyways-

“Hey, goddess, I know this isn’t Latin or whatever, but if you can hear a girl out in English, that’d be great. I need a friend. I mean, Fame is great, but she can’t keep a conversation going without praising the universe. The universe is also great, but I really need somebody here. And not Bitter fucking Betty. How about an enchanted crow? A possessed log? A tinkering fairy? Please, any friend is a good friend. Amen.”

Katya finishes her prayer, and, when she looks up, sees a shooting star. It doesn’t take an astrologist to tell her that’s a good sign. Maybe someone has been listening to her prayer after all.

Then the shooting star gets closer and closer and- crash! Katya leaps to her feet.

She glances over to Fame’s Farm, where the bell is ringing, and then jumps up onto her broom. It’s a rush to be back up in the sky, racing forward. Katya spots the large crater.

“Hello?” Katya calls as she hovers above it. The hole is big enough to fit three automobiles lying side by side. If only Katya knew a practical fire spell, she might be able to see into it.

Instead, she hovers down to the ground, picks up a stone, and tosses it into the darkness.

Silence…silence…clink!

Katya turns to go when she sees something rising up. It looks like a glowing, white angel, with blonde hair covering her bare breasts, and a sheet fluttering around her midriff.

“Hiiiiiiiiiee,” the white creature shrills. She extends out her hand, fingernails longer than Katya’s hand. Katya takes a step back, trips, and falls.

“W-wow, thanks universe,” Katya sputters. Maybe there is something to all that praying Fame does. The creature is hovering a foot off the ground, and while Katya has read about it, she’s never seen levitation before.

“My name is Princess Alaska Thunder from the planet Glamatron. I’ve come here on a covert mission to observe earth’s finest delicacies. Take me to your holy beasts.”

“Princess?” Katya exclaims. “Aw geez, I’ve never met royalty before. Let alone space royalty. Wow. None of the gals are gonna believe this. Oh, right, my name’s Katya from the planet Earth, and I’m a witch-in-training.”

“Take me to your bovine gods, witch,” Alaska commands as her golden sandals touch the ground.

“Bovine…? I don’t know what that is, but there’s nothing on Fame’s farm except for weeds and chickens and cows.”

“You speak English, no? I can switch to Russian, Spanish, German, or Chinese. My translator is limited.”

“N-no, English is fine. I mean know a little Latin and some conversational Russian, but English is cool. I just don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“I want lactating lactose.”

“Uh, milk?”

“Yes! The Earth is alone in the galaxy with its production of white gold. The only source of sweet, sweet nectar in the vast universe is this primitive planet, and I’d rather not travel to an alternative universe.”

“Primitive? We invented jazz and refrigerators and, uh, missiles, you know! But come on- I think I can get you some milk,” Katya babbles as she throws her foot over the side of her broom and pats the back seat.

Alaska’s hands wrap around her waist, and Katya blushes when she feels her naked breasts. There’s a foreign bulge pressed up to the curve of her backside, and Katya’s known a lot of girls…but never one like this before. Wow, space babes are the best!

The sky is studded with stars, extending over the endless fields, and Katya feels like they’re the only two beings in the universe right now. The wind embraces them, and, showing off, Katya does a trick in the air. Alaska shrieks and hugs her tighter. Katya’s heart is fast and loud in her chest, and Alaska’s breathe is hot against her neck. She feels alive, beautifully alive.

“You’re out of this world,” Katya calls out.

Alaska giggles, and, for an alien princess, she’s surprisingly human. The vibrations of the broom make Kaya bite her lip, especially with the rub of Alaska against her backside. All they need is some slow jazz.

She zooms inside the barn and crash lands in the hayloft. Alaska blows a piece of straw out of her hair and giggles again. Katya presses a finger to her lip and slides down the ladder to approach the ‘bovine god.’ Three days have taught her how to fill a bucket like a pro.

Alaska, for a princess, dribbles the milk down her chin. She throws her blonde head back in pleasure and moans as she drinks. Katya licks her lips, watching the drops trickle down Alaska’s naked chest. She recognizes the wetness between her thighs from riding her broom too long, but Katya’s not sure why she gets that same tightness from watching Alaska.

“Do all aliens not wear clothes?” Katya asks, breathless.

