#not like i have a whole intercontinental flight right after

[itsbinghebitch]

whew im rly expecting the worst from this press conference huh

[raibebe]

Cloud nine

Genre: suggestive Words: 1.821 Prompt: pilot Jaemin x female reader Warnings: :] none..? A cock is getting touched through fabric?

A/N: Yeah :] raibebe comeback? I guess? This is basically all foreplay and I'm just edging you guys for the smut :]

“Psst, hey,” your coworker hissed while she was preparing a drink for someone seated in first class, confidently handling the wine glass despite the movement of the plane. “What?” You giggled, looking up from the book you were reading while most of the people on the flight had gone to sleep, meaning you finally had some time to yourself between crying children and Karens complaining about stuff you couldn’t change in the first place. “Come over here.” “What’s gotten into you?” You shook your head but walked over anyway, huddling close to her in the small space of the kitchenette. “I think the co-pilot is into you,” she whispered, wiggling her eyebrows for extra measure. “What? Mister Na?” “He sooo kept looking at you when he made his round through first class.” “Please, he probably was just making sure there were no weird drunks again,” you tried to wave it off, shuddering at the memory of your last flight where a drunk businessman had made so many misplaced comments and wouldn’t keep his hands to himself that one of the male staff had to step in. 

“You should shoot your shot. Catch yourself a nice and handsome pilot.” “You’re reading too many romance novels,” you just rolled your eyes like you hadn’t been reading one a minute ago. “I’m serious. At least slip him your number or something when you’re bringing them their next meal,” she grinned. “I’m not supposed to-“ “Well at least one of us has to invest in your love life,” she shrugged, leaving with the drink she had prepared for one of the rich businessmen seated in first class. Shaking your head, you went back to your book but not without throwing a quick look towards the cockpit’s door that of course was locked like it was supposed to be on long flights like this. 

Getting off an intercontinental flight was always extra rewarding, especially when you were staying at such a nice hotel as this in a tropical country, with all expenses covered by your company before you had to fly back after a day of relaxing. “Slip him your room number,” your coworker hissed as you waited at the reception for everyone to receive their key cards, the pilots last as they were ogled both by the women behind the reception desk and whoever was currently walking across the lobby. You couldn’t blame them though. The two pilots were so different that there was something for everyone’s taste: It was either the middle-aged pilot who you assumed was extruding just the right amount of daddy energy to be sexy if it wasn’t for the wedding band on his finger. And Co-Pilot Na just looked like he was ready to walk on a runway with his neatly styled hair, just the right amount of dyed strands falling into his strong eyebrows, and his suit jacket lazily thrown over his shoulder. The perfectly messy look was completed by a couple of buttons undone on his white dress shirt, exposing his collar bones and teasing the swell of his chest muscles while his tie hung loosely around his neck. And if all of that wasn’t enough, he of course wore a pair of big mirrored sunglasses on the elegant slope of his nose. 

“Stop staring at him and actually do it,” your coworker brought you back to reality when you were captured by the sweet smile co-pilot Na was flashing to the blushing receptionist as he received his key card for his room with polite hands. “He’s probably tired and this is a stupid idea,” you hissed, elbowing her in the stomach when she tried to argue right as the pilots made their way over to the rest of the cabin crew, hoping that would finally make her drop the whole topic. 

“Let’s have a nice stay everybody,” the older one of the pilots smiled almost fatherly, “Enjoy your stay and I will see you again on our flight back in 36 hours.” With that, he tipped his captain’s hat and made his way over to the elevators, his phone already in hand, probably to call his family as soon as he was in the comfort of his room. “What he said,” Co-Pilot Na simply grinned, running a hand through his hair to further mess up the once meticulously styled strands. But for some reason it only made him look more attractive. “They said the drinks at the bar are pretty good, just be sober by the time we have to be on the plane again.” You didn’t know if his words truly were funny or if his face did most of the work but it had most of the girls from the cabin crew giggling almost shyly. “I’ll see you around then,” he waved you off as well, pulling his small carry-on across the lobby. 

“Do it,” your colleague hissed again, quickly pulling you with her to follow the handsome Co-pilot to the elevator. “I’m not that desperate,” you hissed back but let her squeeze the three of you into the elevator anyways. Thank god none of you had problems with claustrophobia despite how tight the fit was with three adults and your carry-ons. “Where are you getting off?” He asked politely, already pressing the button for the seventh floor for himself. “Sixth for me,” your colleague smiled sweetly. “I’m on sixth as well,” you tried to smile as well while simultaneously pinching your colleague who was not so subtly trying to push you closer to the handsome pilot like you weren’t already invading his personal space. 

“Have a good night, rest well,” he smiled once you had stepped out onto your floor, always the polite gentleman. “You too, Mister Na,” your coworker smiled just as the doors closed. “Did you do it?” She asked excitedly the second the doors slid closed in front of Co-pilot Na’s handsome face. “What? Of course not,” you rolled your eyes, pulling your carry-on down the hallway to find your room. “You better make a move on him tomorrow at the pool then.” “Co-Pilot Na doesn’t get into the pool,” you immediately answered, only to quickly regret bringing it up when your coworker’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god. You already know him more intimately.” “I flew with him a handful of times and have never seen him at the pool or at the beach. That’s all,” you tried to explain yourself but you knew you had dug this grave for yourself to lay in. “So you kept an eye out for him,” she wiggled her brows. “Oh please, even I can admit he’s good-looking,” you rolled your eyes, quickly unlocking your room to end the conversation, “Good night.” “You’re absolutely no fun,” she sighed but waved you off anyways, promising to text you so you could go have breakfast together. 

Groaning loudly once you were in your room, you quickly looked around the room and the bathroom that was attached, noticing the big bathtub you were surely going to use later to loosen up your tense muscles from walking in heels for close to ten hours. But for now, all you wanted was to get out of your uniform and faceplant into the soft-looking mattress. But alas, you couldn’t just rip it off of your body when you didn’t want to spend your free time ironing it again. 

Just when you were down to your blouse - your blazer and pants already neatly hung away - someone knocked at your door. Not really thinking about it, you opened it without even checking who had knocked, coming face to face with a grinning Co-Pilot. “Well hello there,” he grinned, giving you a quick once over as he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed in front of his chest so his dress shirt was fitting even more snugly, his suit jacket and tie nowhere to be seen. “Your lovely coworker slipped me this note with your room number.” To prove his point, he held up a little piece of paper between two of his fingers. “Oh my god, she didn’t,” you groaned, ripping it from his grip to read the cheesy and provocative message. 

“Guess she caught me staring at you.” “You’re not even half as sneaky as you think you are.” “How do you expect me to keep my eyes off of you if you look like this?” He spoke lowly, unashamedly looking at your exposed cleavage before he sneaked his arms around your waist only to grab two handfuls of your panty-clad ass so he could roughly pull you against his chest. “At least get into the room first, Mister,” you laughed hoarsely, slipping your hands up his chest to feel the solid musicale beneath your fingertips. “Maybe I like the thrill,” he sighed, leaning in until his lips barely grazed yours when he spoke. “You’re the worst, Na Jaemin,” you sighed, getting lost in his dark eyes. “You love it though,” Jaemin whispered, his long lashes fluttering as he closed his eyes. “I do,” you smiled before finally closing the distance between your lips to softly kiss him, languidly moving them together. 

But like so often, it didn’t stay chaste like that once Jaemin licked over your bottom lip to demand entrance that you easily granted him, mewling into his mouth as he walked you back into your room, carelessly kicking the door shut. “Too bad you’re already out of your uniform. Would have loved fucking you in that,” he groaned, kissing down your neck. “You like it that much?” You teased, cupping his hardening cock through his slacks. “Do you have any idea how good your ass looks in these pants?” Your snarky reply got stuck in your throat when Jaemin raked his teeth over your fluttering pulse, knowing full well you’d get into trouble if he were to leave marks. 

“If we wouldn’t both lose our jobs, I’d have made us part of the mile-high club already,” he promised, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on your exposed skin. “The bathrooms are way too cramped for that,” you groaned, making quick work of the buttons of Jaemin’s dress shirt so you could feel his skin beneath your fingertips. “You could ride me in the cockpit,” he moaned, carelessly shucking his shirt off before he pushed you down onto the mattress. “Putting the cock in cockpit,” you giggled, scooting up until you rested against the plush pillows. “I’d rather put it in you,” he joked, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows. “Shut up or you’ll not put your dick anywhere,” you rolled your eyes but opened your legs for him anyways, showing him the lacy underwear you wore today that he had gifted you when he had come back from his last flight to Rome. “Oh I know just what’ll shut me up,” he moaned, climbing onto the bed and between your legs to suck a bruise to the inside of your thigh.

[bedlamsbard]

Some concept writing as part of this! What's going on Earthside in Reaches, the 2012 timeline that Loki, Steve, and Natasha visit in Yonder; this will expand into a full chapter at some point. (Reaches is that weird middle point between being a chaptered fic and being concept writing.)

1K below the break.

...

Rhodey was unsurprised to see Tony emerging from the compartment next to his, straightening his tie and looking generally unruffled.  It was a sharp contrast to the way Rhodey felt, which was to say: like he had been dragged backwards through a mangle.  He had flown straight here in the War Machine suit and the rest of his gear was still back in Camp Leatherneck.  Rhodey was just hoping he would see it again sometime, though since it had been left in the tender hands of the United States Marine Corps he wasn’t feeling particularly sanguine about that.  SHIELD had somehow produced a set of ABUs in his size, complete with his name tape and rank insignia; the clothes had the presumably-unintended effect of making him feel a little paranoid, though that might have been the lack of sleep.  What Rhodey wanted was a shower, a nap, and a meal; he hadn’t gotten any of those.

“Hey, man,” he said, and Tony looked up and grinned at the sight of him. “They drag you into this goat rodeo too?”

“Apparently it’s ‘a matter of vital planetary security,’” Tony said, making air quotes around the words.  “And a ‘national tragedy,’ which I guess means Captain Spangles is involved somehow.  It figures.”

“Captain – what?”  Maybe it was the sleep deprivation or the intercontinental flight, because even Rhodey’s experience at translating from Tony to English failed him.

“What, you didn’t do the homework?”

“You know, two hours ago I was in Afghanistan,” Rhodey told him meaningfully. “Out in the middle of nowhere doing the good work of the American people, when all of a sudden my CO calls and tells me that SHIELD, in their high-handed wisdom, says that I have to go their secret flying whatever-the-hell-this-is right now.  So no, Tony, I didn’t do the homework.”

SHIELD had been the bogeyman of the American military and intelligence communities for more than half a century, a rumored secret even before its existence had been made public in 1975 during the Church Committee investigations.  Even after the Expo, Rhodey had never had much interaction with them, though he knew that the Air Force had gotten into a pissing match with SHIELD over him – over the War Machine suit, rather.  He didn’t know whether the Air Force had won so much as SHIELD had decided that it didn’t really matter, which this whole escapade seemed to argue in the first place.  He wasn’t too eager to find out what had made SHIELD yank a leash he hadn’t even known was there.

“Gentlemen.”  The SHIELD agent who appeared suddenly at the other end of the room was blonde, pretty, and young enough to make Rhodey feel a thousand years old.  “I’m Agent 13 of SHIELD Special Service.  If you’ll come with me, Director Fury’s waiting for you.”

“So is 13 the first name or last name?” Rhodey asked, exchanging a meaningful look with Tony.  Almost thirty years of friendship with Tony to had inured him to most theatrics, but that didn’t mean he appreciated them.

The comment got him a dry look in response, but no further elaboration.  She led them through the bowels of the helicarrier and upwards past blue- or black- uniformed SHIELD personnel.  Rhodey had been on enough top-secret assignments in his day that he was willing to be patient, since SHIELD wouldn’t have hauled them both out here if it wasn’t for a good reason, but Agent 13’s unwillingness to respond to any of Tony’s questions was clearly driving him up the wall.  She led them to some kind of conference room that had a couple of heavily-armed SHIELD agents in tactical gear standing watch in the hallway.

“Mr. Stark, Colonel Rhodes,” she said, showing them inside with the air of someone glad to wash her hands of them both.  Rhodey couldn’t blame her for that, but he thought it was a little unfair since he hadn’t done anything.

“Thank you, Agent,” Nick Fury said.  The door slid shut behind Agent 13 as Fury came over to shake hands with both Tony and Rhodey, saying, “Thanks for coming out.”

“Didn’t realize we had a choice,” Rhodey said, cutting off whatever snarky remark Tony was going to make.

Fury, to his credit, didn’t tell them that he hadn’t had one, just introduced them to the other people in the room – a SHIELD agent named Barton, a scientist called Erik Selvig whose name Rhodey vaguely recognized, and Bruce Banner, whom Rhodey had never personally met but whom he recognized from both the newspapers and the files he had been briefed on the previous year.  From Banner’s expression, he realized that Rhodey recognized him.

“We’re waiting on one more –” Fury started to say, just as the door slid open again.

“– of course it was a set-up!  Highly-paid consultations don’t just fall out of the sky, I can’t believe you thought you could just, just what, put me in storage –”

Selvig got to his feet. “Jane – Jane –”

The first woman to come through the door was small and furious; the woman who followed her was younger, with dark hair and glasses.  They were both followed by Agent Coulson, who looked decidedly put-upon.

“Dr. Foster,” Fury said, or tried to say, because she ignored him.  Rhodey stepped hastily out of the way as she bulldozed her way across the room to get to Selvig.

“Erik, are you all right?”

“I’m – I’m fine,” Selvig said, not looking like he was sure he believed it.

The other woman was looking around the room with interest, her eyes widening a little when she recognized Tony.  He winked at her.  She looked annoyed.

“Does this have something to do with Thor?” she demanded. “Is that why you dragged us out here?”

Rhodey blinked. “With who?”

Yeah, he thought tiredly as Fury started to explain something that included aliens, time travel, Captain America, and magic, he really should have stayed in Afghanistan to get shot at by terrorists.

[kutputli]

I did my rewatch with subtitles on. I'm too tired and disinvested to do a whole episode reaction, but I want to make a few points about race. I do this even if it feels really lonely to talk about race in a fandom that mostly only cares to engage with liberal white takes because I've seen fans of colour critique white media for the past twenty odd years, and every single time, the privilege of lurking and reading what they have to say has taught me something. It has made me a better storyteller, even if those stories are only inside my head. Talking about race helps to strip away the power that racism wields.

Anyway, like a said, a few things -

Imagine if Dani had been pitted against Colin or Jamie instead of Thierry. It would have made it slightly less offensive that he littered crumbs in the isle if the journey had been a train to Wales rather than the beginning of an intercontinental flight (and why the fuck, show that purportedly had an episode about class, are Premier league footballers not flying business class?) And it would have stopped re-inscribing Thierry (who as @chaoswillcalmusdown has pointed out, is breaking barriers by being a Black goalie) as the gobsmacked butt of the joke. Imagine how much more funny the joke would have been if Dani had been allowed to direct aggression and violence towards a white teammate.

Har Har, the joke is that you can't imagine a Black man as Swiss, right? My god, imagine if Moe Bumbercatch was not written as this blank slate upon which the white writers scrawl out outlandish backstories for the sole purpose of having funny one-liners where the joke is simply - haha the Black man knits. The Black man cares about class warfare. The Black man is actually hot to gay Welshmen.

They still have Toheeb's real parents photo up in Sam's locker, even though his real dad looks nothing like (the magnificent) Nonso Anozie). I understand we all have to witness Jamie's growth through the milestones he hits in his treatment of his Black teammates, but imagine Sam having had a conversation with Isaac, or with Simi, or with his dad. Imagine showing that he had a safe space to be angry and disappointed in, instead of a bunch of white coaches talking about him.

Oh, and imagine, in a show where corruption of the Nigerian government was made a big shocking thing that Sam fought against in season 2, that its corruption in accepting a weaker sports team wasn't normalised. Environmental corruption isn't a thing exclusive to post-colonial nations. The UK and US both have plenty of scandals where MNCs have bribed their way out of pollution. But look - I've been around for all of the cricket match fixing incidents. Right now Nigeria and India have similar kinds of awful people in charge. But to normalise that any post-colonial country would give up the chance to win an international sporting event by deliberately not hiring one of their best players? To think that is believable? Fuck that shit.

Imagine, in a room filled with white Britishers (where were the Arabs? WHERE?) that the Ghanaian billionaire was not the only one whose ambitions of making money were thwarted and mocked. Imagine if the return of Edwin (because the actor is a friend of Jason's) was focussed on the restaurant story, so that Simi could have put him in his place, instead of Rebecca. Ah, that sting of who gets put in their place, and what one's place is, when one is a person of colour...

