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rotworld · 1 year ago

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4: Hitchhiker

(previous)

your next delivery job takes an unexpected turn, more than once.

->contains body horror, religious content, mild hypnosis/mind control, child in peril.

Morning afters are often unpleasant. The long goodbye is fraught with misunderstanding. It’s not them—it’s never them. It’s always you. Maybe it meant something and maybe it didn’t, but couriers always have more work to do and children of the road will always try to go home.

So you’re surprised and relieved, and maybe just a bit disappointed, to wake up alone. You take up only a fraction of the bed. Your backpack is propped up against an armchair, your clothes laundered and neatly folded on the cushion. Iridesce left you breakfast on the bedside table with a tourist pamphlet tucked beneath the serving platter, a handwritten note scrawled on the cover. The eggs, she wrote, are cooked in the local style. The shells are sugary, the insides thick and chewy until you bite into the gooey center. You eat slowly, trying to let that sticky sweetness linger on your tongue as long as you can.

Dawn is a rainbow across Prismville. Watery, muted Drift daybreak turns to brilliance as it trickles through town. You catch glimpses of it through the windows on your slow walk to the elevators. You’d like to come back someday. The lobby is quiet this early in the morning, sparsely populated. It’s just you, a single receptionist, a child sitting on a sofa—

And a towering figure in miner’s gear, seated beside her.

“Good morning, courier,” Iridesce greets you, voice muffled through the mask. She sounds terse this morning, not nearly as warm as last night. “I have a favor to ask.”

You nod slowly. The little girl is the same one you saw sitting there last night. She can’t be more than nine or ten. Her hair is still badly matted and tangled, shapeless bangs hanging in her face, and she’s still in the same striped shirt and denim overalls. When Iridesce approaches you, the girl follows wordlessly.

“You met Kell,” Iridesce says. “You didn’t mention that last night.”

You’re startled. “How did you know?”

“She offered you a kindness. Something you wouldn’t have needed to repay. That’s why I’m trusting you with this, you understand? She doesn’t offer that to couriers unless they’re in the same boat.” She nods down at the girl who lets out a small huff and walks to you morosely, head down, dragging her feet. “Hold out your hand,” Iridesce says. You hesitate but do as she asks. She presses something cool and smooth against your palm, then closes your fingers around it. It shivers. She lowers her voice. “That’s raw chameleite, courier. Put it in your bag and don’t let just anyone see it. I’m repaying you in advance.”

You nearly drop the thing in shock “Isn’t this stuff really valuable?”

“Nearly priceless,” she says. There’s a touch of sadness to her voice. “I need you to make a delivery. The little one knows where they’re going but they need help getting there.”

“The…kid?” you say, bewildered. “I don’t really…I mean, I’m not sure I could—”

The child points. Not at you or Iridesce, or anything in particular as far as you can tell. She speaks to you for the first time, soft and half-mumbled, but she keeps repeating it until you understand. She’s saying, “home.” You look up in shock at Iridesce. She simply nods. And then she walks away. “Home,” the girl repeats, a sob edging into her voice. She’s frustrated. Not sure you’re understanding her.

“Home is that way? Is it close?” you ask. She nods at first and then freezes, tucks her chin to her chest guiltily, and shakes her head. Not close. You close your eyes to orient yourself, feeling for the tug at your heart. “That’s…west. Do you know what it’s called? Have you ever been there?” She shakes her head more vigorously, a miserable whine rising in her throat. “That’s okay. I’m sure we can figure it out. Have you eaten already? We should leave soon, there’s no telling when the next shift—”

Your breath catches in your throat. The child stares up at you, listening intently. She’s shaken her bangs out of her face and only now do you see her eyes are different colors.

Silver webbed with pale blue—and below them, high on her cheeks, the other two are entirely black.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HAVE YOU GOT IT IN YOU? BY IMOGEN HEAP]

It’s fortunate that you don’t have any other packages to deliver. There’s plenty of room in the backseat once you shove aside a few odds and ends, throw out some of the trash you’ve accumulated since the last shift. You give the girl your map and a pencil before you leave the hotel parking lot. “We’re here, in Prismville,” you tell her, pointing at the little starburst on the top half of the page. “We’re going to go west out of town. This way, see? How far is home, do you think?”