“Some do. I should have changed into traditional Earthling clothing, but I didn’t have time…”

“Oh,” Katya flushes. “It’s ok with me if you dress like that…but I don’t think Miss. Fame will be ok. She’s my instructor and a bit of a traditionalist, which is strange for a witch. Usually, we’re more of a liberal type of people, but Miss.Fame does live all alone on this farm with her chickens so…oops, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“It’s cute,” Alaska hiccups, wiping the white from her mouth.

“Wait here.”

Katya sneaks inside the house and picks out her prettiest dress- a french blue number. It reminds her of the dresses that the flapper girls wear down at the club. Her mother wouldn’t let her buy something this short, but Violet gave it to her as a goodbye gift. She slips out her window to the barn loft. Alaska strips naked in front of her, and Katya blinks at the sight of…

“So are you a, uh, boy or girl?”

“I don’t understand the question,” Alaska says as she slips on a pair of panties, which push up her cock. Katya knows it’s not polite to stare, but she’s never seen anything like it. The combination of Alaska’s slight breasts with the bulge between her legs makes Katya bite her lip and pull at her own gown.

“So can you get pregnant?”

“Of course.”

“Can you…impregnate?”

“Of course,” Alaska confirms as she smooths down the dress. “I don’t really understand this line of questioning. On Glamatron, gender is a preference not a rigid requirement.”

“Oh,” Katya says, confused. Either way Alaska looks like a dream in the flapper gown. She does a twirl, and Katya momentarily forgets how to breathe.

It’s sweltering, but Katya still brought along a blanket for Alaska to sleep under. She wants to stay here with the alien girl, but Katya knows Miss.Fame will worry.

“How long are you staying?”

“Just a week or so until I can get my space ship repaired. Plus, I have yet to taste the full range of Earth’s lactate products. I hope you don’t mind.”

Katya shakes her head and stares at the unearthly beauty.

Then she leans forward and pecks Alaska softly on the lips: “That’s, uh, how we say goodbye here.”

Alaska smiles, cups her face, and kisses her harder. Katya’s stomach twists as she squeezes her thighs together. Alaska pulls back-

“How funny. It’s the same way on my planet.”

——-

REPAIRING

Katya wakes up to glowing eyes. Fuck, why is Betty the creepiest, cursed cat? It’s like all the stars aligned to create the most hateful creature in all of Kansas.

“Girls in the attic? Tut tut, that’s not something you should be hiding from our dear, old Fame. Secrets are hard to keep on such a small farm. Makes me think your friend…is a little more than friendly.”

“I’m just waiting for a good time to introduce her,” Katya grumbles as she threw off the covers and shoves Betty away.

“Ay, there’s no better time than now, Kat.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow, cat,” she snaps and then yawns. It’s hard getting up at five am when you went to sleep past midnight. Only her secret keeps Katya from falling face first back into bed. She ditches the brown muslin for a meadow-green dress. It’s down to her ankles, but at least it’s cinched at the waist. Katya ties her hair into braids and dons a bonnet.

Fame compliments her fashion as she goes out the door. Katya only waves, stomach flipping as Betty slinks out past her.

Alaska, dangling her legs from the hayloft, is already awake when Katya enters the cool barn. She jumps down, way too effortless to be human, and greets Katya by rubbing their foreheads together. Katya leans in for a kiss (“It’s, uh, how you say ‘hello’ too.”)

Alaska drinks the milk straight from the bucket, carefully now so as not to stain her new gown. Katya tells her to wait as she goes to eat breakfast. She shoves it down quick and does her recitations so quickly that Miss.Fame raises an arched brow.

“I, uh, want to go out to play in the fields,” Katya says in one breath.

“Aren’t you a little too old for that?”

“Too old for fresh air? I’ll take my Latin there and practice,” Katya promises as she grabs the old, musty book and kisses Miss.Fame on the cheek. The older witch is so taken back by her change in attitude that she doesn’t try to stop her.

“Pssst, Lasky! Hop on quick, princess.”

Alaska is plastered to her back, like she’s ridden a broom all her life. Katya can feel her, uh, bulge, through the sheer fabric of the dress. In the morning light, Alaska’s nails are bright pink. They click together as she wraps them around Katya’s stomach.