Which brings us to. Shandy Fine is more of an 'ambitious nightmare' rather than 'crazy', according to Keeley (fucking) Jones, the skinny white ex-model who shagged rich footballers until it brought her the attention of a rich white woman, who gave her a job out of friendship, and then just funded her business after her former boss and girlfriend pulled the plug on it. Imagine a world where a casting director said, maybe we shouldn't cast the only woman of colour with speaking lines across multiple episodes as a treacherous buffoonish nightmare, but instead.... let a white girl do that. Imagine casting Ambreen Razia as Barbara.

Imagine not using Nathan's moment of connecting with something he once loved, to underscore Rupert's humanising moment of loving Richmond enough to sneak into it, and Rebecca's affection for Rupert.

Imagine if this show was actually curious about the interiority of its characters of colour, and not judgemental about how they can best serve to forward the narratives of the white ones.

So, I watched Ted Lasso Season 3 Episode 10.

While watching it I was so angry.

But now I'm just sad. It brings me genuine grief to watch a story that could be so beautiful in so many ways, brought down, tarnished, bleached of all the vibrant colour it could have, by the inability of these storytellers to get out of the way of their own whiteness.

Such wonderful talented actors, so much potential to so many characters. Such a chance to genuinely touch some truths. But every single time, they choose the worse choice, just to hold the doors closed to their little bubble of whiteness, where no winds of change can ever sweep their characters to a place they cannot identify with.

I pity them.

[greengrayeyeswrites]

shit-faced in love (chapter three)

Title: shit-faced in love

Pairing: Corpse Husband x OC (fem!youtuber!reader)

Word Count: 1,151

Warnings: Mental Health/Mental Illnesses are a big topic in this story. Mentions of depression, bpd and other mental illnesses. Angst, Fluff.

Note: This may be a Corpse x OC story but feel free to insert yourself into the main girls role. If Corpse ever announces that he doesn’t like fanfics about him, I’ll delete this.

Prologue — Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4: Here

— — —

Imogen’s hair was messy, her make-up was smudged and her feet were feeling weird. She looked for the outside area of the airport so Buddy could go to the toilet. Her mind was racing, while she waited for Buddy to finish his business.

Then she searched the sleeping capsules and booked one for three and a half hours. Finally on her own in her own, private capsule the twenty-eight year old could finally relax.

She laid on the little bed, checked her social media and soon fell asleep. The jet lag was killing her. She flew eight hours into the past and it took its toll on her.

Buddy was lying on the floor on his cushion and was gently snoring away. Imogen’s whole body relaxed, while she laid on the bed, the quilt covering her whole face. 

She was glad she didn’t have to go through security once more. Her checked-in luggage was already on it’s way to the next airplane. 

Imogen almost slept through her alarm, when Buddy wouldn’t have woken her up with a wet kiss on her cheek. She exited the capsule and went to the closest restroom to refresh her and fix her make-up. 

Looking fresh and clean she entered the next airplane. The flight to Houston only took three hours and Imogen reached the lone star state at 3:30 am. 

To call Imogen tired and fucked was an understatement. The woman was completely wrecked, and felt sleep deprived. She had been flying through different timezones and was wrecked.

She almost fell asleep, while waiting for her luggage. But Buddy woke her up right when her carrier rolled past her on the treadmill. She quickly took it down and went to the rest room once more, freshening up.

She didn’t want to stand across of Baylee looking like a homeless person. She redid her whole make-up, put some peach-colored blush on her cheeks and redid her eyeliner, the wing looked even more pretty than before. 

With some finishing touches she looked at Buddy and nodded. „Ready to meet Baylee in real life?“ She asked the dog, that only tilted his head. 

Walking through the doors to the arrival hall, Imogen’s heart started beating faster and she nervously looked around.

She had facetimed with Baylee a lot and have seen her pictures. She knew how the woman looked like; yet here she was nervous about meeting Baylee for the first time.

Imogen’s hands were shaking and she held tight onto Buddy’s leash, when she saw a sign that said her name SAD-MOGEN the sign said and Imogen chuckled. 

She looked at the woman holding the sign and immediately recognized her. It was Bayle Macasa, her best friend. The smile on her lips was even prettier in real life than through the screen. 

Imogen slowly walked up to her, unsure of what to do. But once she stood infant of the smaller girl, the urge to hug her overwhelmed her and she crushed Baylee in a hug.

„I can’t believe I’m really here!“ Imogen almost cried, while holding Baylee in her arms. Her best friend, her backbone, her favorite person was standing right in front of her. 

„And I can’t believe you’re here!“ Baylee said and her voice send a shiver down Imogen’s spine. „Your voice is even prettier irl!“ The Irish woman was out of words, when she felt Buddy tug on its leash. 

„Oh, right!“ Imogen tugged on Buddy’s leash and the Siberian Husky walked a step forward. „Baylee, this is Buddy. Buddy, this is Baylee!“ Imogen introduced her dog to her best friend and vice versa. 

„Hi Buddy, it’s nice to meet you!“ Baylee bend down and let the dog sniff her hand, before she petted him. „Whoa! His fur is even softer than I imagined it!“ Baylee laughed and Imogen nodded. 

For a split second Imogen forgot that it was three in the morning. But while she followed Baylee through the George Bush Intercontinental Airport she started yawning. Baylee looked at the taller woman.

„You must be super tired“, the Filipina started and Imogen nodded. „I’ve travelled so many different time zones in the span of sixteen hours… I’m completely wrecked.“ 

Baylee laughed. „How about I drop you off at your AirBnB and we’re going to explore Houston once you’ve had a handful of sleep?“ Imogen looked at her dark haired friend and nodded. „That would be fantastic, Bay… I’m so sorry but Buddy and I are dead.“

The two women started laughing and walked to Baylee's car. „Completely understandable. It’s not everyday, that you cross the Atlantic Ocean!“ Baylee chuckled and opened the trunk of her Jeep. 

After they load the car and fixed Buddy’s car straps the two woman drove to Imogen’s AirBnB. Imogen had rented a beautiful, completely furnished Condo for her and Buddy in downtown Houston, close to the Memorial Park.

The owner of the AirBnB was super kind and told Imogen more than once that it was okay that Buddy was going to stay with her. 

Baylee soon found the condo and parked in front of it. „Whoa, that looks fancy.“ She grinned towards her best friend. „No wonder, for a rich YouTuber“ Baylee winked and Imogen blew up her cheeks. „I’m not rich… I just live comfortable…“ 

Money wasn’t Imogen’s favorite topic. She knew she owned more than normal twenty-eight year olds, but she worked hard for her money. She had deals with companies and had to advertise their products, to gain all that money.

„I know, I know… I was just kidding, Mo.“ Baylee grinned and climbed out the car. Imogen followed her and freed Buddy from the seat. The husky jumped out of the car and started sniffing the driveway of the condo.

The women unload the trunk and Baylee helped Imogen carry her stuff into the condo. Both women were shocked when they say the interior of the house. „Dang… this is beautiful!“ Imogen whispered and looked around.

The condo had a spacious living room with beautiful paintings all over the walls and beautiful furniture. There was a white dining table with green chairs. 

Imogen and Baylee both looked at eachother. „NCT-green chairs“, chuckled Imogen and Baylee nodded. „I bet Hyuck and Jae would like these chairs“, the twenty-five year old grinned. 

Buddy was sniffing around the house and went out to the backyard and pool area to do his business. 

After Imogen and Baylee looked through the whole condo, Baylee bid her goodbyes for now and Imogen hugged her. „Call me once you wake up, okay? I’ll come by with breakfast!“ The Filipina promised and Imogen nodded. 

Once Baylee left, Imogen went straight to the bathroom to wipe off all her make-up. After fixing Buddy’s cushion next to her bed, she fell asleep. 

She couldn’t wait for her American adventure to start.

to be continued…

Taglist: @wineandionysus

[crystallinecrimsonmoth]

Moon City Don't Judge - Chapter 1

1983, NSAS Headquarters, Edinburgh, Scotland

“So this is for the newest Jamestown mission, then? What number are these Yankees on now?”

“Jamestown 85.”

“Oh, well I sure am flattered to be allowed in this late in the game. What did they tell you?”

“They’re trying to look international after the Russians had that mission with the French.”

Heather McKay snorted at that, taking the folder from Marcus and flicking through the pictures of the recent mission that had been broadcast on TV for the whole world to see just how friendly Russia were now.

The image of two astronauts with contrasting flags on their arms made her smirk a little. Since unilaterally declaring independence after World War Two, Scotland had become a far more passive nation, leaving larger countries like the US and the Soviet Union to sort out their own scraps unless they were absolutely needed to step in.

“So, they want to make nice with a passive country.”

“Exactly. I’ve been chatting with Molly Cobb, she’s head of astronauts now over at Houston, expecting one Mr McKay, second Scot in space.”

Heather laughed, nodding as she set the folder down and grabbed her water bottle from its resting spot on Marcus’ desk.

“I thought that was just a trick we played on rookie engineers and astronauts, not seasoned professionals.”

Marcus rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and shrugging.

“Messing with Americans is just as fun, even if they are fellow astronauts.”

“Seekers of independence from the crown playing pranks on each other. How mature.” Heather grinned, lifting her jacket from the back of her chair and shrugging it onto her shoulders.

The folder was still open on the table as she gave it one more scan, sighing.

“That’s early as hell to be rising, Marcus.”

“You can sleep when you’re dead, you know that better than anyone, astronaut.”

“Sure do, desk jockey.” The younger woman smiled at him when he gave her a deprecating look, offering him a fist bump as a goodbye.

“Have fun in Moon City, kid.”

Flying to America commercially felt like being stuck in a tin can for hours on end, though Heather was sure if she’d tried to fly it alone, she would have fallen asleep and crashed by now. She spent the time with her seat leaned back a fraction and a personnel file in her lap for the people she’d be working with. She knew Margo from a few years before when she had advised her on how to deal with a young Aleida Rosales and they had kept in touch since, so she passed by her file with ease and moved onto the astronaut section without realising she’d skipped the profile of her newest colleague, Molly Cobb.

With so many names to memorise and personal facts to store away in her head to be used at a later date, Heather barely had the energy to look at Cobb’s profile, her closing eyes skimming the information about the death of Wubbo Ockels before finally shutting as she passed out from exhaustion.

“Mrs McKay? Mrs McKay, we’ve arrived at Houston Intercontinental, it’s time to depart the plane.”

Heather came around to find a made-up flight attendant peering at her and shaking her shoulder gently, lacquered brown eyes focused on hers.

She flinched briefly at the sight before nodding when she took in the woman’s words, sliding out from her seat and looking at her once she’d grabbed her carry on from the overhead bins.

“What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon, Mrs McKay, you’ve gained six hours.”

“Not Mrs, please, I’m not married.” Heather smiled kindly at the woman, nodding when she excused herself and exiting the plane into the fresh air.

At least, she had hoped it would be fresh. Instead, it felt like the Sahara compared to Edinburgh; the heat turned right up in Texas during June. It made her glad the man who put her through security knew who she was and went out of his way to help her through quickly.

She had a feeling that would be a rare thing in a country where nationalism was rampant. If you weren’t an American in the United States, you weren’t worth anyone’s time.

Luggage claim took longer than security for once, chewing the Scot out fifteen minutes later back into the hot Texan sun where a man in a secret service type suit stood beside an entirely black car with tinted windows.

“Miss Mickey?”

“It’s McKay. You would think with a fancy car service, the ability to say my name correctly would be included in the package.”

“Apologies, ma’am. I’ve been instructed to take you straight to the hotel.”

Heather nodded, giving him her suitcase and guitar to load into the trunk before sitting in the back of the car, relaxing into the comfortable leather after hours upon hours in a spiny airplane seat.

With tinted windows surrounding her, the sun was blocked out to make the rest of the journey easier with less heat, so she was fine to actually talk to the driver when he took off from the airport.

“I didn’t expect so much security around my arrival. It’s almost as if I’m a cosmonaut.”

“No, ma’am, the president was only concerned that the Russians may attack you to start a war with your passive nation.”

She sighed in the back seat, shaking her head as she leaned against the headrest behind her.

“I don’t believe they would. Scotland is no enemy of the USSR.”

“I meant no offense, ma’am, only to say that your head of state agrees with the president. He knows the danger too.”

Heather rolled her eyes at the mention of the Scottish leader, remembering the twelfth head of state from a meeting a few months before. She had much preferred the man who saw her off into space six years before.

“The head of state’s a misogynistic prick.”

The driver didn’t say anything in response, only smiling to her in the rear-view mirror which she found amusing. He obviously agreed but chances were there was a wire in the car to make sure he didn’t criticise his own government. How confident that made her feel about being in one of the two most controversial countries on the planet.

She’d researched the distance between the airport and the space centre before she left Scotland, wanting to make sure she knew her surroundings and not exactly thankful that there was an hour between them.

She had a feeling she’d be relying on her driver a lot during this trip if she were to get anywhere other than the space centre.

The rest of the journey was quiet, what Heather would call typical American scenery of square buildings and grey roads passing them by until they finally reached the hotel. She could see the space centre in all its glory across the road, large and looming over the water beside it.

“Much less attractive than NSAS headquarters, wouldn’t you say?”

“No pretty castles to convert in this country, ma’am. We make do with concrete and glass.”

“Looks like a bunch of grey shoeboxes to me.” Heather scoffed as she took the suitcase and instrument from him, slipping on her sunglasses and hat to avoid the sun above them.

“Maybe you can give them some design tips tomorrow, ma’am.”

She nodded, grabbing her backpack from the seat and throwing it over her shoulder with her guitar case, following him into the hotel once the car was locked and sifting in her bag for the hotel information Marcus had given her so she could check in.

“I have a copy of your booking if you can’t find your own.” She looked up at her driver to find a fresh sheet of paper in his hand and grinned, taking it and handing it to the receptionist when they reached the counter.

“Fucking bless you, boy.”

“Of course, ma’am. If that’s everything you need?”

“Yes. No, sorry, do you know where the Outpost is? My head of astronaut affairs gave me that name for the local pub, but I’m all turned around here.”

“The Outpost is across the road and five blocks to the left, Miss Mickey. You can’t miss the sign.” The receptionist spoke up before the driver could, causing the other woman to nod, taking off her glasses now that they were inside and smiling at both of them.

“Thank you. Kid, I meant to ask what your name is. I hate to have you driving me around when I don’t know who you are.”

“Liam Russett, ma’am, at your service and surely older than you so there’s no need to call me kid.”

Heather snorted at that, shaking her head as she hooked her glasses on the collar of her shirt.

“Well, if that’s true, you should get yourself a new job rather than driving around child astronauts.”

“It’s a pleasure, ma’am, really. You have my number for when you need driven somewhere. Have a nice night, Miss McKay.”

“You too, Liam.” She waved to him and grinned when he waved back, turning to talk to the receptionist.

“Hi, sorry for making you wait.”

“I’m used to it, don’t fret. Okay, Miss Mickey,”

That pronunciation wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“…you’re booked in for the next week and two weeks after your return, courtesy of NASA, but you can stay for longer after your mission if you should wish to set that up. Here’s your key and if you’re joining us for the full breakfast tomorrow, we start serving at 8am.” The woman behind the desk smiled kindly, getting another bright smile from Heather as she shifted her bags into the elevator to the side of reception.

“I’ll probably catch a donut at the centre tomorrow, but I will keep the breakfast thing in mind for another day! Thank you!” She called over her shoulder as the doors shut and she started going up to the sixth floor.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt like a cat dragged through a hedge backwards. Her hair was sticking to the side of her face with the sweat, the hat plastering part of her fringe to her forehead when she took it off. Her cheeks were red from the sun too and it occurred to her that she’d need sun-cream if she was going to be stuck in America for longer than a day.

As she stepped out onto the right floor and shifted open her hotel room door with a bit of struggle, the phone on the table started ringing.

Heather groaned, shutting the door behind her once her stuff was inside and picking up the call quickly, putting the receiver to her ear.

“Heather McKay, who’s calling, please?”

“Heather, you got there okay, good. How was the plane trip?”

“Hell, I’d honestly prefer a fucking Saltire shuttle.” The young woman expressed to Marcus on the other side as she flopped down on the mattress, glad for the comfort.

Her fellow astronaut laughed on the other end of the call, leaning back on his own armchair.

“Christ, worse than Saltire? Aren’t I glad I volunteered you for this mission and not myself?”

Heather rolled her eyes, staring out of the window that stretched her wall. The sky was a perfect blue with the sun shining down on the city, reminding her of decent summer days at home when she’d kick up sand on the beach. It was a relaxing memory to think about after the long journey.