Her mouth screws into a small pout. Her primary eyes squint in focus while the secondary ones widen like black marbles in her cheeks. You keep an eye on her through the rearview mirror while inching through morning traffic, the emerald facets of an office tower sweeping green light across your face. She catches you watching her and starts tugging at her own hair, pushing her unkempt bangs over her face. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Scary eyes.”

“They’re not scary,” you insist. You feel awful seeing her shake her head and make herself even smaller. “I don’t think they’re scary, I promise. You just…remind me of someone.” Round, freckled, cheeks, curly brown hair, hands that were always wringing and kneading and searching for softness and reassurance. “My best friend growing up had eyes just like yours. I always thought they were pretty.”

Prismville doesn’t taper or cling like some towns. There are glassy spires, jutting highrises, little clusters of square homes carved from colorful rock, and then there are none. The city falls away and the fog rolls in again. Everything looks grayer than before. Even the wildflowers at the roadside seem muted and sterile compared to the colors you left behind.

The girl is so still and quiet that you forget she’s there occasionally, only to find her scrunched up in the seat behind you every time you glance in the rearview mirror. She doesn’t hum or kick her legs or do much of anything. “You know,” you say, and her head lifts just slightly, “there’s a special thing people like us say when we meet each other. We say, ‘Where are you from? Where are you going?’”

You see her thinking about it. She puts her hands in her lap and they make little back and forth motions, kneading her overalls. “From…home,” she says, sounding uncertain. “Go home.” Suddenly, she picks up the paper again. You start to hear quick, scribbling scratches and it makes you smile. Even totally engrossed, face pinched and making little sighing sounds whenever she has to erase, she still asks you, “Where? Where…from?”

Your smile weakens. “My home is the other way.”

You fall into a companionable silence. The girl draws, long lines and quick, short scratches, and then stops to watch things appear and vanish in the fog. There’s a light drizzle for some time, pattering across the roof and making the road glisten. The asphalt gets cracked and coarser and the trees close in, the orange autumn canopy lacing spotted shadows. Their boughs are heavy and drooping with egg buds. You smell pine and petrichor.

The girl starts squirming. You hear her shifting, stretching her seatbelt, then scrunching herself up again. “Are you okay?” you ask. “Hungry? Need to stretch your legs?”

“Bathroom,” she says sheepishly.

“We’ll stop at the next place we see.” It’s not a promise you could make elsewhere, but these trees gathered thick at the roadside and arching over it like cupping hands, this lush greenery and this damp weather—it’s familiar. You’ve driven this part of the Drift before, even if it was elsewhere then. You remember at least a few rest stops. “Could you pass me the map?” you ask the girl. You’ll update it when you get the chance. A tiny hand reaches over and places the paper atop your egg box in the passenger seat, gingerly setting the pencil down on top.

She’s added a house on the upper left side with a tiny chimney puffing smoke. Smiling stick figures surround it, four-eyed and waving happily. One has long lines of hair and butterfly wings.

“Saw home,” the girl says quietly, like a secret she doesn’t want you to tell anyone else. “Sleepy. Saw home.”

You almost miss the rest stop. The sign is half-eaten by thorny, broad-leafed bushes and climbing vines. A small brick building sits on a grassy hill. There are picnic tables and benches outside, a handful of cars parked in front. The fog is so thick you can barely see the road behind you. The girl is rocking back and forth, snapping off her seatbelt before you’ve come to a stop. She flings the door open and sprints for the doors. You have to rush to keep up with her, fumbling with your keys.

The inside is cold and quiet, brown tile floors and white tile walls. There are two restaurants—burgers and eggs—a mostly empty dining area, and spacious bathrooms. The hum of the air conditioning is overpowering, and there’s a sharp, unpleasant odor, something chemical. The girl darts into the bathroom with hardly a glance back at you, so you wander into the dining area to wait. A woman with a baby swaddled in her arms stands in line at the burger place. Two young men argue heatedly in the corner. Someone is slumped motionless at another table, his oversized hoodie, scarf and ratty jeans soggy with rainwater.