Then they’re up, up, and off into the golden sky. The world is new, like it reinvented itself over night. Everything is a shining, glittering dew. Katya breathes in the morning breeze. A blue jay races them back to Alaska’s crater.

There, Katya spends the rest of the morning gathering up flowers to make crowns. They’re queens of this golden universe. The butterflies land on the green of her dress, mistaking her for a flower.

“Bluebirds singin’ a song. Nothin’ but bluebirds all day long,” Katya trills. “Blue skies, smilin’ at me. Nothin’ but blues skies do I see.”

“What’s that?” Alaska asks as she floats up, and Katya places the flower crown on her head.

“Louis Armstrong.”

“Who is he? Do you know him?

“A famous singer. I don’t know him, but I wish I did- I love all his music so much.”

Alaska just stares at her and tilts her head: “You have a nice voice…for an Earthling.”

“And you’re rude…for an alien-ling. Can I see your spaceship?”

Alaska just grabs her smoothly by the waist and floats them down. It’s all metal, like nothing that Katya has ever seen before. It looks like a silver plate. She curls her toes inside her boots as they enter.

Katya doesn’t know anything about spaceships, but she doesn’t see any dents or bumps. All of the controls inside are intact. But maybe the damage is invisible? Hidden beneath all the circuits and wires?

She feels out of place with her flower crown, green dress, and broom. Like she’s collided into a world that she doesn’t belong to. For some reason, it wouldn’t be hard to picture Miss. Fame with her silver hair and knowing eyes running her hands along these flashing panels.

“It’s beautiful,” Katya finally says. “Never seen anything like it before.”

“My dad gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. All my friends got the new chrome pods, but he told me this model was safer…”

“I like it?”

Alaska snorts: “Because you’ve never seen any of the others.”

Katya crosses her arms and says, “Well, when my mom got me a broom, I didn’t complain because I wanted a golden one. Maybe you should be a little more thankful?”

“You’re…right. I guess I’m just mad because he-” Alaska cuts herself off. “You want to go get more lactose? I’ve seen pictures of pink shakes on the galactic net.”

“A…what? You do know we’re in the middle of nowhere Kansas? It’s an hour ride by broom to the nearest diner.”

“But a minute by spaceship,” Alaska says with a wink as she flips her blonde hair over her shoulders and sits down at the controls. She looks like pale moonlight in that blue gown. A dream come to life.

Katya straps herself into the passenger’s side even as she wonders how Alaska fixed it so quickly. Didn’t she say it would take a week?

But all her doubts are gone when Alaska pulls the lever, and they’re rising up into the golden world. The birds below sadly chirp as they zoom away. Katya’s ridden in an automobile but never a spaceship! Her eyes are wide. Breath gone. Pulse racing.

“Hang on, witch-y,” Alaska yells.

Katya looks down to see the ship, but it has disappeared. Wow, she’s only ever read stories about invisibility spells.

“H-how do you know where we’re going?”

“Intergalactic GPS.”

“What?”

“I got a map!”

They pull up to a diner. It’s full of cute girls with bob cuts and boys in smart suits. Alaska takes her by the hand and helps her out. Katya’s never been swept off her feet, but Alaska has thoroughly swept her inhibitions away. She bets neither Violet nor Ginger have ever ridden a spaceship before.

They get a pink smoothie to share, and Katya doesn’t have any money, but Alaska pulls a 20 dollar bill right out! Katya’s not sure if her or the waiter’s eyes are wider.  

“Paper money is easy to print,” Alaska whispers as the man goes to get them change. Katya, drunk off of sugar and adrenaline, can only nod.

“Can you tell me about your home?” Katya asks like this is a regular date.

“The sky is always black and never changes. Our people have to live underground to avoid the toxic air. Most of our kind spend their time travelling the galaxy, serving our military or trading, but my father doesn’t let me leave.”

“I’m sorry,” Katya says. “My mother’s protective too.”

“It’s not even protection. He’s suffocating me. As if our planet’s air wouldn’t do that job for him.”

Katya doesn’t know what to say, so she takes a long sip.

“With all the places on Earth, why did you crash land here?”

“There were high populations of bovine gods,” Alaska answers, but she looks away as she says it. Katya isn’t sure how truthful Alaska’s being.