“Yeah, aren’t you fucking lucky? I’m gonna head for the Outpost tonight with my guitar, try and make friends before I show up tomorrow.”

“Your social skills have come a long way since I met you.”

“And as soon as our leader and their leader aren’t bastards, I’ll be much more sociable!” She sighed, sitting up and going to the window to look across the roofs of the shoeboxes across the road.

“I don’t believe that but you’re Molly’s problem for the next month, not mine.”

Heather grinned at his words. She knew what he meant. Out of the first two Scots in space, she was far more foul-mouthed and quick-witted than Marcus, and it had definitely been a problem in the past.

“Don’t you worry, Marky, I’ll make you proud. Say hi to Laura and James for me.” She bid him goodbye before hanging up, returning the phone to its holder, and skimming through the tourist information book in an attempt at finding a place to eat after the hellish plane ride.

In the end, she had settled for a burger from the van outside NASA headquarters, sitting on a stone wall in front of some flower beds and enjoying watching so many engineers and scientists pass by, chatting away about their work.

Science was one half of her busy life and she loved it. Being at NASA was just the cherry on top of her career now, even if she wasn’t a fan of the politics the agency let itself get caught up in.

She listened to the chatter until her burger was a mere wrapper crushed in her hands and was surprised by the time on the clock outside the hotel. She sure hadn’t realised she’d been sitting there for that many hours but keeping a low profile and being jetlagged clearly passed the time faster than she thought.

Heading back up to her room, Heather changed into a fresh t-shirt and flannel before wandering over to the Outpost bar once she ran a brush through her hair. She could feel people eyeing her as soon as she walked in, clearly sticking out like a sore thumb as someone who they’d never seen before.

No one recognised her yet, thankfully. She didn’t need “socialist Scot scum” comments when she just wanted to drink and play her guitar. She let herself look at the astronaut souvenirs in the glass case by the door then approached the bar, smiling at the woman she certainly recognised as Karen Baldwin from the file about her husband.

“Hi, what can I get for ya?”

“A dram of your best Scots whisky, please.”

“Taste of home coming right up. Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m new, start tomorrow. Thought I’d show my face and try to make friends before going to the moon with this lot.”

Karen nodded, the recognition clicking in her head as she slid the whisky to the younger woman.

“McKay, right? Ed was talking about you. First Scottish woman astronaut, and you changed the law on gay rights, didn’t you? Pretty ballsy.”

Heather shrugged, sipping her whisky and relishing in the burn going down her throat for a moment before speaking.

“And yet folks here in Texas would probably see me hung for it, at the very least fined 500 dollar for kissing a lady in public.”

“Some people never want to let go of their traditions, we’ll get there.” Karen smiled, nodding to the guitar strapped to her back with a slight grin.

“If you’re looking to make friends, you should play. They like music.” She told her with a wink before moving along to serve the newest patron in the door.

The young Scot looked around the bar once before taking her advice, sitting at a table in the corner near the counter and starting to play.

“Ring of Fire, good idea.” Karen mouthed to her from the bar, praising her choice of an American song as the front door opened again, none other than Molly Cobb walking through it and smiling at Karen, giving a brief wave.

“A beer, please, Karen.”

“Love is a burning thing… and it makes, a fiery ring…”

She could feel eyes on her, practically every pair in the bar turning to look at her eventually while she played. Usually, the attention didn’t bother her but the distraction of feet approaching her made her fingers tremble slightly on the strings.

Heather didn’t like being such a close focus of attention. She was used to the crowd having boundaries, being on a stage or a higher platform where they couldn’t reach her, but as she finished the song a few minutes later with every person in the bar staring at her, she could feel a wave of nerves run through her.

Molly was right there, sitting right there with her beer in hand and sunglasses pushing her hair back from her face, blue eyes focused on Heather.

“You’re good.”

“I practice.”

“Haven’t seen you around here before.”

Heather laughed in a light tone, strumming the cords of her guitar slightly. This woman had no idea that they were colleagues, that they had first woman of her nation in space in common. She was looking right through her.

“Oh, I just like the astronaut knick-knacks at this bar, plus I thought I’d try to impress the great Molly Cobb with my playing. Did you like it?” She tilted her head, acting as if she were simply an awestruck citizen and not reporting to duty for the woman the next day.

“Well colour me impressed, though that may just be the alcohol.”

“I’d like to see you do better. Your skills seem singular to flying.” She smirked, wondering how long she could get away with her secret identity.

Taking another sip of her whisky, Heather watched the other woman over the lip of her glass. She sure looked a lot more attractive in person compared to the photo in her information folder, but she wouldn’t act on that fact. It would put them both in danger for her to flirt in public here.

Even friends could turn on Molly if she got that close to another woman, Heather knew that.

“Yeah, and what other skills can you boast, sweetheart? Lemme guess, you can play two instruments.”

Oh, you bitch.

“First impressions aren’t your thing, are they? Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll report for duty first thing tomorrow morning in your office, even if you’re a smug bitch. My name’s Heather McKay, by the way.” She held out her hand for Molly to shake as an introduction and smiled kindly when the older woman sighed, shaking her hand.

“Heather McKay, first Scottish woman in space. Marcus told me you were a Mr.”

“Wee trick we like to play on new recruits from other countries, he thought it would be funny to play it on a Yank.” Heather downed what remained of her whisky before ignoring Molly and waving to Karen as she left the bar.

“See you tomorrow, boss.”

[scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy]

Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One

Space (Season One)

They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards. 

The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.

Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?

She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico. 

Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself. 

Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids. 

Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.

He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes. 

When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this. 

Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators. 

Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.

Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell. 

Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine. 

What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.

At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer. 

Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.

On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.

“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”

“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?” 

Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.

“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”

“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.

Scully frowned at him. 

“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”

He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”

She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.

“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”

Mulder titled his head, curious.

“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”

Mulder nodded. 

“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”

Mulder was listening intently.

“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”

Mulder frowned.

“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”

Mulder looked perturbed.

“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”

Mulder swallowed hard.

“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”

Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.

Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.

On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage. 

Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along. 

No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.

Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.

In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.

“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”

“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions. 

“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.

She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”

At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel. 

When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot. 

Don’t say a word, Mulder.

The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.

The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’ 

Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’

“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.

The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?

Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room. 

“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.

But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.

Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.

***

After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her. 

Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder. 

Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.

But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.

She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.

Ice.  

The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face. 

I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.

He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.

If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars. 

But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck. 

Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure. 

Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands. 

Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour. 

But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat. 

She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.

She got a red light.

Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.

Red.

Again.

Red.

Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.

Nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.

She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.

ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.

Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.

She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.

She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.

She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.

Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.

“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”

“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.

“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.

“You cold?” he asked.

Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.

“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.

“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.

“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again. 

She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios. 

She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.

She wrestled with her conscience.

She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship. 

But…

She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.

You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...

She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.

She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.

She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.

There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.

She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.

In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.

She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.

His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.

She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.

“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.

His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.  

His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms. 

She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front. 

She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time. 

“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.

His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.

He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.

He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed. 

“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.

She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan. 

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”

He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”

She shrugged playfully.

He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.

Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments. 

At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth. 

As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.

Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy. 

She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.

She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.

Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off. 

He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.

She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly. 

Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.

“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”

She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.

She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets. 

She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious. 

“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed. 

His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon. 

She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.

He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins. 

Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat. 

“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.          

She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth. 

Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm. 

He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues. 

“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”

She nodded, grinning herself. 

“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress. 

Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her. 

“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”

“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”

“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”

She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom. 

She was asleep before he even turned out the light.

***

Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.

“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.

“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”

“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.

She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.

At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.

At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze. 

“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.

“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.

nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.

AO3 link here.

[letterstodaphne]

Dear Daphne, 

It’s been a while since I wrote actual letters, but it's just so much easier to write on laptop. Of course it will be in your liking to know that the aesthetics still remain simple yet elegant, I won't ever to anything different. 

Anyways, the whole world is going insane right now and you probably would go just as mad as me watching the blatant lies and incorrect or non-verified “scientific” studies (more like methodically wrong simulations) Mr. Shorty tries to sell as the only truth, he received from his “experts” whose names he won't tell. Your best friend from the 2008 epidemic is now back on top as Germanys apparent only intelligence. Whereas back then it was Tamiflu which promised to reduce a severe development it’s now Remdesivir. You know, rewatching the news back then and comparing them with now.. it’s pretty similar but yet slightly different. 

Whereas back then almost nobody did publish actual numbers or countings, now they escalate with daily updates and drive people insane. Watching people denounce and insult each other for months becomes tiring. At the same time I get really annoyed about the fact that everyone who does offer critique - which is essential in a scientific discourse - became ridiculed or mouthdead instantly. Everyone who offered critique was entitled as a conspiracist or stupid, no matter if they were right or wrong.

Not to forget the audacity to cut off our essential rights for a month. Like I really mean the most basic of the basic rights to p.e. going for a walk in the local gardens. I mean we both would definitely still go to Schönbrunn for a walk and just pay the fee. 

By the way, you’d be so proud of me. I got straight A’s in basic and advanced statistics.. even though multivariate are killing me. Still, I actually know what scientists are talking about when showing their ‘exponential’ graphs. And when even I (with profs approval) see mayor errors in the stats, it really was badly made. But why not, it’s just so easy to follow the truth one makes up themself. 

I won’t ever forget how Shorty threatened the country with about more than 250k deaths, because his “experts” did bad maths. They seriously calculated 8mio*0.37 instead of 0,0037. The 0.37% were in percent and they literally just forgot to convert. You’d like to know of the 0,37%? It’s from Hendricks field study of one city which was exposed to a super spreading event and the majority got infected. Of course I am aware that this study has flaws. But nevertheless they could actually test households and 60% of the cities population about the virus’ behaviour. But you know I am way too lazy to recount all results. The most important part in my opinion was the newly calculated lethality between ca. 0,37% (+/-0,1%) - compared to sessional Influenza which has a lethality between 0,2-0,4%. And I know of course that wE HaVe A VacCiNe against influenza. Nevertheless only 8% of the whole austrian population got this vaccine so stfu, it makes more sense to compare both stems in this regard than with any other. And the other important conclusion was, that the number of non recorded infections may be way higher than calculated. Which is good, means that the actual lethality may be even lower. Today 25% of the persons who got tested are without any symptoms, but you know they only test ~9k ppl a day. So the thesis of a higher dark number is really plausible. 

People really love to put words into my mouth I’ve never said, whereas I only state that some measurements actually endanger the (mental, financial, etc.) wellbeing of others more than the virus. Does it sound cruel? I hate it here. 

Evil Duffy is helping out at her local suicide hotline and she told me about the significant increased calls she’s receiving. Meanwhile stuff got better, but between March-May it apparently was really bad. By the way Duffy is doing pretty good, she quit her gang and it was the best to happen to her. She’s flourishing. I love it. Don’t be jealous, we still are just friendly enemies.

Well in case you’re wondering about the recent happenings here, it’s almost as if nothing really happened. Except that the clubs are officially closed but parties won't ever stop, will they? Martin got caught in April and had to pay a 5k fee. 5k are for him like?? nothing. Of course rich people are not really affected by rules. And no, I hate him although I had to visit them since Ivana is pregnant. No one ever would’ve thought that her tiny body is once again 6months into pregnancy. 

Travelling became tiresome and troublesome. But it’s getting better in Europe. I wonder when intercontinental flights will be regular again. After my last BKK I gave up my LR license. I don’t care if I won't be able to redo the license anytime soon, this was pure torture. They literally imprisoned us for 6 days in the hotel room. No room card. No balcony. No fresh air. Only room service and bad wifi. I am not one to complain so easily about work but this was beyond my comfort zone. For my sorry ass it’s only short range all the way. I’ll gladly do every nightlight of SS4. Still better than the regional fleet, Bless their poor souls. And about the service I don't want to talk. It’s trash.

Yeah work is pretty bad, we’re actually just waiting when the company will begin to fire us. But since we’re on shortwork they are legally not allowed to to so, yet.

My studies are going badly as well, I couldn’t find the interest in anything lately. I just finished the i.p. seminars and wrote the respective scientific papers, but that's it. Only 15ects, a shame. Well.. two gradings are still not finished yet but I am sure I passed anyways. 

Seems like I was mostly venting and complaining about my recent life, but you know.. I am so mad at everything. Maybe I should start fencing once again.

I promise the next letter will be kinder,

en garde! 

[laughingpinecone]

659w, General Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply, POV First Person, Surreal News Report, Aftermath, 10 is the number of completion, Silence, Mysticism Yuletide treat for Gammarad! Summary:

As I dozed off during the flight, I dreamt of a place where shadows were not pushed in a corner by the presence of light, but went out on their own to make themselves known, to let people meditate on the comforts of darkness, on indeterminate possibilities, formless potential. The dream (which I now suspect lasted little less than five minutes) ended with the realization that its subject matter would be a good fit for a canvas, but I soon discovered that reality had beaten me to the punch.

I was on an intercontinental flight on the day when statistics gave up. One of the unlucky ones, as history would come to call us, barred from the full weight of the miracle by the soft, steady roar of jet engines.

I learned of the silence as soon as I landed. Twitter, Youtube, Instagram spread evidence of the event before news anchors on TV had to struggle to find the words to describe it (others will – poets, I hope, in dark and soundless writing, never to be read out aloud). What could they report? They let the silence play on our screens over and over. A couple of minutes from San Francisco, three from Hong Kong, not a leaf rustling in the middle of the Schwarzwald: for a brief time, wherever it was possible, no matter how improbable, the world had gone silent at once.

The internet raced to find the longest recording of the silence. 4’32’’, Reddit declared after a spell, a Vimeo upload filmed in Milan’s crowded main square by a baffled tourist. Still unaware of the global reach of the phenomenon, and of the relative banality of his coincidences compared to those that had brought silence to concerts, cinemas and train stations, the man explained in the video’s description that he had received six notifications as he recorded the full, all-encompassing silence that had fallen over the piazza and could not for the life of him explain what had made him, self-professed social media addict, put his phone in silent mode for the day. The video was cut to the last moment before a sneeze from the other end of the square, however faint, had broken the enchantment.

Having missed the event itself does not bother me. The silence existed. It is enough. There is something sacred in recordings: they create a discrete space I can enter without the shackles of nostalgia or misplaced competitiveness, as discussions flourished on whether it was luckier to have taken in the silence at night from the window of one’s home, or in the middle of a mall, or by the sea, which was too vast, it seemed, to be touched by this probability collapse, but free for a time from the clamoring of birds and men, and whales down below.

I see no point in such chatter. Nor in the doctrines and hypotheses, nor all the philosophical and literary frameworks they’re trying to nail on this thing, tracing lines from Kafka to Keats to Baudelaire and all the way back to Sophocles. There may be accidental convergences, much like Shakespeare has something to say for every occasion (the rest, after all, is silence), but none of these fine fellows were around to witness this. Their silence was different.

The synchronous videos I can appreciate, superimposing the recordings of the same seconds of silence in Paris, in Khenifra, in Balikpapan. Some feel that such triangulations can offer a glimmer into infinity. They may be right. It is not my way.

My winding road to reach that glimmer goes like this: I have listened to thousands of recordings, but I keep coming back to that 4’32’’. It plays over and over again, on my computer, my phone, in my dreams. I long to let it permeate me completely. At times, it almost becomes a physical sensation, the way one slips in dreams – I know I am reaching further and further down through inaction and stillness, until I can almost feel, with the tip of my toes, a deep, vast and wondrous surface, a different state of the self like an uncharted ocean. If I could reach it, it would embrace me and swallow me whole. Every time, unfailingly, the inevitability of that faint sneeze beyond the end of the file tears me away from my destination. And I long for another recording to be found, against all hopes, to give me the time of one more silent heartbeat, one more second...

[doveunattimovaleunaltro]

a story worth telling

I got to a point where I hated my boring everyday life. Months ago, I hated school, I didn’t feel like I had good friends, I felt pressure from everyone in my life and I was feeling sick of everything around me. Back then, I was boring, I didn't have stories to tell and experiences to share. ‘’You’re not entirely screwed until you have a good story to talk about and someone to tell it’’, I've once read in a book, and I realised I was at a dead point as I had neither.

This is why, at the age of seventeen, I decided to get on a plane to go very far away from my hometown for a very long time, because I desperately needed to live something I could remember forever, and I just jumped into it. 

I know I've been brave and I know not everyone my age would have done the same, and I couldn't be more grateful for having this opportunity and for simply taking it, because it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ve never been this happy for such a long time, I’ve never felt this much at home even being thousands of miles from my city, and my life has changed completely after this. 