By the time they get back, the sun is high in the sky. Katya fans herself with her hat as she closes the barn doors behind them. She creeps up into Alaska’s hayloft, and, like two regular girls at a sleepover, they make plans for the rest of the week.

“How long do you think it would take to get to Paris? We could leave at midnight and be back before Miss. Fame wakes up in the morning. Or- no, let’s go down to New Orleans. That’s where all the real witches go to listen to jazz and learn voodoo magic. My bosom sister, Ginger, is down there learning the craft,” Katya rambles, twirling her finger around Alaska’s hair, and then sighs wistfully at the thought.

“Why is my- I mean why is Miss. Fame not teaching you magic?”

“Thinks I’m a loose, irresponsible witch…” Katya rolls her eyes. “Which I am. But that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to learn. Like, how does she expect me to become anything more if all I do is clean up chicken poop all day? Is the universe just gonna tell me the answers?”

“My daddy seems to think the same thing. He’d rather I’d stay locked up in the palace all day than go see the galaxy. I-” Alaska flushes a deep red. “I stole the ship. He wasn’t going to give it to me until my eighteenth birthday, so I just took it and fled.”

“Wow.”

Now Katya knew that Alaska was not a traveler but a run away. Alaska also lied about the ship being broken. Why? And what else has she lied to Katya about? Instead of saying all that, Katya launches into a story about the first time she snuck into a speakeasy and tasted moonshine. Alaska is entranced, eyes wide, desperate to ‘taste the moon’ for herself.

By the time Katya comes inside it’s past lunchtime, and Miss. Fame lightly scolds her and makes her peel potatoes for the rest of the day. It’s dull work, but the milkshake and illicit plans to Paris and New Orleans have given her a boost of energy. Plus, the kiss that Alaska left Katya with makes her lips tingle.

Katya peels and sings: “All the days are hurryin’ by. When you’re in love, my how they fly.”

“In love with who?”

“It’s just a song, Miss. Fame.”

“I don’t trust love songs. Slippery slopes. But you keep up all this good work, sweetie, and we’ll have you doing spells in no time.”

Betty slips into the kitchen, leaps up onto the countertop, and gives Katya a dirty look. When Miss. Fame’s back is turned, Katya sticks out her tongue. It’s a bad idea to taunt a cursed cat, but has Katya been making great decisions lately?

“If you keep playing with fire, you’re going to get burned,” Betty promises and licks her paw. Katya rolls her eyes, unaware that later that night the barn would burst into flames.

———

RE-ROUTING

Katya wakes up to screams. The whole world is glowing sickly yellow, like Betty’s eyes. Her skin is covered in a thick sheen of sweat as she watches the leaping flames devour the barn.

She runs outside, barefoot, and stares up at the destruction. Ash, like burning snowflakes, falls down. Katya feels sixteen and helpless as the whole world burns.

“Stand back, Katya,” Miss. Fame screams as she rushes past her. She’s reciting a spell, and, when she raises her hands up, water bursts out from the ground to cover the barn. Katya is screaming, but the words are lost at the back of her throat.

“Alaska,” Katya hears herself screaming. “Alaska is inside the barn. She’s in there! Help her. Please, help her.”

Most of the animals are spooked but unharmed. When Katya runs up to the loft, she finds it’s empty. Her heart stops.

“What’s going on? Who’s there?”

“M-m-my friend,” Katya cries.

“From where?”

“Space!”

Miss. Fame has gone pale: “Dear goddess, I thought I’d never see the day when…ALASKA! COME OUT RIGHT HERE OR SO HELP ME I’LL CONTACT YOUR FATHER.”

Katya has never heard Miss. Fame raise her voice before. It’s so out of character that she stops crying immediately. From behind the barn, Alaska creeps out. Her blue gown is scorched so badly that Katya can see the pale of her thighs. She’s clearly shaken.

Miss. Fame pulls her into a tight hug and smooths out her hair. She’s whispering something in her ear, in a language that Katya’s never heard, and Alaska is nodding. What’s going on? How does Miss. Fame know Alaska?

“I’m sorry…Mom,” Alaska sniffles.

What the…?

Katya crosses her arms, feeling lost. Clearly, Alaska has been lying to her this whole time. She didn’t come here to see the ‘bovine gods.’ Her spaceship didn’t crash. She’s been lying, lying and now she set the barn on fire.