I’ve learnt more in a couple of months than in seventeen years and I feel like I am a better person now. I’ve met people, lived adventures, felt things that I’ll remember for my whole life, and I’ll have thousands of story to tell to whoever is waiting for me back home. 

I was born again in this new city, in this country, surrounded by new people who soon became my family, and now I couldn't imagine a life without them. I am genuinely happy and I'm living my life to the fullest, enjoying every single moment, taking every risk and having no regrets. 

Little did I know it would only be a matter of a intercontinental flight to find happiness. 

if you're young, take your risks, embrace your desire to discover the world, to travel, see places, meet people, because this is the right time to do it and to change your life, even if just for a while. It’s a life in a couple of months, it’s not you leaving everything behind you, but the world coming towards you, and it’s something everyone should do for themselves. 

My life has changes, I will never be the same after this and I couldn't be happier: I hated my old-self and I love the person I've become. What I've left is still waiting for me there, but what I’ve found will be with me forever.

[blogingnosot1970-blog]

This is just how you feel right now, but it won be forever because life itself is so fluid. Look around for therapy that would work better with your location and hours. Most human beings go through a phase where it unbearable and you just want a good change, some kind of change that will make things better. American Airlines apologizes for kicking a mother and baby off flight for skin conditionAmerican Airlines is apologizing to a South Carolina mother and her young son after they were booted froma flight because of theirrare, genetic skin condition. Jordan Flake saidshe was discriminated against and wrongfully kicked off a South Carolina boundflightwith her toddler son, Jackson, after an airlineemployee inquired about her "rash" shortly before takeoff. The Amazon Prime Air cargo plane operated by Atlas Air Worldwide Holdings was flying to Houston from Miami when it nosedived into the bay, about 20 miles (32 km) southeast of Houston George Bush Intercontinental Airport. That's not to say that most porn users stop caring about sex and food. But, like all cheap dopamine hits, porn does weaken your motivation. Especially when you combine porn with the other easily available dopamine hits such as social media, Reddit, Youtube, TV, sugary foods, video games, one can see why a lot of young people and even older people struggle with motivation.. I did an incredibly stupid thing and tried to wean myself off of it without any input from a pharmacist or doctor. I thought I was being smart by taking my regular dose, but spacing it further apart every week. For example, take pills at 9 AM on Monday, then take them again Tuesday night. I normally eat a 3,000 to 3,200 calorie diet, so a nibble here and there won do. I stayed vegan keto the whole time.I brought a fairly large quantity of seed cereal (flax+pumpkin kernel+pecan+chia+poppy+hemp+coconut) from 진안출장안마 home, and supplemented it with seeds and nuts I was able to get on the way. I ate this both morning and night.I got unsweetened almond milk in our initial destination city, before heading to the festival, to go with the cereal. It goes to the next one down, or if the character is on bottom, up and to the right. Caustic is right underneath Pathfinder, so when Pathfinder is taken it goes to Caustic. Then Caustic is the far bottom right, it reverts to 진안출장안마 the top left is he taken, which is where Bloodhound is.. Have worked up to applying it every other night over 5 weeks and my skin has not experienced irritation or peeling.Laneige eye sleeping mask or Dr. Dennis Gross Triple C ferulic retinol eye serum. I use the eye mask 2 3 times per week to boost hydration. "Dude Your PumpedPumped is when your muscle is full of blood and feels like it is ready to burst, many bodybuilders chase the pumped feeling. Arnie said it felt better than sex. Along with the feeling your muscles will be balloned like you have never seen them before. Honestly for that kind of use case I say just find an old cheap ass Thinkpad on ebay, something like this. This specific one isn the best deal I seen, but look around. Throw in a cheap laptop HDD or external USB drive and you good to go. Theirs was an odd and unlikely relationship: Southern belle, cum laude graduate meets swashbuckling, woman chasing daredevil.First time I saw them together,'' a longtime family friend said, I knew she was in trouble.''Trouble? Greene had lived a storybook life. Junior Olympic gymnast. Honors high school graduate.

[nerdiests]

So I’m participating in Kaminari Appreciation week, and. Yeah. 

Check it out on ao3!

prompt: past/present/future

It’d been a long while since Denki had the opportunity to visit his hometown. Considering his full schedule with heroics, he didn’t have much of a reason to take a flight over to Houston, Texas, for sentimental reasons. He’d told himself, however, that he would try and visit again before he turned twenty five and see what had changed. So here he was, walking out of George Bush Intercontinental with a messenger bag on his shoulder and a suitcase in hand. For a moment, he paused. All he could hear around him was English, a sound he’d missed back in Japan. Even though he’d lived in Japan for the past twelve years, Denki still found himself more comfortable speaking in English.

“C’mon, Denki, we’ve got a hotel to get to,” Denki muttered to himself, tightening his grip on his suitcase and heading towards the car rental so he could drive to the Marriott he’d booked for the duration of his stay. He’d stayed at this particular hotel before his family had moved back to Japan. It was thrilling, he’d get to order room service again, and he could have orange juice in a wine glass!! Ohhhhh, Iida would be jealous!

The hotel was wonderful, the food was even better, and Denki was ready to go around and check out all his old haunts. Like the Houston Natural Science Museum, and the Downtown Aquarium, and the Memorial City Mall with the Cheesecake Factory. He made a lot of money as a pro hero, and he was going to use it! ...Plus he wanted to have some souvenirs from Houston back in Japan he could show his friends - specifically Hanta, Mina, and Eijirou - once he went back.

It was probably a good idea that Denki hadn’t gone during spring break, because he wouldn’t have been able to visit any places he’d enjoyed in his childhood. Even the ones he’d checked out were slightly different. Denki couldn’t ride the ferris wheel because it was getting fixed and the white tiger was gone, the meteorology exhibit at the museum had been taken down, and the mall layout had changed! Along with those changes, he couldn’t even remember his old neighborhood and couldn’t go and visit and see how it had changed in twelve years, and he couldn’t ask his parents about it either. At least he could go and check out the Baskin Robbins he used to go to with his parents when they still lived there! Hopefully.

The Baskin Robbins was gone. Treasured and cherished childhood memories were also gone. How wonderful. This trip was going absolutely swimmingly. He’d spent two hours in traffic getting out here, because he remembered this place’s existence at 4:39 in the afternoon and everyone was getting off work. It was a surprise he’d remembered how to get here without a GPS. But the Baskin Robbins was no more, and all remained was a crafts store. Denki might know how to knit, but saying he made a sweater because he couldn’t remember his old neighborhood was so lame!!

“Oh you’ve gotta be shitting me. Denki Kaminari?” Denki whirled around at his name and was met with a slightly familiar face.

“Wait wait wait… Madeline Versailles? You still live here?” Denki blinked at the sight of his old childhood… Rival? Is that even the right word? They’d just tried to do better than the other in school, so rival was fitting, he guessed.

“Yeah, went to college at U of H. What’re you doing back here? Thought you’d moved to Japan to stay twelve years ago,” Madeline replied, shifting her shopping bag from one hand to the other. Denki shrugged.

“Decided that I’d come back before I turned 25, and being a pro hero makes a ton of money, not at all surprisingly,” Denki said, putting his hands in his hoodie pockets. Madeline raised an eyebrow.

“So you did go on to pro heroics, then? It’s probably a lot easier in Japan, yeah?” she asked. Denki nodded, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He turned it so the phone case was facing Madeline.

“Dunno if you’ve heard of the Stun Gun hero Chargebolt, but that’s me,” Denki said, slipping his phone back into his hoodie pocket. Madeline paused, before walking over to Denki quickly.

“No shit, really? My fiancée loves Japanese heroes, and her favorites are Cellophane, Red Riot, Suneater, and Chargebolt! Hanako’s always talking about when she could interact with heroes on the street back in Japan when she still lived with her mom, and she kept up with Japanese heroics once she moved in with her dad,” Madeline replied, pulling her phone out. Denki noticed the familiar pattern on the phone case.

“I’m more partial to Earphone Jack,” Madeline said, small smile on her face. Denki grinned.

“Well, I happen to know Cellophane, Red Riot, and Earphone Jack. Plus Red Riot knows Suneater, has since first year of high school, so I could… Hook you up?” Denki said, tilting his head sideways. Never let it be said that Denki wasn’t a generous man.

“Oh my god that’d be a literal blessing,” Madeline grinned, tapping something on her phone and handing it to Denki.

“I’ve been trying to get a good anniversary present for Hanako for our three year anniversary next month, but this would take the cake,” Madeline explained. Denki looked down and saw a contact open. He blinked, before giving Madeline a look.

“I trust you won’t give this number out to anyone? This is my personal number and it’d be fairly difficult to get it replaced again,” Denki said. Madeline nodded, and Denki plugged his number in.

“You’ve got an international plan, yeah?” Denki asked, getting another nod. Then Madeline tapped something else in, before putting it up. Denki felt his phone buzz, but left it alone.

“So, how long’re you in Houston?” Madeline asked, and Denki shrugged.

“I was planning on two weeks, since that’s how long I booked my hotel stay for and my plane tickets are scheduled for the same day I’m checking out of my hotel, so. Enough time that I’ll suffer when I head back over,” Denki replied. Madeline chuckled, before looking at the crafts store.

“If you ever need something to fill your time with, Hanako and I are typically free most days. Except Tuesday afternoons and Saturday evenings. Tuesday is couples ballroom dancing and Saturday is my cooking class and Hanako’s book club. So any days that aren’t those,” Madeline said, and Denki shrugged.

“I’m about 45 minutes away with minimal traffic, so I’d be down,” Denki said. Madeline grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Brilliant!! You free tomorrow? Hanako wanted to head down to the zoo,” Madeline replied. Denki nodded.

“Don’t have any plans, though I am gonna go on one of the exclusive tours at Johnson and check out the Astros game next week. Can probably grab some extra tickets if y’all’d want to join me at the Astros game? Fun is always better with company, after all,” Denki said. Madeline waved a hand.

“Nah, Hanako’s dad has a box. Some of the best seats in the house. We can probably get you in there, if you’d want?” Madeline offered. Denki paused for a moment.

“If you’re gonna get me into some of the “best seats in the house” then let me get those zoo tickets tomorrow. It’s only fair,” Denki replied. Madeline opened her mouth, but closed it shortly after. She looked pensive for a moment.

“It’s only fair,” she replied. Denki nodded, before glancing over his shoulder at the crafts store.

“You know what? I’ve got yarn to buy and a sweater to knit,” Denki said, turning around.

“Text me later with what time you and Hanako are planning on going to the zoo, and I’ll meet y’all there,” Denki said, waving over his shoulder as he walked inside. He had a plan for this sweater.

The rest of Denki’s trip was absolutely phenomenal. The zoo was wonderful, though he couldn’t look at the meerkat exhibit as he once had. He saw the Johnson Space Center through new eyes, and had a bird’s eye view of an Astros game for the first time in his life. Not only that, but he got a new perspective on his “rivalry” with Madeline. Apparently the both of them had made botched attempts at being friends with the other. Good thing they cleared that up, because apparently the two of them got on like a house on fire.

Madeline and Hanako had decided to see him off at the airport, since that was what friends did. He knew that was what friends did, since half of 1-A did when he took his plane flight over here in the first place. At least it was a direct flight back to Japan, he could nap the whole way over. Or work on his sweater, he was almost done. Plane rides were the perfect opportunity to work on knitting. Plus he could finish that custom hat he was making for Kyouka… Yeah, he’d probably do some knitting too.

“You keep in contact, now,” Madeline said, slight grin on her face. Denki nodded, grip on his suitcase tightening slightly. Hanako smiled as well.

“It was a pleasure getting to meet you, Kaminari-san,” Hanako said happily, and Denki sighed.

“Hanako, how many times have I said this? You can call me Denki, it’s fine,” Denki replied, with a somewhat joking tone. Hanako giggled, slightly nervous.

“I’m sorry Kaaaaaaaaa… Denki. It’s. A bit hard to call a hero you’ve looked up to by their first name so suddenly,” Hanako said, fiddling with the hem of her dress. Denki grinned, reaching over and patting her on the shoulder.

“Really, Hanako, it’s fine,” he said, before looking back at Madeline.

“Expect those things I’m getting you in a few weeks,” Denki said. Madeline nodded, while Hanako looked confused.

“What things? Madeline, Denki, what are you two conspiring over?” Hanako asked, looking between the two. Madeline only grinned, while Denki pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time. He blinked when he saw the time, processing for a moment.

“Oh hell I’ve gotta go through customs, I’ll talk with y’all later!!” Denki said, rushing off towards customs.

“Bye Denki!” Madeline called, and Denki glanced over his shoulder to spot both Madeline and Hanako waving. Denki only grinned and waved back, before continuing the walk to customs. That’d be a hassle and a half to go through.

[isaiah-lee]

⠀⠀⠀ 𝐌𝐌𝐗𝐈𝐗 : ⠀⠀⠀ January, The InterContinental ⠀⠀⠀ Jakarta. The Lee & Enrille ⠀⠀⠀ Family Dinner.

ISAIAH: The collaboration between The Lee Entertainment and Lavigné had nearly ten years. Alicia, the founder of Lavigné, had a great influence on the growth of Lee Entertainment; her strategic approach and effective problem solving have left Isaiah mesmerized. As her business partner, he acknowledged her ability to convert those into their day-to-day activities. Vice versa, the models of Lee Entertainment have been the regular client of Lavigné. The company helped Lavigné to elevate its sales from time to time as well. Everyone does know ever since Isaiah running the company, The Lee Entertainment's models' image morphed into a phenomenon. They have influenced society's perceptions of beauty ideals in Indonesia, and every major fashion designer and publication keeps an eye on them. Lavigné, with ease, gains those benefits. They had the privileges to access their models over the years.

"This is the longest meeting ever, Isa."

"I know, right."

"And I haven't picked any dress for tonight."

"You will look good with anything."

"Oh, no wonder you are the Lee."

Alicia never had enough bragging about him being a Lee, and not everybody can tease him with his family, but for Alicia, he let it slides. People might be thinking they had a sort of special relationship, but they are not. It comes out because Graham showers her with compliments; just like him, Isaiah does the same. Only by nature does he do that without hidden agenda behind it, and Alicia does know that too.

"So, your family doesn't mind with the dinner."

"Mhm, it's our tenth year working together. Let's consider this as a celebration."

"Actually, I didn't even remember that. How can I take it into consideration? But that was a good one. It's just... It has been a while we didn't have dinner between the families."

"I don't even remember when the last time we had dinner. You did the right thing by taking the initiative about dinner." Isaiah gives a light nod in agreement. "Then, I'll see you at night," Alicia added while stood up.

"Sure, see you."

────────────────

Isaiah escorted The Enrille to enter the private dining room he had booked in The Intercontinental. When they had passed the door, the two families soon enjoyed the easy, and the conversation began free-flowing between the two.

"I hope you don't mind, and my granddaughter will join the dinner too. She has been staying in Vienna for months. Please don't mind this old lady for missing her granddaughter so much until she couldn't wait for even a second." Laughter filled the room.

"Please, we'd like to know more about the Lee other than Isaiah here." A smile tugging in his lips to the jests given by Alicia, The Enrille barely in touch with anyone in the Lee other than him yet. Valentine will be coming in minutes, and it has been a while for him not to met her either.

VALENTINE: She just landed a while ago from Vienna, she thought she has gotten used to the hours and hours of flight but she’s pretty mistaken. She still got the worst headaches and half of the reason behind it is from the exhaustion from work. She just wrapped up her last grand recital in Wiener Staatsoper. She has performed in numerous well known recitals for the whole year, she barely give herself a rest for thisㅡ but she thought this is nothing than her school year back in Julliard. After graduating, she has only participated in classic concerts and recitals that is held abroad. Vienna, New York, Polandㅡ give it a list, she has done a lot in a year but none of them in Indonesia. She’s been avoiding every requests from her Grand mother, Adine Lee to hold a solo recital in Jakarta. She thought, people will see her as Valentine Leeㅡ the privileged princess from The Lee family that is so lucky to have her solo concert already by the age of 24. Her last prejudice is that people will look at her with envy, for how easy her paved road of life is. Instead of eyes of admiration for how she play the piano.

She’s so used to that stereotyping and prejudice, for God sake she has live with that. But her pride, passion and the love for classical music is bigger than ever. She didn’t want to stain the last thing she’s been doing with sincerity, to ended up being a public stunt for her family’s reputation. She has succeed to avoid one, but she’s not that powerful to decline a dinner invitation. Her pitch black Mercedes Benz S-Class is taking her to some place, she let out a sigh knowing that she can’t sleep right away. She fixed some of her make up, hair and her outfit. She could’ve worn something more comfortable for flights but to know that she need to go to this dinner straight from the airport, she’s now wearing a black shirt with Chanel’s tweed jacket with a matching skirt.