“Katya,” Miss. Fame turns on her. “She must have been here for a couple nights? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…I mean I was going to but…I…”

Betty comes outside and, judging by her little smirk, she knows a whole lot more than she’d let on. Betty licks her paw and, though cats don’t have eyebrows, seems to quirk hers up at Katya. Told you not to play with fire. Smug little shit.

“Come inside, come inside,” Miss. Fame sighs.

Alaska follows her, golden hair falling over her face, and doesn’t look over. Katya’s stomach twists and tears burn at her eyes. Weren’t they friends? Queens of their own golden universe? But Alaska has done nothing except lie to her. She coughs as she inhales soot.

Miss. Fame makes them hot chocolate, which Alaska drinks immediately, even though it’s burning hot. Katya just stares at her folded hands.

“So?” Miss. Fame begins. “What happened, Alaska?”

“Daddy just doesn't let me do anything, you know.”

“So you run away?”

“I had to! He was suffocating me underground, and I wanted to see the universe. I wanted…to see you. But I didn’t know what to say.”

“You know he’s going to send an army soon! Alaska, the people on earth aren’t strong enough to fight off an invasion.”

Alaska wipes her wet cheeks: “I know but I was just going to stay for a couple of days. I just wanted to see a holy bovine and…and talk to you.”

Miss. Fame’s face softens, and she wraps her hands around Alaska. Katya’s still kind of upset and worried at all this talk about an alien invasion, but her heart melts at the sight of Alaska curled up in Miss.Fame’s arms. It makes her tear up as she thinks of how much her own mother worries about her.

“You can stay,” Miss. Fame sighs. “But just for a couple days, ok? No more wandering the milky way for cows, though. You’re going straight home after this, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Miss. Fame brings another pair of sheets to Katya’s bed while Katya lends Alaska a white nightie to sleep in. When she hands it to her, Katya stares at the ground. It’s childish, but she’s still mad.

They curl in bed, and when Katya closes her eyes, she can see the red of the flames, as if they’ve been seared into her lids. Besides her, Alaska sniffles.

“I’m sorry, Katya. You’ve been nothing but a kind, Earthling witch, and I haven’t repaid your kindness with the truth. I just…please understand that I didn’t know what to say to her. I still don’t. My mom left my planet right after I was born, so all I had was one hologram of her inside my bedroom. That’s it. My father wouldn’t tell me why she left to earth or how she got to Glamatron in the first place. My kind all have blue skin, but because of her I’ve got pale skin, like yours. That’s all I had. One hologram. Light skin. And the knowledge of Earth.”

Katya turns around, so she’s face to face with Alaska, and she hates that she can’t stay mad at her. Alaska is a lonely girl, like her, looking for her place in the universe. She’s sad, confused, and hurting.

She reaches up and tenderly wipes the tears from Alaska’s face. She’s journeyed all the way across the universe to see her mother, only to be told that she has to leave. Katya can’t even imagine what that rejection feels like.

Katya sighs and says, “I’m sorry that your Mom left you. My dad did too, and I know it’s not the same because he only moved a couple of blocks down in Brooklyn and not to a whole other planet…but I never knew what to say to him either. Sometimes people leave you…”

“I wish I knew why. If I have skin just like hers, why didn’t she…?”

Want me, Katya fills in the silence.

“I don’t know. Humans are just…shitty.”

Alaska shifts closer to her: “No, all beings in this universe are equally shitty. Humans might have a monopoly on milk but not on the quality of ‘shitty’-ness.”

Katya giggles and inches closer. Her naked toes brush against Alaska’s, and she shivers at the sudden contact.

“I guess I’m a liar too. Humans don’t kiss each other on the lips to say ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye,’” Katya confesses. “I just wanted to kiss you.”

Alaska shifts forward on the bed, eyes glinting in the dim moonlight, and presses her lips to Katya’s- “They don’t on my planet either.”

She falls asleep in Alaska’s arms.

———

START THE IGNITION

Katya wakes up in the morning to find Alaska’s pink nails resting around the curve of her stomach. The sun is yawning awake and beams of light slip through the curtains. It seems the world has shaken off the ash from the dark night and left a shining, yellow kingdom.

Katya flushes, sweat trickling down her neck, as she feels Alaska’s bulge pressed up to her backside. The light makes her squint as she twists around in Alaska’s arms-

“That feels nice,” Katya whispers and scoots back.

Alaska, still asleep, just nuzzles deeper into Katya. Her breath is hot against the curve of her neck. Katya wriggles against the tight grip and pushes further back into Alaska. Even through the fabric, she can feel Alaska’s cock growing harder and harder.

“Alaska,” Katya whimpers, a little louder.

Her eyes flutter, and she feels the wetness spreading between her thighs. It’s just like the first night on the broom. Kaya squeezes her legs together as she remembers the vibrating sensation and then rolls her hips up into Alaska’s cock.

Since Alaska’s growing harder against her, Katya decides to continue. Oh god, this feels so fucking good. After the night of confusion, it’s nice to be held so tightly in Alaska’s grip. For the first time, there’s no where in the world Katya would rather be. Not Paris. Not New Orleans.

“Katya,” Alaska moans, and when she pushes her cock against Katya’s white nightie this time, it’s intentional. Katya let’s out an involuntary whimper. The insides of her thighs are slick. Her eyes are half hooded. Her toes curl.

“I don’t know what this is,” Katya confesses. “But I don’t want to stop. F-feels so nice.”

“What? Humans don’t have sex for pleasure?”

“Is this what sex is?” Katya wonders out loud as Alaska’s long nails pull up her nightie. She flushes as she looks down and sees how her panties are wet and stained. Her nipples are painfully erect, and she gasps as they brush against her soft nightie.

“At least this is what my people consider sex? Should we ask my Mom?”

“No,” Katya says quickly because she might not know the name for this, but she knows Miss. Fame would not approve of such wanton behavior. Still, the thought of the older woman’s disapproval doesn’t stop her from rolling over, so they’re chest to chest.

She cups Alaska’s flushed face and kisses her, all tongue and desire. Now, Alaska’s cock is pressed up against the softness of her belly. Katya reaches down to touch it, loving how thick and real it feels in her hand. Katya strokes her through her panties.

When she slips her hand down, lower, Katya gasps at the wetness. She hadn’t realized it before but Alaska is…

“A hermaphrodite?”

“Hm?” Alaska murmurs against her lips.

“It’s strange you have both,” Katya giggles, nervous. She’s read about it before, as an insult, but she’s never met anyone before with both. She cautiously moves her hand down and bits her lips as she slides down inside Alaska. Oh.

“Well, I find it strange you only get one,” Alaska shoots back.

“I don’t care which parts you got. Long as you know what to do with ‘em,” Katya says as she pulls back to squeeze her hand around Alaska’s cock. What she lacks in experience, Katya makes up with enthusiasm. Alaska’s eyes are half lidded and she twitches in her grip.

Alaska’s cock, long and hard, is so nice in the palm of her hand. It’s so dirty too, knowing that Fame is only a couple of rooms away. Katya buries her face into Alaska’s shoulder and inhales her slightly smoky scent. Alaska’s nails are too long to touch her directly, but her leg is pressed up between Katya’s thighs. Katya bites back a whimper as she gets herself off against Alaska’s hard leg. Back and forth. Breathe. Back and forth.

Katya’s never gone this far before, but, with Alaska’s soft reassurances in her ear, she lets herself go. Her panties are getting wetter. Her heavy breasts are pressed up to Alaska’s as they rut off against each other, like animals in heat.

“I want to be inside you,” Alaska whispers in her ear, and Katya can’t hold back a whimper. It’s embarrassingly loud. She feels as though she doesn’t have control over her body anymore. Alaska’s mouth is all she can taste. Alaska’s knee pressed against her wetness is all she can feel. Her own heart pounding is all that she can hear.

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Katya pants. The last thing she wants is to get pregnant. If that’s how it works?

“My semen is only fertile once a moon cycle. Don’t worry, it’s safe,” Alaska reassures her, and, fuck, it’s a good thing alien sex is different than human sex. Not that Katya knows that much about how either works.