“Nona Valentine, sudah sampai. Tuan Graham dan yang lainnya juga sudah sampai tadi. “

Her chauffeur said by the moment she finished glittering herself. She looked at her cushion’s mirror for one last time, She believes that girl inside it is ready for any battle she need to be present at, the whole universe is kind enough to give her almost everything. Her face feature for the first example, her red cherry lips, her round big eyes. Even when she’s pretty tired and exhausted right now, she’s pretty satisfied with how she looks.

“Terima kasih, Pak. Val turun dulu. “

The second example should be manner, she has themㅡ it is gifted and taught by her mother. No matter how tired or grumpy she is, she still think manner is the most basic human decency to keep. More over ever since Nadia that keeps brainwashing her that her public image is everything that matters. Her heels is making a sound as she walk down through the hotel lobby, a lot of people is eyeing her presence. The waitress is opening the huge door when she about to enter the room, she is familiar with all thisㅡ fine dinings, and all the luxury that it might sound.

She smile in blooms when she enter the room, there is a few people already inside. Her grandparents is sitting in the main seat of the dining table per usual, as a sign that he is the oldest and they are the host of tonight’s dinner. Next to him there’s Adine Lee, her grand mother with her fine silk dress. Next to her is her cousin, Isaiah Leeㅡ and she was informed that there will be a guest, it looks like there’s a complete family of five. There’s a man and woman around her parent’s age, and this beautiful lady sitting in front of Ko Isa. And then this guy with a black suit, and next to himㅡ how surprised she is to see Moreno, her friends back in Senior High School to sit there. She remembered she once met him in one family event but she never find out more about his household because she left to New York by then.

Moreno looks as surprised as she is, he even gasp that makes everyone shift their focus from Valentine to him. Still she keep smiling after. She can see Ko Isa is smiling upon her arrival as well, out of everyone that is present todayㅡ she probably feel the most comfortable with him.

She walked closer to Adine, her grandmother got up from her seat while spreading out her arms to her. She knew what it means, a hug. She has always been close to her grand mother, though not that close close but she’s more familiar with her than with Graham.

“My Valentine, Grandma miss you. “ ㅤ “I miss you so much more, grandma.”

Everyone on the room is looking at the two right now, some smiled to see their interaction. After the hug, her grandmother sit back to her place and she continue her walk to her seat. But theres a pair of eyes which have been following her movement ever since she was present in the room and now shes sitting in front of him, their eyes finally meet. His hazel brown eyes is enough to capture all the light from the chandelier hanging above them.

ISAIAH: A minute smile crossed against Isaiah's lips, feeling warm at the sight he witnessing. Valentine and his grandmother, Adine. After getting her position to sits, his attention shifted to his grandfather, who was in a corner in a close range from Valentine.

"It's an honour for us, The Lee, to eventually have this dinner after so long we are always tied to work. You must have been very occupied but still managed to spend your time to dinner with us. You have my thanks." Graham opened the conversation at the dinner. "Not many from outside earn the opportunity to collaborate with Lee Entertainment. But for Lavigné, Isaiah had always spoken highly to the brand. As always, you are fascinating as ever, after all, Alicia."

The corner of his eyes glanced briefly at the woman who had her head lowered lightly to hides her cheeks redden at the praise given. He believes she deserves it all because of her outstanding performance. However, if only Isaiah, the one who had said the credit, Alicia would have returned the gratitude in denial. But this time, Isaiah could see Alicia working on being polite as possible at Graham. "Thank you." She replied in a gentle tone.

"No, it is you who I should be thanking."

"It is such unfortunate that my father couldn't attend today. He would really love to talk with you." Said the man who happens to be a father of Alicia. "José is my friend, he is just like me when it comes to working, we never tire. Don't worry, I invited you here as a family, and when it comes to family, be at ease. So, loosen up a little." Graham said, along with laughter.

"I hope that this relationship will always be beneficial in the future as well. As you can see, I trusted Isaiah with all my heart. He is made positive and constant improvements to Lee Entertainment. I am confident, in the future, he will remain the same and even better." Isaiah shows a faint smile to those compliments. Even though the words are never meant to motivate him but avail the situation so his company could gain more. It was indeed a great shot.

Noticing that Isaiah was another victim to get compliments from Graham, Alicia responds while her eyes look at him. "I know Isaiah better than any woman he ever met. I have witnessed his impressive record, and Lavigné wouldn't worry about holding on to this partnership. Thank you, Isaiah Lee." The tone of her voice purposely sounded sarcastic.

"It was nothing. No need to thank me all at once or anything." Isaiah, who never fond of losing over Alicia, then have the same playful, sarcastic response in return too.

VALENTINE: Valentine, who is now sitting next to her cousin, Isaiahㅡ can’t help to smile along hearing their conversation, it’s been a minute since they start the dinner but for it to a compliment party.

Valentine is too familiar with all this, this is all she knew, this is all she raised forㅡ she has heard for million times the elderly around her throwing compliments like it’s just a free biscuit, perhaps they did it out of respect, out of formalities, or heaven wonder tooㅡ the real intention behind all that.

Valentine knew that excessive compliments is not Isaiah’s cup of tea as well, though it’s only been a while and they’re not very close with each otherㅡ but she knew Isaiah is someone who worship realism, compliments brings him nowhere. But manner is the necessity of The Lee, he can’t just dodge every compliment he receive. That is primarily the reason why Valentine can’t help to smile, because she knew Isaiah has to deal with all that while swallowing all his dinner for tonight.

On each dinner like this, usually is about business talk or some similar matter. Valentine never really paid a lot of attention for any conversation done before in every dinner because it is mainly on the elder side, it is only a dinner for her.

But it seems that there’s a special case for anything, she seemed to beㅡ alert, and present. Her mind didn’t wander or wish to be anywhere like per usual, she even have to hold the pace of her breathing. Because apparently, she is very well aware that there’s this pair of eyes which have been following her movement ever since she was present in the room. Though he didn’t make it obviousㅡ or it’s just the way he observe his surroundings, he sit right next to Aliciaㅡ the woman Graham has been praising for almost the whole night. Just by looking on how she dress herself, how she sit, how she gracefully receive and speak for herself. Valentine herself can admit, the woman sitting in front of her is remarkably gorgeous and outstanding.

Valentine knew that there will be a guest for today’s dinner, she’s been informed before hand, Ko Isa said that they have been a good friend of our familyㅡ and Valentine knew about the brand Lavigné, she heard it often being mentioned ever since she first signed the contract with The Lee Entertainment. And Alicia is the CEO of the brand.

Out of everyone in this room, beside Moreno that she already knew from St. Gallois. She never heard, nor she knew anything about this guyㅡ he is sitting in between Alicia and Moreno. Each of his movement is either very calm, or very asserting. Moreno whisper to him sometimes in between Graham’s conversation, but she haven’t heard a word from him. Oh how she wish his grandfather, or Ko Isa could start talking to him.

If he’s being honest, this occasion is not his cup of teaㅡ even though he attended numerous business dinner, bouquet, and many other formal event, he still felt a dinner should only be a quick meal back in his office.

So that he can continue what ever work he’s been dealing with, but he’s not someone that is negligent to just bail a dinner invitation. His family worship manners and etiquette after all. More over after he heard his father speak highly of this Lee family, he sure will take the part as a decent son from a family of such great wealth.

Dane Lohr Enrille, is the second born of The Enrille family. The younger brother of Alicia, an older brother to Moreno, the 28 years old heir of The Caspian Enterprises. Speaking of a bloodline, if the tradition said the oldest should take the throneㅡ it should’ve been Alicia that will sit on the throne as the next CEO.

But Alicia made it pretty clear that she’s not interested with the business, instead she has successfully build her own kingdom. That is why her father is satisfied enough with the current plot, it is Dane.

Before this, Alicia assured him that it is only a dinnerㅡ the worst case is that everything will be about her brand new project and her, as the spotlight. She said Dane just need to be present there, and answering a few question if there is.

Never knew he would encounter a figure that amuses him this much only just by looking at her face, he wouldn’t address this for something like seeing his ideal type of a woman since he believe he’s extremely meticulous about this matter.

But he can’t help but look, her gesture, her fair skin, the way her lips curved into a smile. The way she listened to her surroundings. He got the same euphoria like he’s doing and feeling some sort of thing for the first time in his life.

How come he has never seen her before,

how come he didn’t know nor heard about her.

He too, can’t believe that he feels this way. This foreign feeling. As much as he’s suddenly curious about who she is, but since he didn’t have any plan to play with the fire, he distract himself by sipping the cold water to take his sense back.

He’ll probably forget about her after tonight, her sister was right about this, It’s been 30 minutes but the conversation is still all about her, Lavigné and Isaiah. He might have to restrain his curiosity about this Valentine. Perhaps he needs to be satisfied only by the sight of her.

Alicia, who noticed something is going on just by looking on how her younger brother is looking at someone he just met. She never saw him with those eyes. She knew him better than anyone else, there is no way he will start any conversationㅡ so often times, she will.

“So, Valentine is it? Isaiah told me you just got back from Vienna, for recitals?”

“Yes, I’ve performed for a few symphonies and orchestras. “

She was quite taken aback then Alicia suddenly switch the conversation to her, everyone in the table is looking at the two. So did Adine with a loving eyes towards Valentine, Adine is someone who is very fond of classic artsㅡ she contributed to many events related to it, funding or even holding a gallery and recitals in the name of The Lee Foundation, the one Valentine avoided for years. She looks quite excited when Alicia start bringing up about it, on the other hand Graham is now focused with her meal.

“Valentine my dear, I heard you joined a theater production for Broadway? You didn’t inform me much about this one dear. “

Oh great, she thought. At this point Adine will list out every projects Valentine have done, she saw this coming though. Isaiah smiled looking at Valentine who got a little bit flustered for being the center of the attention, perhaps because he knew that sometimes his grandmother want to brag a little bit about how well educated her grand children are when it comes to art.

“I am, Grandma. The Shubert Organization is collaborating with The Julliard School this year, I, am lucky enough to receive the invitation to join the team. “

Adine smiled brightly upon hearing Valentine’s answer, perhaps it satisfy her enough to prove that The Lee Family has it’s own achievement even abroad. Across the room, while she’s still talking with Alicia about her recital and modeling careerㅡ his eyes never left hers ever since she started talking, perhaps it is a normal habit for making eye contacts to whoever is speaking. But at this rate, those looks could kills. Valentine has been someone who is confident with herself, either with public speaking, or just as a self. She can still handle this one,

“Lavigné is launching a new skincare line, we’re still looking for the perfect fit for the Brand Ambassador. Who knows if the spot is yours, Valentine. “

“Oh I love that idea, I’ve often heard Ko Isa speak so highly of Lavigné’s success. “

ISAIAH: Isaiah doesn't like bringing things up that shouldn't be brought up. He was honest about Lavigné's extraordinary performance, and their immeasurable extension deserves praise.

"How about to give a shot for Valentine to fill the spot in Lavigné?" His grandfather said abruptly in the middle of a conversation. It silenced everyone, and also Isaiah. His eyes were shifted towards Alicia, given a sign in which his eyes speak. Their relationship is that closes, to the point he doesn't bother to convey it through words. The signal given is about her opinion of his grandfather's remarks. However, Alicia seemed confused about the situation.

He understands that Graham's decree is too early to determine. Lavigné should consider numerous elements. Besides, this is their first time meeting with Valentine. On another side, Alicia and her family were not familiar with the sudden involvement of Graham in the situation given. Even though, in fact, he always imposes his will on the company. Only Hiram and Isaiah perceive this matter. Breaking the ice, Isaiah began to deliver his thought to his grandfather. "I have to talk with Valentine, first, about the terms and conditions before we jump into the decision." His grandfather seems dissatisfied with the response the man gives, thus Isaiah continued. "We also have to look at the qualities that Lavigné needs, whether it suits Valentine or not."

Again, the answer might displease him. However, whatever Isaiah address turns out to be the right thing to do. He wanted to lessen the unpredictable predicament caused by this. Giving the spot everyone trying to fill to Valentine is comes as easiest to Isaiah. But, the damage that would surface might be requiring prominent exertion.

Actually, even though Valentine followed all the processes, she would make it an ambassador of Lavigné despite being a Lee. Isaiah has been working in this field all his life. Therefore, he had the capability to distinguish whether someone will thrive or not. Valentine is an untapped talented person with several exceptional qualities. He believes she will prosper. Moreover, Alicia has shown her compatibility with Valentine. She earns another point for her winning to the spot.

[stone-man-warrior]

December 6, 2020: 1:39 pm:

Russian Hoax Pieces Parts. A rough landing:

WOOOOF!

https://twitter.com/FoxNews/status/1335650144776237057

Any and all Russia investigations about anything the Russians are said to have been involved with, either for the good, or bad, or for making Vodka, is the same as searching for Bilbo Baggins at his eleventy-first birthday party after he put on The Ring.

"One Ring to Rule Them All"

The Russians are characters from a discarded set of writings for a book of fiction that never made it to a publisher when the British invaded, found the novel, and incorporated the story into the reality that existed at the time, 350 fucking years ago, no one has noticed that Russia is not there.

Russia is what happens when someone tells a lie to someone else, and then there are some problems with the lie, so, some other lie needs to be told in order to make the first lie make sense and look true, but, it's still a lie, that means there is still some truth somewhere that will foul up the lie, so, the people who told those two lies, go out and hunt down and kill all of the truth that could possibly reveal the first two lies that were told. The problem is that the hunting and killing of truth needs more lies to make it appear as if there was no hunting or killing, so, more lies are told to cover up the hunting and the killing of all of the truth that happened. Pretty soon, there is only lies, and lies themselves are fouling up the first two lies that were told. That's when they make Vodka, and pass that out to people so they won't care about truth and lies.

So about three centuries passed by with stories about Russians over Vodka, then, airplanes happened. People started to fly around while drinking small bottles of Vodka on the airplanes. A few people went somewhere that was said to be nearby where the airplane Vodka comes from, they wanted to get some to sell at their American stores, but, they could not find the Vodka or the very small bottles that airplane Vodka comes in, and, everyone said "Mongolia" while pointing north.

Pretty soon, prohibition happened, and those people still want to sell some Vodka in their American stores, but, they were convinced that there is no Vodka because the airplane only goes to someplace nearby Mongolia, so, they decided to make a secret club, where you can sign up for access to the latest lies and fake stories about Russia, and, they learned how to make booze, called it Vodka, put it in a bottle, told lies about where it came from in Leningrad, and charged a monthly fee for access to the Russia lies, so that the Booze that called Vodka could be blamed on Russian Bootleggers, just in case.

{late addition: 12-11-2020: 11:35 am:

You could think of that time as the very moment when Chinese Knock-Off Gucci and Rolex was invented, except it’s not Chinese Knock-Off Gucci, it’s Hong-Kong Knock-Off Russian Vodka Airplane Gucci & Rolex. China is not Russia, Hong-Kong is Britain, Gucci is too expensive for carrying a wallet, and Rolex is made of Jewels, is for people in Hollywood (”Harriewoooo”)}

Later, that club of regular stories access membership for Bootleggers who are not Russian, became Paramount Pictures, then, Universal, then, MGM with a Lion, so as the lies and the booze progressed among the club members who use Russia and Vodka to blame everything on, became network television, and then later, the reruns were Syndicated Television networks. All are based on Russian lies, Vodka, and a scapegoat.

Later, internet was born, and everyone has free access to all of the Russian lies they need, there is something for everyone to lie about, because the Russia turned into Iran when the escape boat showed up on the scene with new Vodka Sweet Crewed Oil, and the they tested it, called it the HMS ScapeGoat.

Basically, that's what happened.

There are a few people who know the story of the original airplane Vodka. They work for the airline industry for flights that go to Hawaii. They communicate with drinks aboard the Hawaii bound flights, hoping to get help, or, to see who else knows about the original Airplane Vodka. The use POG for that. Passion Orange Guava fruit drink. The secret communication is that the airplane that goes to Hawaii is the only place on Earth where you can get some POG. There are no other ways to get POG. The only way, is to fly to Hawaii on an airplane. You can get Passion Orange Mango, but you cannot get Passion Orange Guava anywhere but in the sky while going about 600 miles per hour over water while destined for tropical paradise.

They don't serve POG on the return flight. Those are the rules. POG, is a one way trip, there is no return once you learn the story of Vodka on airplanes that happened just prior to prohibition in USA, at a time when people began to fly around while drinking.