She responds by pushing Alaska back and climbing on top of her. She can see herself coming apart in Alaska’s dilated pupils. She pushes down her panties all the way as Alaska does the same. The tip of Alaska, just pressed up inside her, makes Katya’s eyes flutter. She sinks down, taking Alaska all the way inside of her warmth, and blinks away the tears. Oh, wow, this is amazing.

Alaska’s nails sink into her hips to steady her. She throws her head back as she rides Alaska. It’s nothing like having her broomstick pressed up between her legs. No, Alaska is real and squirms under her. Riding Alaska is everything that Katya never knew she wanted.

“So beautiful,” Alaska gasps.

“Beyond this planet beautiful?” Katya teases as she pushes up and down, breasts bouncing.

Her nightie hides the obscene sight, so she lifts it up to watch Alaska’s cock sliding in and out of her. It’s so pink and full, and she loves how it fills her up. Katya, moaning pitifully, speeds up her pace.

“You’re the best thing in this Milky Way,” Alaska promises as she flips them over, so she’s between Katya’s thighs. She wraps her legs around Alaska, loving how she pushes inside of her so easily. It’s like they were meant to come together like this. They fit so perfectly.

“Better than milk?”

Alaska giggle turns into a moan as she fucks her into the mattress, so hard that the bed squeaks. Katya has to bite her shoulder to stop herself from screaming Alaska’s name.

“Better,” Alaska promises with a grunt, and then she’s coming inside Katya. But Katya doesn’t want her stop. She squeezes her thighs around Alaska’s back, holding her there, and then she’s coming herself. She comes with a silent gasp, Alaska’s name on her tongue.

“I can’t believe you think I’m better than milk,” Katya giggles as Alaska rolls off of her. The cum is dripping out of her, and Katya doesn’t want to move, wants to keep it inside of her.

“You’ve changed me,” Alaska says, and, though she smiles, she sounds serious.

Katya pulls Alaska down by her long hair to steal another kiss. She feels so greedy. How has Katya just had her, but, still, she wants her? Buried deep, deep inside of her? Maybe Katya just loves the idea of being so close to her.

“Tell me you don’t have to leave,” Katya pleads.

Alaska looks down at her and just kisses her instead of saying the words. She doesn’t want to lie to me again, Katya realizes.

They get cleaned up and change into real clothes. When they go out to do the chores, Katya feels Betty’s glowing orange eyes following her.

If Katya were a Christian, she might have sunk down to her knees for the Lord. Instead, as she throws out feed to the chickens, she says a small prayer to the goddesses. Please, let Alaska stay here with me. Please.

Katya might be sixteen years old, but this is the closest thing to love she’s ever felt. Why did she have to fall for the princess of daddy issues?

When she comes back in, Katya sees that Miss. Fame has been talking to Betty. Shit, that pussy cat ratted her out.

“Katya…” Miss. Fame clears her throat. “Alaska, she has to go back. You know that right? She can’t stay here-”

“I know that,” she snaps.

“So, uh, it might be wise for you two to sleep in separate beds…don’t you think, Alaska?”

Alaska walks in and Katya watches as her face heats up. The blood rises to her face too as Katya protectively steps in front of her.

“You’re not even her mom and you never will be,” Katya yells before she even realizes what she’s saying. “You left her, alone. On a planet full of toxic air. So what gives you the right to boss her around? You don’t do anything but babble in Latin and pray to goddesses that don’t listen, y-you crazy chicken lady!” Katya yells and slams the door to her room.

It’s horrible, and she realizes how ungrateful that she must sound.

But Katya’s glad she said it anyway. This is the only friend she’s had in Kansas, and now Miss. Fame is trying to split them up before Alaska even has to leave. Maybe it might have been better if they never met. Never kissed. Never held each other so tenderly.

She starts to gather her things from the drawers and stuff them into her suitcase. All she wants is to go home. Away from nowhere land. Away from the farm. Away from the pain.

“Katya,” Alaska says softly as she opens the door.

Her tarot card tumble to the floor, and she bursts into tears.

“I just…I don’t want you to leave,” Katya cries. “You just came. You just came and now you have to go.”

“I’ll be back,” Alaska promises.

“When?”

“As soon as I’m eighteen, I’ll be legal. I’ll come back for you, Kat, and we’ll hitch hike across the galaxy together.”

“How will you find me?” She sniffles.