That Vodka on the airplanes opened up a can of Pandora Box Worms, the worst kind. It spoiled the Russia secret that the Brits had started so long ago. More lies, then more lies, then more. The bastards had to control all of he map making all around the world, just so they could cover their assess by making sure the maps all show that there is a Russia north of China on the maps.

Google was invented to handle that once the internet showed up.

IKEA maps were used as a decoy, to foul up any one who was looking for places on maps that don't exist. IKEA arranged that New Zealand was not on the map. The whole continent of New Zealand was missing. That means Newsyland Russian Hoax is behind the hidden from view Newsyland on the IKEA map, so no one will pay attention to the monster under the bed, Google, who was busy mapping the world complete with Russia at the time when the Easter Bunny hid Newsyland somewhere in the world.

So, the story about Russia includes intercontinental air travel per-prohibition, that fouled up other established and very old lies, so, new lies had to be told. There was a beverage called Vodka. What was it? Idunno, but it was served on early intercontinental flights to eastern Eurasia. It includes POG. There is a whole bunch of other lies that are POG Specific. The story about the POG includes Milk Bottle Caps, you can collect the POG Milk Caps, because the  POG Hawaiin drink is contained in a old style milk bottle on the airplane ride to Hawaii, they have caps with Fortune Cookie style messages under the bottle cap. The Milk inclusion in the Vodka/POG/Flight to Paradice is about "The Alpha Breast" where the mother of all money feeds it's children, in Mongolia, a place where there is no Vodka, and they don't have any idea about what Russia is. And therein, lies the reason for all of the above. "Olive The Above" is a Vatican style Martini, dry, with Gin from the Gin. All Fabricated Textiles.

There is more, lots more:There is this other lie, about a man named René Descartes , a Frenchman mathematician (also do a Google search to see a man named “Carta”). The story is told, as legend has it, that he got sick as a boy, and while laying in bed in his illness, he saw that there were flies on the ceiling above him. He was bored, so, he wanted to count the flies. There were too many to count, but the ceiling was made of tiles, square ones, so, he was able to estimate the total number of flies by counting only those that were within the perimeter of just one tile on the ceiling.

Cartography was born of a sick French boy counting contained fly's on the ceiling tile.

Tell me please that you understand what is going on with that part of the Vatican British Russian airplane ride to paradise in Mongolia.

====================================

Very, very rough... I am not seeking literary awards, I seek freedom. Please send help.

End Google Vatican British Russian Hoax in Paradise terror report: 1:49 pm.

=========================

2:44 pm:

Let me put some glue here, for the puzzle:

No one has cracked the code that leads to the truth about Russia and lived to tell about it, I can’t do it on my own, I need help, have some puzzle parts and want to share them because the existence of Russia, or the absence of Russia in the world drastically changes the perception of the balance of power throughout the world. With the absence of the hoax that Russia is, comes more truth, with that comes more peace.

Some glue:

The existence of the absence of Newsyland on the IKEA maps can be seen as “the news of the land that is not there” as a message presented to global terror soldiers who are called to action with that kind of statement presented that way, with a map that features sea where ground should be.

Other, bigger globs of glue:

That button on all of our electronic devices, “l/O”.

That is going to lead to the front door at l O Downing.

It also is part of why Disney spells “Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, off to work we go” the way they do, and that is about a “Sleigh” that belongs to Santa Claus. The Sleigh is a slaughter partially hidden by Russian Hoax. (you have to run with that to other places, like a fractal, the hoax keeps on going, and you can zoom in to many different areas of the hoax fractal.)

The l/O is a power switch, if we turn the electronic device on, we consume power, and, we need to sing our way to work to pay for the l/O when it’s in the l position, to do the slaughtering, or, to be slaughtered. (you need to understand how the terror cells are like a “nine-to-five” job to go in that direction into the Russian Hoax fractal)

The Power is British/Vatican Christian Power, on your devices. There are ways to get from there to AC/DC transformers, every house is served by a power transformer at the place where the power line brings the electricity to your home, and that power is Alternating Current, (an “Alter” of power, for seeing how to apply more glue on other puzzle parts when you go look for them, or, when they come crashing down on you all at once). There are DC considerations about the l/O switch that Downing street put on all of the devices.

Russians will rush right in when they need to, so, that DC element is good to know about for Hoax Power when it becomes visible.

The Power chain is like a fractal, it zooms into our houses. That transformer and the main power grid, and the line that drops in to each home and comes from a Hydro-Electric Generator, is repeated inside the house in a zoomed in place of a repeating fractal. The terror exists inside of those small black boxes that showed up on so many electronic gadgets that we use. They are transformers. They change the Direct Current back into the Alternating Current that was already changed at the main power transformer, to Direct Current. There is a real example of something that can be seen, is tangible, can be decoded by people who want to stop terrorism. There are also light bulbs in the house. Those all changed over time from Incandescent, to Fluorescent, and are LED now. There is other newer technology coming down the road later that will change the lighting again, it has no light bulb, is completely different than any other means of making light, and is about a hundred time brighter in comparison to other light of similar power demands. I suspect there are listening devices in the florescent and LED bulbs that replaced the incandescent ones, and in those transformer black boxes that the gadgets all have now.

Smart Meters are a problem. They have transmitters inside, there is no secret to that. I suspect the small black box transformers use a pick-up not unlike a guitar pick-up to transform vibration into a signal that can be transmitted with a Smart Meter, processed at the meter, or, at it’s destination after transmission, for listening. The Rocky Mountain Power Companies, five of them, are behind that kind of captivity, where they listen to everything, and are a big part of the Power Fractal Zoom at all of it’s iterations.

Russia is the Alpha Hoax. You can follow in reverse all of the other hoaxes to find a way to actually get to Russia, a place that is not there. One lie is built on another, the communication that is used and is contained in the archives of  news media, music, television, movie, and Broadway entertainment all the way down to the school Christmas Play where your child performed, has puzzle parts that can be glued together to get back to Russia in some way, a place that is not there, never was there, is always going to be a mystery.

The l/O power switch is connected to the main grid, it comes from Hydro-Electric Generators at Dams (Damns, for when you apply glue to hard to find puzzle parts). The Dam is a place where the fish get caught up in a bottleneck, so, there is going to be ways to glue terror slaughter ideas to the fish in a dam, that, can be said for terror comm, with the “Heigh, Ho, Heigh Ho, off to work we go”, when the commands are hidden in news stories. Because the fish that use the power l/O switch need to pay for the power they consume. That, can lead to “What are you going to do next?”.... “I’m going to Disneyland” as the switch at the power grid that turns on the slaughter to begin at the Dam where the fish who need to pay are stuck in a bottleneck there. That is how the Christian terror works when the newsmedia and SAG actors and SAG athletes are commanding it.

The comm is made of threads that way. Fabricated. Sewn together to make one Pope’s Robe.

I don‘t have all of the answers, there is no possible way to contain a fractal. It keeps on going, forever if you have enough computing power to keep doing iterations of the same equation, or, have enough magnifying power to zoom in or out of a particular place in the fractal’s components. So, there are two more ways to apply glue to puzzle parts, the use of power of computing to see where in the big terror scheme of things the slaughter is happening, or other slaughter data that can be analyzed by the Pope and his minions. The zoom power to look into a fractal can also be a way that reveals the exact same data when viewed by SAG minions rather than Pope minions. All, of course, is coded into other words contained in news stories, advertisements, movies, music and other places where terror comm is coded for the millions of terror soldiers it needs to reach, globally. The Computing Power Zoom, and the Optic Fractal Zoom are abstract shell ideas, rules for coding the commands from at Terror HQ, where ever that may be, Hollywood Music Vatican Choir HQ, Hollywood Movie and TV SAG Command HQ, or Vatican Central HQ on Google Twitter, or SIS MI6 GCHQ Master Command HQ.

They all need some agreed upon basis to code the news stories from. The Mother of the basis is Russia, it trickles down the fractal path to Power and everything there is to know about power and the way circuits work, all is used a basis for other means of saying the commands in the news stories, music, movies, etc.

nsa and other Global Security may find that fractal, power, Russia Hoax information useful to expand from, helpful to stop the Vatican and l O Downing (House of Lords) from killing everyone.

Glue, there is a lot of it. It takes far less glue than parts of the puzzle to make things stick together enough to see the picture the puzzle reveals.

=======================================

12-7-2020: 2:48 pm: Additional Russian Power Lie Fractal Zoom thoughts:

I just read through what I jotted down yesterday about the Russian Mother of all Hoaxes, and am sympathetic to anyone who tried to read and understand from where I was coming from.

With that sympathy comes a mention of a very old Pink Floyd Album: Atom Heart Mother, from 1970.

Just something to think about with that tittle there, and from where the title comes from.

----

I want to add another direction the fractal of Russian Hoax Power Lies goes in, the thing has more than three dimensions, it has a time component. So, you can zoom your Russian Hoax Fractal Lie Viewer closer, farther, over, under, sideways, down, in or out.... and.... you have to also have a Way-Back Machine for the time components, because the Twitter newsmedia is currently presenting us with news that happened ten years or more in the past, but they are saying it’s all fresh news, is current, they tell us.

So, put a Way-Back Machine on a Cracker Jack’s Secret Agent Secret Decoder Ring from an old box of Cracker Jack’s in order to see the Russian Power Lie Mother of all Hoaxes Fractal iterations as they are presented today, of events of the past, for commanding terror events of the future.

This is what happened:

Giant size terror mongers decided they wanted to make a future that they have full control of, so, they set out on a Ten Year Mission to create, craft, film, a complex story line of news events. They did that between 2000 and 2010.

Later, now, those prefabricated old news events are being presented to us, as news. They feature all of the usual suspects that we can see all of the time in the news stories.

In that way, the Giant Size Terror Mongers are able to control many aspects of our current reality. As things progress for them, smaller insignificant news stories are inserted into the time-line in real time, and, those may repeat again in ten years from now. The inserted events represent binary ideas where the master plan experienced a glitch perhaps, needed another lie, so, one was inserted in effort to steer the giant terror craft in a desired direction. Those inserted stories could also be very big news events that reveal more complex changes to the master plan that was crafted for the Ten Year Mission Debut that happened in 2008 with Beta-Twitter, which seems to have been released two-years prior to it’s scheduled release... like a sneak-preview of a block-buster movie.

So, a buffer is present.

A useful place to put things until they are needed. A comfortable box. Like those little boxes that Rings are sold in, they look like little miniature coffins, all with silk and satin linings for the Ring, and are colorfully pleasing to look at.

=======

12-8-2020: 10:22 am:

You modem has a buffer. It takes the internet traffic that is streaming in, stores a little bit of it, then spits it out to your computer. That way the streaming movie can play without so many glitches on your computer. If you do experience glitches, you can adjust the resolution on your viewer, so that the incoming, buffered video feed will not be interrupted. So, the buffer serves the individual user by providing a way to see that there is a bottleneck, thereby allowing the accommodations to best serve the Bottlneck condition can be dialed in in effort to achieve smooth traffic flow on your computer movie viewer, and avoid glitches.

What do you think global terror Google bastards could hide inside of a modem that has somewhere around 13 Megabytes of hiding place to lurk around in? The modem works like a pond in the stream where the fish are at. There is a waterfall between your computer, and the pond upriver. There, lurks stuff that could all come crashing down the waterfall onto the heads of the fish there who wait for some food to eat at the bottom of that waterfall. Big fucking logs, fifty-five gallon drums of old oil cans, car parts, a garage could conceivably come down the waterfall after a storm. Inside the oil can, the garage, and other stuff, discarded big gulp cups, Pepsi Bottles (PepFlash Player, Google Chrome, is a place where unseen weapons are stored for those trees that also are able to come from 13 megs of modem RAM Internet Bottleneck, no one ever says anything about a Modem Bug, so, that is a perfect place for the Pope to hide, ready to pounce. There is no norton Symantec for Modem product, so, how to keep the bugs out of the Modem?

(Please scroll down low to see the linked music video about stuff that can come crashing down from a waterfall. Tumblr won‘t let me put it here where I want it to be.

---

System of a Down: Aerials lyric video:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyLOw29VJIA)

---

now back to where I was at before 12-8-2020:

========================

Stuff to think about, all of it is Russian Power Mother of All Hoaxes Decoding information.

They set out on a Ten Year Mission, to create a controllable future that they can use to control and take over the world. Twitter is their vehicle. Google is their Buffer, and more.

------------------------------------

now back to my regularly entered Tumblr Post:

======================

4:30 pm:

More about the fractal of power, for directing traffic:

Briefly: At my house, the computer is connected to Centurylink ISP network, that and other ISP’s are another direction in the zoom of iterations of the Russian Main Power Mother of all Hoax’s. You zoom your view towards internet networks, there are places in their where VOIP transcends from phone to internet fractal zooming.

I want to say that it’s become very clear that Pacific Power is a major component to the captivity that I have been subject to for so long, they stay mostly out of view, they have others do their in person spying for them. What has become clear is that when I say important terror information, I get a phone call from someone, some obscure unknown phone number interrupts my thoughts as I write, it’s very clear that someone is watching me type as I type, they interfere and take control of the computer in small ways that are difficult to detect. They change the font, erase the memory of what is available to paste, they take control of specific letters on the keyboard, the n and the M are of interest to the spies, they foul up use of the M and n often as I write.

So there are people at Centurylink, who are subordinate to Pacific Power, which is subordinate to Rocky Mountain Power, and all of that is subordinate to l O Downing Street (House of Lords)

Further into the subordinate fractal zoom is Walgreen‘s Pharmacy. They are obviously called to service by Centurylink to make those incoming calls I was referring to. Walgreen‘s has a way of consistently making an incoming call as I am saying important and difficult information to share here. Two such calls came in as I was saying these things here. It’s also become clear that Walgreen‘s has at least one Stingray Surveillance unit at the Grants Pass location on Union Ave. and Williams Hwy.

The traffic I was saying at the top of this part, is that Walgreen’s is used by Pacific Power, which is across the street from Walgreen‘s on Williams Hwy, to fool national security personnel who are also watching as I type.

The nsa are at Centurylink HQ, sitting there with the Centurylink terror operatives, who call on Walgreen‘s to make a call to my phone, while the county courts terror cell (extension of Pacific Power, manned with actors from SAG and Canadian terror soldiers ) is directing the nsa to believe that I have a criminal record, am a rapist, sell heroin, grow marijuana, and sell weapons to the Sandista’s in my spare time, all while being a homeless disabled man who lives somewhere in the forest around here.

The Wallgreen’s call is used to make more Russian Hoax. The nsa officers are directed there to the Walgreen‘s (a terror cell) across from Pacific Power (a leading global terror cell) where they do stake out, told that I am going to be there any minute now to fill a prescription that I got from someone I killed.

The nsa are constantly picked-off as I appear to be the reason they are disappearing while on stake out at the terror cell waiting for the victim to show up. Walgreen’s lures them, commanded by Pacific Power, who use data from the county courts to make me look bad, and Centurylink is the glue that makes it all stick together for the timing of the terror murder hit of the nsa on stake out at the terror cell at Walgreen’s. That is how the traffic is directed with the fractal at my house.

=================

6:55 pm:

This is an example of the way Google Twitter contacts and gets feedback from the terror soldiers they send. Google/Twitter is Vatican Command HQ, they are almost as high up the command as it gets. You would have to go inside of l O Downing, the Vatican, or House of Lords to get higher up the terror command chain.

That Control message is there for the assassin from Li’l Pantry/Sparacino who was just here a few minutes ago to make initial contact with Google/Twitter HQ had the hit attempt been successful. There would be other ways to make further contact, that is simply a quick yes or no of the hit.

I see those almost everyday on my suspended Twitter account after physical attack happens.

The assassin I am thinking was here has a license plate on a white Toyota or Honda four door modern late model car that is similar to a phone number that called yesterday;

The plate has a 515 on it.

The phone number is 707-961-0515 called 12-5 at 2:36 pm.

I suspect it was part of the County Courts terror cell Tax Assessor Office Attack scenario. Google search leads to Fort Bragg, and Fort Bragg is a Twitter news item yesterday.

There are more Fort Bragg inclusions below that one on the bottom.

Google terror includes that the Stingray Surveillance units are used to make a call that has a phone number that produced significant search results.

Many are “Reedsport” and “Brookings” search results for the most part of the incoming calls I receive.

That “Control” message was preceded by another one that similar looking pop-up style message that said “Review Your Phone”.

That “Review” message includes my phone number, Twitter wants for me to verify my phone for an account they already suspended, happens about once per week. Same is true for a different one “Review Your Email” to verify that, also about once per week, sometimes more often. All of it Is COVID terror hit oriented. I almost always just refresh the page and the message goes away, no verify required that way.

==================

12-7-2020: 4:21 pm: Additional Fractal Power Zoom Safety Information:

There are very few places where you can purchase reading glasses that have a “+ 1.25 magnification. Most available reading glasses start at a magnification level that is too great. That, I have learned from searching for reading glasses that have minimal magnification, historically, they are not readily available in a low magnification orientation. Only at Bi-Mart, could the low magnification reading glasses be had.

Things changed.

now, there are low magnification reading glasses available at Walgreen‘s, and, in a variety of brand and packaging options, so, I bought some “+1.25″ reading glasses at the Walgreen‘s on my last visit there. They were way, way, way down on the very bottomest part of the reading glasses display. There was a set of brand name that I tried on, they worked good, were $15.99 for one “pair” of glasses. I wanted three sets of them, they come in a three pack at the Bi-Mart, so, look Low.... and Behold! There they were, the holy grail! A three pack of “+1.25″ reading glasses, Walgreen‘s brand, for about the same money as one set of brand name reading glasses.

I picked those up like Taco’s after a day surfing.

There is a problem. You can‘t try them on like you can with the name brand ones. So, when I got home, I was disappointed that they didn‘t work nearly as well as the name brand ones did at the store when I tried them on.

I looked closely at the Walgreen‘s brand reading glasses.

I found that the Walgreen brand glasses are booby-trapped.

They have a very clear thin plastic film protective scratch cover on the lenses. The protective film is as clear as clear can be, and the protective film cover is applied to the lenses from edge to edge in all directions. You cannot see that there is a clear protective film plastic scratch cover on them. I wore them with the distortion feature long enough to see that there is a distortion feature built in to the Walgreen‘s “+1.25“ magnification reading glasses, three pack.

They are booby trapped with a distortion feature. It’s no accident, I smell foul play.

I was able to peel off the offensive distortion feature, a dangerous condition. However, I was still somewhat disappointed as the name brand ones I tried on worked real good, but that three pack of Walgreen’s brand for about the same money was too good to pass up, and was exactly what I wanted, a three-pack of reading glasses with low magnification. They don‘t work as good as the name brand ones did. The Walgreen’s ones still distort what you are looking at even when you peel of the booby-trap clear plastic scratch protection film coating.

So, when choosing a Russian Hoax Fractal Power Zoom Viewer, you should make sure that it works the way you need it to work BEFORE you are committed to it.

Walgreen‘s uses the products on the shelve that same as Walmart does, they can manufacture the items such that the items and the way they are placed on the shelf are used as terror communication.

There is a message contained in the Scratch Protective Film Coating Distortion application, edge to edge, when they are made available in low magnification of a three pack on the bottom shelf for reading glasses.

High Gain Amplification Distortion is present in a low watt EL 34 British made tube driven practice amp for the Pope’s Flying V guitar rig option, for low volume use without sacrificing the dirt.

4:56 pm.

---

12-7-2020 5:09 pm:

I have learned that when the sign on the store says “Mart” on it somewhere, they are taking you to the Dry Cleaners, one Hour Martinizing, where the washing machine is broken, is wet, rinses everything with Blackwater, they plumbing is backwards at the dry cleaner, where they are not even supposed to be putting any water on the laundry.

(”Blackwater” is a technical term used by people from Building & Safety Departments, and Department of Environmental Quality, for describing raw sewage, specifically the sewage from a toilet, rather than a sink in a kitchen, or a bathtub or shower, which is called “Grey Water”. Those terms are also used by people who have motorhomes, and RV Camper trailers for the same communications. That, could change the Russian Mother of all Hoaxes Fractal Power Zoom when you look at “Blackwater” Defense Contractors parts of the Fractal Russian Hoax of Lies.)

======================

Zoom your Cracker Jack’s Secret Decoder Ring towards Southern California, apply the Way-Back Machine settings to around 1975. There, you will see that motor homes and travel trailers serve as Pirate Ships. Just tack a Trump Supporter Flag on them in your thoughts, to see that sail, filled with wind.

not far from there, you can get a glymps of where the pirates were getting some of their orders, and supplies, at Peterson Publishing Company, “Wheels Afield Magazine”, and other “Off Road” (water) oriented titles.

From there, it may be possible to follow the Power Russian Fractal over to the present day, with anything and everything titled “Peterson”.

Locally, where I live, that would lead to Peterson Paving Company, and, to 1003 Three Pines Road, where a US Postal Service Mail Carrier owned or still owns property where pirates reside. Susan Peterson is that Postal Connection. That, will take your Fractal zooming over to “The Stork”, the terror cell that IS the US Postal Service. You may find that “The Stork’s” nest was built by those motorhome pirates you were looking at in around 1975 in Southern California, when the newsmedia said that the USPS had “Gone Postal”, with reports that resemble a pirate take over aboard the USS Postal Service Armada, one boat at a time, nationwide. So, that is a way to see how Fractal Viewing ideas can be helpful.

Big ideas come from people who think big, some say that is called “Global Thought”, and, those people are called “Global Thinkers”. There is also a way to talk about directional thinking, called “Lineal Thought”. It’s good to have some of both ways of thinking, with also staying free to roam with other abstract thought.

The British often demonstrate that they are Global Thinkers. One way is the way they think about and talk about the Atlantic Ocean as “The Pond”. It makes an enormous thing something that can be navigated easier than if it’s always the Atlantic Ocean, you could get lost, if you don‘t bring a compass.

So, I suggest setting the Cracker Jack Decoder Ring towards all things Atlantic, in effort to set a course that leads to l O Downing. The same as the “Peterson” idea, but, Atlantic, such as the Record Company. I think getting to Downing Street will be simplified greatly when the Atlantic is reduced to a Pond, the way they like it in Britain.

If you need to fight against an African Lion, there is very little chance of survival, but if the Lion can be reduced to a Hamster in your thoughts, your chances improve greatly.

If you are able to stab the Lion, somewhere, anywhere, the Lion runs away.

Ten terror soldiers attack at my house, I kill or injure one, they all run away, to deal with their dead or injured terror soldier. My chances of survival improve greatly when I fight, rather than roll over.

======================

12-07-2020: 9:02 pm:

Let’s take a survey fly over in the fractal.

Let’s go to the One Hour Martinizing parts of the Russian Mother of all Hoaxes.

It’s just a survey, so, the Way-Back Machine is on Autopilot, could wind up anywhere in the time-line.

That Crazy Seal Song says there is a man who goes to open a door, been dong that for seventy years.

Chinese Laundry shows up on the Decoder Ring Radar.

What can be said about Chinese Laundry?

Idunno.

The man though, is Chinese, comes from a place where the oldest knowledge is at.

He’s the guy we are looking for, the guy with the answers.

He’s at the Laundry, same place we are surveying. The door is open, the song says the door at the laundry is open, been open, is gonna stay open. But there was a gun, something went down at the Chinese Laundry.

The door is still open.

We have to swing by over at the Gnosis areas of the Russian Fractal of lies, that is where the Russian Mother of all Hoaxes was born, so, we know that there is Gnosis there at the Chinese Laundry. Gnosis is what happens when more lies are added to the fractal of Russian Hoax. The truth gets sprinkled with bullshit there, it gets some wrinkles, some places where the truth is not quite completely visible, hidden in the wrinkles, like elephant skin, all wrinkly, and really big.

So, they changed the name, from Chinese Laundry, to One Hour Martinizing.

Mar. That word is about water. There is a Mar Lago, a Mirra Mar, a Martian Planet, a Martini (Dry)... (hmmm Martini, Dry, Shaken, not stirred.) what other “Mar” is there? It all goes here for thinking about the Gnosis, the stuff that happens to truth when lies are told.

G

That really shows up on a Martinizing survey of the Cleaners, where the Chinese Laundry used to be.

How does dry cleaning really work?

We should get educated before we go too deep in the Chinese Laundry Fractal where we already learned that there is a dead Chinaman somewhere. (right there is the place where you need to do a quick look at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and that they hijacked the state police all over USA, just trust me, this is not my first rodeo.)

Ok, Rodeo Drive is in Hollywood, (RCMP, good cop/bad cop stuff is interfering with the survey right there, the bad cop tells the good cop to go to Hollywood to get educated, he says: “I know a Dean there, he works close to the Vatican Choir at Vintage Audio King, where they changed their name to Vintage King Audio, so, he knows all about name change at the dry cleaner, Dean Zelinsky”)

“That’s not exactly what I ....” says good cop.

“Dean Zelinsky, you’ll love him, he has all the best Schwagg too, might have something we can get dry cleaned at the Martinizer” Says RCMP Bad Cop.

“Dean makes a product called the ML, it looks just like a K, and, his last name starts with a Z. We should talk to him now, since that big fucking G showed up.” says the interfering RCMP bad cop.” Says bad cop.

Hmm... mar.... M.... L.... K... Z. says good cop.

“Mar is an M word. Mar and then the L... the K goes between the M and the L, right? Mar... K. I’ll bet the proprietors name is Mark.” says good cop.

“Let’s have a look at that ML.” says Good Cop.

Here you go:

“That does look like a K, sort of, I suppose.” Says good cop.

“I told you he could help. I’ll call him” says bad cop, who calls Dean, privately, he’s busy at VKA on Rodeo though, “we have to go on without him.” says RCMP Bad Cop.

--

On with the Survey at the Chinese Martinizing.

--

There is no water in the Dry Martini Martinizing. WTF?

Let’s back out of here for a minute, looks dangerous, the shit is mystery surrounded by lies, and there is dead Chinaman somewhere, I know there is a dead Chinaman, but where?

The Guy that runs the laundry probably knows where the Chinaman is at. That’s why we need to go there, have a closer look around.

Let’s pick up some Rayon garments at the Custom Taylor, they hate water. Apply some Gain with the Pope’s Practice Amp (EL 34 tubes, 15 watt, Vox) then, we have a reason to go to the One Hour Marinizing, to get that Rayon fabric cleaned up.

“Bloody Hell! What’s on this Rayon?” says the new Proprietor at the Chinese Laundry.

“I can‘t tell you. It’s a secret” might work, be careful though, it’s just a survey.

Could say something like: “My Celestian Speaker got swapped out for a Peavey Black Widow on the practice amp, I spilled some beer on it, and it was ruined”

“I have Gnosis, that will get that nasty stain out off that very expensive Rayon Custom Tailored Suit you have there.” is the kind of response we are looking for. “I’ll use heavy starch” is bonus.

We don‘t have to come back, we could just leave the Rayon there after we drop it for dry cleaning.

What is Rayon? Idunno, but it sounds like it’s made somewhere that is real close to the Sun to me. Maybe is secret code for “Go see the Martinizer at the Chinese Laundry where the Truth gets transformed into Gnosis.”

now what?

==========

12-8-2020: 8:46 am: Additional side trip in the Mother of all Hoaxes Russian Fractal Viewer, super fast forward:

We arrive over at the Justice Department in the years when Obama was leaving, and scan real quick over the Congressional Hearings featuring Mueller, and Russia, we follow that path to the present day, and find Russian Hoax Microcosm is present.

We need some High Magnification Reading Glasses adapter to the Fractal Viewer Decoder Ring. But from here, we can see that the Mueller Bullshit Quest includes Russia, Stzok, Page, Steel Dossier. Steal Tossier, and.. Hillary Clinton’s Server in the Bassment!. That’s a lot of bullshit. The observation we can make, is that place in the Fractal, “The Mueller Investigation” is a microscopic version of some of the best parts of the giant that the Russian Fractal of Hoax Lies is all about. It’s the Hokey Pokey version of the whole enormous Russian Mother of all Hoaxes, and if we could get some back up and some suitable reading glasses (name brand) we could learn a lot about the Russian Hoax all in one, easy to navigate, one stop shopping area, within it’s bigger brother, the Giant Hoax.

[some glue: I think the people who are wearing those big plastic clear industrial face shields are people who know that if you get too close to the source of the Bullshit, you could get shit-face, so, they wear a face shield, just in case. That, by he way, is a bad idea to do unless you are a terror soldier and instructed specifically to wear a plastic industrial face shield. If you study this account, you will see where I already explained that there are only two kinds of masks that can be worn without without being targeted for take-out. You have to wear a HOME MADE FABRIC MASK, or, a Bandana will work, but you better look like a rock star or movie actor to use the Bandana. All other masks will mark you as an outsider, you will be tracked down, followed, studied, poisoned with nitrous gas, captured, tortured, farmed of information, family, and assets, then killed after being used as bait to kill more people. So, either wear a home made fabric mask and blend in, or grow your hair long and wear expensive clothing and jewelry and use a Bandana. I recommend the home made mask for blending in with the terror rather than playing the fool with the Bandana of you don’t know what the fuck you are doing and wearing expensive jewelry.]

{safety advisory: I am pretty sure that the Mueller Investigation areas of the Russian Hoax Mother Fractal, is a place that works a lot like a One Hour Martinizing Cleaners does. If you get lured over there, the Proprietor will take you to the cleaners when you start explaining the dirt on the fabric textiles and asking questions at the place where the Chinaman used to to laundry.|

(now back to our regularly scheduled learning experience:)

==========

I don‘t want to go to the Gnosis factory, I like truth.

St. Martins Church is suddenly showing up on the Secret Decoder Ring Radar.

I don’t like it, I have no back up.

They could make me back up, very unpleasant.

(here comes Ivanka Trump, a Vatican Back-up singer at the Choir. What is she doing here?)

Ok... that’s all. I am not going in there without some help. That’s the end of the One Hour Martinizing Dry Cleaner Flyover at the Chinese Laundry until some help comes.

=============

12-8-2020: 10:56 am: additional Fractal View at the Dry Cleaner Martinizing areas at a smaller level, closer zoom:

Tube driven guitar power amplifiers have a secret mystery built in from the Vatican Choir HQ Watchmen, who monitor those who play guitar, baby-sit them from time to time, to check-in and make sure that the guitar players don‘t learn too much, and, to do housekeeping the same kind of way that the Martinizer cleans the Rayon.

The “Bias” for the tubes needs to be adjusted when the tubes are changed out for new ones in the amplifiers. That, is a mysterious Russian Hoax to look at. The guitar player has to take the amplifier to the “Amp Guru” who waves a magic wand around, maybe some smoke will happen depending on the guitar player’s attitude, and knowledge levels about the Pope’s Flying V. There are more than one kinds of smoke at the Amp Guru, who needs to put a blessing on the amp when the tubes are changed, all disguised as “Bias Adjustment”, or else the amp won’t work correctly, they say. The guitar players are subject to all kinds of scary and expensive to repair stories about what happens to the amp if you don’t go see the Amp Martinizing Guru for a Bias Adjustment when the tubes are purchased. The friendly sales counter representative at the Guitar Center will provide a business card for where the best Amp Guru’s are, and are advised to go there with the amp for Bias Adjustment, where smoke could happen. The amp will usually get a blessing, but no one really knows what happens to guitar players who learn about the Pope’s Flying V, and talk about that over smoke at the Amp Guru, who knows everything there is to know about Power Circuits and works for the Pope.

Martinizing Fractal Viewing is available at all professions, somewhere in the Mother of all Hoaxes Russian Fractal of endless lies.

If they don‘t have a specific Martinizer Amp Guru Cleaner representation for your profession, then, they have the County Courts to provide direction, with complications that can be found all over the place in the Russian Fractal, anything can happen, the courts can make it happen with a crumpled napkin on the bench. So, the courts can direct you to all kinds of special counseling variety of Martinizer Amp Guru like agencies by setting you up first, with help from County Sheriff. Locally, Options of Southern Oregon is such a cleaning outfit, gets the stains off. At a higher level, the Asante Hospital can send you to Crisis Resolution Center, which is very close to the Sun, where the Rayon comes from. Bad news at CRC.

======================

{late addition: 12-11-2020: 11:50 am: You could follow the Russian Alpha Hoax of Lies in a way that connects Knock-Off Gucci, to “Baby On Board” signs for your car w/suction cup attachment, to Lady Gaga, to Google, To Bergoglio Pope Francis (to Argentina G-20), to “Shoe Goo Shoe Glue, to capital letter G, to Jerry Lewis Telethon for MS Kids, to Bill Gates.... and keep on going... forever... it all leads to a plan created long ago, the plan even includes that the English language itself was created as a weapon, one that is “white man speak with forked tongue” based binary use alternative language, was made for Crusades, thousands of years in the making, all so that “The Baby” could be taken, kidnapped, controlled. Right now, “The Baby” is USA, but is also it’s people and it’s constitutional components. You could conceivably wind up at Genesis, featuring Phil Collins on Drums & Vocals at the Manger, then back to Gucci, and Moto Guzzi Replacement motorcycles for the Harley Davidson’s at the Los Angeles Police Department, Rampart Division, 1975-ish.......... the Alpha Russian Mother Hoax, is only the Mother Hoax.... it has a Father of all Hoaxes Companion, mate, husband. The two procreate Hoaxal Spawn, eternally. The Father of All Hoaxes is Christianity. “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe”... they always show a boot for the cartoon. Immaculate conception is when you step in dog shit, and it stinks, and you track it all over the house before you see or smell it.