“Wait for me in Paris,” Alaska whispers and kisses her.

Katya knows it’s ridiculous, but she believes her anyways. She’s horribly in love, and there’s no potion known to witch kind that can cure her. This is a language that transcends cultures. They both know what it means when Katya pulls Alaska down and kisses her, cheeks wet with tears.

“Can you read our future?” Alaska asks and gestures to the tarot cards.

Katya closes her eyes and hovers her hands over the cards. She flips it over.

“Simulacyum fidei- latin for conjugal faith. Better known as…The Lovers,” Katya explains as she strokes the rainbow at the center, above the conjoined couple. She looks up and meets Alaska’s heated gaze. The cards have never lied to her, although she’s sometimes misread them, but this time it’s clear.

“What does it mean?”

“It means we’re going to be okay, Lasky. We’ll meet again.”

———

DEPARTURE

After Katya’s outburst, Miss. Fame comes to her with a potions book- a white flag. They continue their Latin lessons, but, now, Miss. Fame shows her how the ancient words link to the spells. Katya’s glad she finally spoke up, even though she’s sorry for how it came out.

“I’m sorry for calling you a ‘crazy chicken lady,’” Katya says as she accepts the potions book. “And saying that you aren’t Alaska’s mom. That’s none of my business. I really am grateful for everything that you’ve done for me.”

“No, I am a crazy chicken lady,” Miss. Fame laughs and then her face changes. “Katya, Alaska’s father he…abducted me. Do you understand? He took me, and I didn’t have a choice. So when he gave me the option to leave, so long as I left Alaska, I…”

She sags, and, for once, Miss. Fame looks her age. All one hundred years. Katya gives her a side hug. For all of her faults, Miss. Fame is a good woman.

“Did you tell Alaska?”

“No, I don’t want her to think less of her father. I’d rather she hated me.”

“You have to tell her, though!”

Miss. Fame shakes her head: “I can’t. I know that I lose myself in my Latin recitations and prayers, but it’s because…”

“You’re scared?”

“Because I’m trying to forget, Kat. Forget how they- what he- no, I can never tell Alaska what really happened to me.”

Katya buries her face into Miss. Fame’s shoulder and rubs her back as she cries. There’s so much pain and history that she’ll never understand.

“Forgive her,” she whispers to Alaska that night, as she collapses besides her.

“Why should I?” Alaska grumbles, burying her face between Katya’s breasts. This is their last night together for who knows how long. Katya wants to just fall into blissful sleep, but she has to speak up.

“I…I think she had her reasons,” Katya says truthfully. “She didn’t want to leave you, Alaska, but she had to go back home. Just like you had to come here.”

“Who was she running from?”

Katya bites her lip.

“Was it my dad?”

She doesn’t nod, but she blinks. Alaska rolls over, to stare up at the expanding moon, and sighs. Katya wants to kiss away all the pain on that moonlight soaked face.

They’ve spent this last week together, and Katya’s basking in the glow of Alaska’s touch. Their bodies and minds fit so effortlessly together. How is that she found her soulmate in the middle of Kansas? After the tarot cards, Katya is no longer as afraid for their future. They found each other once. They’ll do it again.

“I have to go,” Alaska says, softly, as she rises to get dressed, and Katya understands that it’s time. They’ve put it off long enough.

Katya presses a golden flask into Alaska’s hands. Alaska’s pink nails curl around the neck of the bottle.

“What’s this?”

“A luck potion- for strength.”

“Is this how witches say ‘I love you?’” Alaska teases as she pulls her in for a kiss.

“No, it’s how I say ‘don’t forget about me.’”

“How could I forget about the best thing in the Milky Way galaxy?”

“Better than milk?” Katya whispers as she hides her face into the curve of Alaska’s neck.

“Of course.”

Katya watches as the spaceship zooms into the darkness of the night. The universe is vast and infinite, stretching before her like the fields, but Katya has faith that the stars will bring them together again.

“Bluebirds singin’ a song. Nothin’ but bluebirds all day long,” Katya sings into the darkness as she cries. “Blue skies, smilin’ at me. Nothin’ but blues skies do I see…wondering when my love will come back to me.”

Katya falls asleep there in the cornfields, and, when she awakens, a blue bird has landed on her broomstick.