Study the Mother Russian Hoax, where there is no place on Earth called Russia, is all a lie, and you WILL soon understand that the reason that Russia is there where it’s not at, is to conceal the existence of the Father of the Russian Hoax Children, spawn of lies and deception. The Father stays innocent looking, secretly is a guiding light to terror soldier crusade warriors, as the Mother Bitch Russia Hoax draws all of the attention away, looking all sexy and provocative, claiming that she did not have sex with that man, “Billy Jean, is not my lover, she’s just a girl that thinks I am the one”... in reverse, played backwards, in Vinyl, in stereo. (Micheal Jackson was murdered because he turned his skin white, and sang songs about the Russian Hoax Mother, and the Father. “Beat it” is about a solo act, but there is soooo much more to see in there, comes with one glove. The Mother Russian Hoax is like that, as the Father Hoax looks on. (personal note: I met Micheal Jackson at least once, I wrote about some of the details on this account, we went to a fast food restaurant somewhere near Santa Barbara. He is not the man the media says he is, he, was like me as I am now, trapped inside of a Twighlite Zone of prescribed events that repeat. I met him in around 1987-ish. He sent me a gift after that, a book, called “Build it Better Yourself”, it’s a good book. That time in the mid 1980′s was a time I really wish I had paid closer attention to what going around me, and to things.. events that took place. In that same year, I also met Sean Hannity, who was a painting contractor at the time. I went to Santa Barbara with him also, now, he’s a news media giant. In that same year, a police officer was shot in his car on the jobsite I was working at, he was shot, then handcuffed to his steering wheel with his own hand cuffs. The officer died in my arms as I was using his car radio to call for help after finding him there and trying to find the key to the hand cuffs. All of that, Jackson, Hannity, and the dead police in the same year was all connected somehow. What happened first? Jackson? Hannity? The Police with handcuffs on the steering wheel?.... I don’t remember what happened first, but can guess that Hannity happened first. After that, there were two kinds of Police in Simi Valley California, good cops, and bad cops. They did not like one another, and RocketDyne is one of many reasons why Olive the above happened,  is also the reason why Charles Manson was said to have killed Sharon Tate. He flew too close to the Sun, at RocketDyne. It’s all part of The Russian Hoax Mother of Lies. RocketDyne is one of “The Three Kings”, the other two are nasa and Raytheon.]

[professor-of-predators]

Call Home

Drabble for the Professor!Verse with the ever awesome @actofgenius and equally astonishing @prcfessionalism. No I haven’t named the verse yet. 

In which Jane feels a little more than homesick, and some conversations get started. 

Ring. Ring. Riiiiing.

Jane twisted a curl around her finger, waiting for someone to get to the phone. She glanced back at the clock, frowning. It was about 2pm now, so it would be just about dinner time at home. Surely Dad was home by now. Right? The phone rang again, sending a pang of guilt through her heart. She told herself he must be busy.

On the sixth ring someone finally picked up the phone, and Jane had to force herself not to sigh in relief. So the old house wasn’t empty or abandoned. Not yet, at least. Even better, the warm, gruff voice that answered “Beckam Residence.” was unmistakably her father’s. Jane’s smile was already starting to ache.

“Hey, dad.” She said, voice ringing with a cringe worthy amount of childishness. “Uh, how are you doing?”

“Janey?” Henry Beckam sounded surprised to hear his daughter on the phone. Which made sense: She rarely called him, and when she did it was usually on holidays. Much of their communication these days came via email, and that only occasionally. Jane felt a fresh stab of guilt as he continued. “Well this is a surprise. Something wrong?”

Jane’s mind ran off towards the last few weeks; the calls with Elizabeth, the intercontinental flights, the long nights and early mornings, the silent fear that lurked in each doctor’s office and pharmacy. She thought of the haunted looks Victor and Elizabeth would share, and shivered. “Nothing is wrong.” She assured him, perhaps a bit shakily, “I just, wanted to talk. How’s the farm? How’s Gran?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Tenacious as always.” He chuckled. “She’s been trying to convince your aunt to be in the play this year. Says it will give her some culture.” They both laugh, him a bit more heartily than her, until their breath is short from it.

“What about you?” Jane asked, perhaps over eager. An image of her father sick in bed --or worse-- leapt to mind. He seemed to sense it too. Jane could almost feel his suspicious look as he drew a long, slow breath. It was a face she knew well. One that had discovered her sneaking animals home many an evening in her youth.

“Janey,” He said softly, “Are you sure nothing is wrong?” Jane cursed her voice and her timing. Of course dad would know if she were worried. He could read her like a damn book. He continued as she chided herself, sending a whole new pang of guilt along the line. “Is it that boy? The one you told me about? Has something happened?”

“No! Dad. No.” she sighed into the phone. “Victor is lovely as ever. And everything is fine for the most part-”

“For the most part?” A growl deepened his voice. “You know I can take a plane over if you need me Janey.”

“Dad.” She snapped, frustrated. She took a deep breath, calming herself. “It’s not Victor. It’s just-- I just wanted to check up on you.”

Her father chuckled again. “I thought that was supposed to be my job.”

She tried to laugh with him, but the sound grated on her own ears, and soon silence fell. Henry --to his credit-- let is rest until Jane collected her thoughts.

“Nothing is wrong.” Jane said again, slowly. “We just, got some news and I remembered that I hadn’t called you in, a while.” There was a tapping sound and she fidgeted. Henry waited longer, a warm smile starting to move across his face. Soon enough however it became clear that Jane’s tongue had tied itself up over whatever she was looking to say. He almost laughed; some things never changed.

“So,” He mused, taking her silence as a cue,. “What is going on, since there’s nothing wrong?”

On the other side of the line he heard a deep breath being taken, and soon Jane launched into a story about workplace restrictions, doctor’s visits, sleep deprivation and Christmas shopping while her father listened carefully. After a few minutes they were both quiet again.

“That’s a lot.” Mr. Beckam said finally, frowning into the receiver. She responded with a hum of agreement, so he went on. “You could have called me sooner Janey.”

There was another hum, this one longer and more guilty. “I know. I just di-- ah, thought I could handle it.”

“You can always call me, Janey.”

For a while Jane was quiet. It was a simple statement, and down deep somewhere Jane knew it to be true, but hearing him say the words sparked a flood of warmth she didn’t quite know what to do with. “I know.” She assured. There was another beat of silence, which her father took as a queue.

“Though, your aunt is waving me off the phone. Apparently I have to eat.”

Jane giggled, and there was another moment before finally Jane muttered. “I love you, dad.”

“I love you too, Janey.”

[cryingaggressively]

out of the mouth of babes (1/?)

Rated G, Gen with pre-Deckerstar

As he put away the last of his paperwork, Dan's thoughts started wandering.

It was Friday. And finally, after months of what felt like being every available police officer's maid, he had the weekend off.

He and Trixie would finally get to spend two whole days together, not just a few hours here and there, mostly spend at the station while he did research and sometimes even paperwork for other people. No, just a few hours from now, he'd pick his monkey up from school and they could get started on this weekend's program. Chloe, meanwhile, would get some deserved time to herself.

Speaking of, where was she? The last time he had looked up, she'd been sitting at her desk, Lucifer leaning against it and grinning down at her. Now, though...

  Sitting in Chloe's chair in the precinct was not Chloe, not Lucifer, Ella, or even Maze, though he'd have been surprised by that as well.                                                                                                                                  A teenage girl, maybe sixteen, was reading through a thick book at Chloe's desk. Occasionally, she took her eyes off the tome to write down something on a notepad.

                          She was probably the daughter of someone who worked here; she obviously wasn't old enough to be a lawyer and witnesses to crimes were rarely that comfortable at the station.

And comfortable she was, it seemed. Nothing distracted her from her read and her body language was unguarded, relaxed.                                 

The thing was, he could not remember one of Chloe's desk neighbors having a daughter that age. So what was this girl doing here? Maybe a different relation? A niece?

  Again, he tried to recall if he had ever seen her before, but nothing came to mind. And if she wasn't related to anyone here, what was she doing here? Did she need help? Was she in trouble?

He looked her over. Her eyes were clear of any redness, her skin wasn't sallow and as far as he could tell, her teeth were healthy. So, no signs of drug use. Really, the girl looked like a perfectly ordinary teenager.

Her only distinctive feature was the shiny black hair that fell in curls halfway down her back. One curl that she repeatedly stuck behind her ear kept stubbornly popping back in front of her face.

Still, Dan's curiosity and urge to help got the better of him. He made his way over to her.

  "Hey, what's your name? Do you need help finding someone?" 

The girl abruptly looked up from her book, which looked to be about math from closer observation. She seemed confused by his interruption, her eyes unfocused for a moment before settling on him. Her mouth opened and closed once, then she answered:

"Uhm, thanks for the offer, but I'm just waiting for my dad. I'm in the right place, I asked around before sitting down. My name's Iris."

  She held out her hand. He took it and shook it. "Nice to meet you, Iris. I'm Dan Espinoza. You're British?"

"English, yes. Espinoza, you said?" Her eyes were now twinkling mischievously. What was happening?

Okay, she was visiting someone, her father,  and he knew her name now, too. Also, she was English. Weird? Yes.

  "That's right. I'm a detective here. Wow, you're far from home, aren't you?"

"Yeah, you could say that. I don't make the journey that often." She was scrutinizing him now. What for, no idea. He was so excited for Trixie to reach that age. Not.

"That's Chloe Decker's desk, you sure you're in the right place? Offer's still standing."

Iris stopped looking him over so critically, smiling up at him instead. Her eyes were a vivid blue.

  Laughing slightly, she said, "Oh no, I asked for Detective Decker's desk specifically. That's really nice of you, though, Detective Espinoza."

Dan was stumped. Hadn't she said she was waiting for her dad? Why would she ask for Chloe then? Unless... The English accent. The dark hair. Her obvious enjoyment of his confusion. No. Fricking. Way. How in the world had he missed this?

  "Wait. Your dad's not -?"

But Dan did not get to finish his question. Iris' eyes had lit up looking at something behind him and she was out of the chair so fast Dan imagined her leaving behind a Road Runner'esque cloud of dust.

"Dad!" she exclaimed and he turned around just in time to see her throw her arms around Lucifer, who returned the hug with wide eyes, his mouth popping open.

  "Iris?" he mumbled, partly into her hair, as she had tucked her head beneath his chin. Dan looked at his ex-wife, who stood next to Lucifer and was apparently as dumbfounded as he was.

"...'Dad'?" Chloe tentatively inquired.

"Yes," Iris confirmed, grinning and giving one affirmative nod.

Lucifer pet her hair, smiling affectionately down at her. Dan felt it was likely the Four Horsemen would be riding in and clubbing him in the head any minute now.

  "Well, darling, not that I don't love to see you, but pray tell, what are you doing here? Isn't it finals' week in school?"

Iris, after detangling herself from her father, smiled sheepishly up at him.

"I might have stretched the truth a bit there-" Lucifer shot her an annoyed look and seemed to verge on telling her off, but was intercepted by Iris immediately.

   "I didn't lie! I had a final this week, on Monday. Finals' week, plural, was last week, though. And as of yesterday, I'm officially school-free. I thought it might be nice to surprise you, Mum agreed. And honestly, I wanted to get out of there  - you know, I love my siblings to death, but having them wreak havoc all over the house while you try to study is exhausting. Anyway, Philip took me to the airport this morning and here I am!" She bounced up and down on her feet once, her arms folded behind her back.

  "Surprise achieved, I'd say," Lucifer stated, adding, "and not only mine, either" with a nod to Chloe and Dan.

Chloe, who had taken the scene in silently, startled at that, uncrossing her arms and straightening her spine.

"You know, Lucifer, I think you would be pretty surprised too, in my situation. Imagine if you had only now found out that I have a kid. And I don't even go around saying 'I despise children'," she told him incredulously, the last part in an imitation of his accent.

  "Yeah, what's up with that, man? When Trixie hugs you, you act like she's contagious," Dan wondered.

Iris, to both their surprise, found this very amusing. "I know, right? Whenever he's visiting, I ask my siblings to follow him around, just to freak him out!" she told them.

"Did he do that when you were little, too?" Chloe asked, apparently dreading the answer.

  "I'm still here, you know! And of course I did not," Lucifer interjected. Chloe seemed as relieved by that answer as Dan felt.

Iris smirked. "Well, Mum did tell me you handled me like a sack of potatoes for like 2 months after I was born." Her father didn't find that as funny as the two laughing detectives.

"Traitor. How is your mother, by the way? And your stepfather?"

"They're fine. Mum's crazy busy with work as usual, but Philip is thinking of  going part-time for the little ankle-biters. Who, by the way, are doing well too, not that you asked."

"Oh, come on, now. I'm glad everybody is fine. Even the spawn." The corners of his mouth quirked up at that.

  Iris yawned. "Well, your spawn is dead on her feet."

Chloe nodded. "Intercontinental flights will do that to you. You must be exhausted. Your Dad," her voice stocked slightly, "should probably take you home to rest."

"But I just got here! You know, the reason I came here instead of Lux was to meet you. Dad never shuts up about y-" At that point, Lucifer clamped his hand over her mouth and looked meaningfully at Chloe and Dan. "Poor child, so tired she hardly knows what she's talking about. I'll have to take her home."

Iris made a noise against his hand and when he didn't move it  - "Did you just lick my hand? What are you, four?"

  Ignoring him, his daughter said, blessedly free of his hand, "You know what, you should join us for dinner! I'll be fine this evening if I have a nap now and I'd really like to get to know you. You could bring your daughter, too! Trixie, right?"

Chloe and Dan looked at each other until Dan shrugged reluctantly. "Who knows, might be fun.  Trixie would probably love to." Sure, this weekend was supposed to be just Trixie and him, but she would never forgive him if she missed this.

And honestly, he could feel this was going to be a bottomless source of prime blackmail material. Additionally, it was just one evening and he wouldn't have to cook tonight. Win-win.

  "Great! Would 6 be okay?" Iris was beaming.

"Yeah, sure," Chloe answered, returning the smile.

Lucifer was frowning, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "Why exactly are you so eager to do this, Iris? I've got the distinct feeling you're enacting some kind of scheme."

"Now what would give you that idea?" She smirked up at him, eyes wide with mock innocence.

"You know what, I don't even want to know, you scheming little minx. Grab your things, we're leaving."

Turning towards Chloe, he said, "See you at 6."

  Iris picked up her book and notepad and shoved them into her messenger bag, which was sitting next to Chloe's desk.  Slinging it over her shoulder, she told the detectives, "It was a pleasure to meet you both, I'm looking forward to later. I bet Trixie is lovely." Lucifer picked a suitcase Dan previously hadn't noticed up from the floor.

  Well, that was really sweet of her to say. Dan assumed the calculating once-over earlier had been grounded in Lucifer telling her about 'Detective Douche'. Inaccurately, of course.

"I can hardly believe that Lucifer is your dad. You're so well-adjusted and nice."

"Excuse me?! I can be perfectly nice, if I want to be. Well-adjustedness aside; Detective, can you believe he just said that?"

"Believe it? I was thinking the same thing." Chloe laughed at Lucifer's stunned expression.

 "Well, you can be quite sweet. If you want to." She added rather shyly, smiling gently.

Lucifer's expression softened.  "That's all that matters, then, I suppose."

  Dan was feeling pretty uncomfortable. Sure, he was okay with the fact that one of these days, the two of them were probably going to get together. And watching Chloe being jealous, for example, was kinda fun.

But this intense eye-contact, smiling lovingly at each other thing could wait until he was gone from sight, alright?

Iris didn't seem to share in his awkwardness. She seemed to be delighted by this exchange, her eyes dancing from Lucifer to Chloe and back.

  Clearing his throat, Lucifer broke the eye contact. "Until later, detectives. Let's get you home, darling." He cupped Iris' shoulder and started to guide her towards the entrance.

Chloe had turned away, shuffling some forms on her desk, but was still smiling softly.

Only Dan saw Lucifer looking back over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on Chloe, his features slack with something Dan couldn't quite identify, until someone walking past blocked his view.