“Good morning.” You’re startled when someone joins you, sliding boldly into the open seat beside you rather than across from you. He’s dressed like a priest in a black cassock, long, loose-sleeved, cinched at the waist with a tasseled sash. His hair is light brown and cut just above the shoulders, wavy bangs parted down the middle. He sits and crosses his legs in a graceful fluid motion, offering a smile. “A nice day, isn’t it? For this part of the Drift, anyway.”

“It’s alright,” you say hesitantly.

He hums, resting his hands in his lap. He’s watching the bathroom doors; waiting for someone, presumably. “You can relax. I’m not here to proselytize,” he says wryly. “Just making conversation. I’ve noticed people aren’t very talkative out here.”

“Travel is stressful for a lot of people,” you tell him.

“A lot of people. But not you?”

“Courier,” you say, shrugging.

“Ahh, that explains it. Where are you coming from, if you don’t mind my asking? Verlinda?”

You shake your head. “Prismville. To the east.”

“Our paths might’ve crossed earlier. I just left Prismville this morning myself. Some of our anchorware shorted out during the last shift and we needed replacements.” He speaks softly and with unhurried cadence. Your gaze is repeatedly drawn to his eyes, a shade of green so light they’re nearly gold. It’s very slight, so subtle you might not have noticed if not for the clouds trailing outside, smothering daylight, but you think his eyes are glowing. Not like the glimmer of a deer in the road but muted and warm—a lamp shining through drawn curtains.

There’s less space between you than when he sat down. You don’t remember him moving his chair, don’t think you heard it scrape the floor, but his cassock brushes against your legs and his face is closer. You mean to move away, but you never do. Not even when his hand settles lightly on your knee. He smells sharp and woody like incense, cinnamon sweet.

“Have you ever been to Nelton?” he asks. “That’s where I’m from. Nothing as grand as Prismville, but it’s a lovely little place in its own way. If you should ever find yourself there, I would be more than happy to show you around. We appreciate couriers. No charge for food or a place to stay.”

“I appreciate it,” you tell him.

He reaches out and you expect a handshake, but instead he cups his fingers beneath yours as though he means to lead you somewhere, his thumb stroking your knuckles. “I’m Malachi. Just Malachi, not ‘Father’ or anything like that,” he stresses, chuckling. “In my faith, we like to eliminate hierarchical distance when possible. No flocks and shepherds and the like. My congregation are my equals. Only God is higher, and even God is near. Never out of reach.”

He stands up, letting go of your hand slowly. You feel cold without him, fighting a sudden impulse to follow him, to take his hand again. Someone is standing by the rest stop doors. Not a priest, just a man in plainclothes, but he has the same soft glow in his eyes.

“It was so nice to meet you,” Malachi says. “I hope our paths will cross again someday soon.” He leaves with the other man and you find yourself blinking away a haze in your mind. That was strange, wasn’t it? You’re not normally so relaxed with strangers, but his voice was soothing. He didn’t say anything particularly alarming. Old and new faiths are always snaking their way through the Drift, trying to make sense of it all, and you’ve run into far more unpleasant and presumptuous clergy in the past. But there was something unmistakably off about him. You should avoid Nelton, you think. Hopefully it’s not on the way to wherever you’re headed now.

The girl wanders out of the bathroom soon after, scurrying over to you. “Go! Go!” she says, rushing you back out to the car. She’s smiling, you notice, bursting with excitement. Maybe this trip just became real to her, home a more tangible place than ever before. She gets impatient and runs ahead of you, tugging at the door.

It opens before you get the chance to unlock it. You hesitate. Did you lock it when you went into the rest stop? The girl has one foot in the car when she freezes, staring at something on the floor, and then she looks at you. Eyes wide. Terrified.

Something lunges faster than she can scramble back out and there’s an arm snaking around her, the flash of a knife at her throat. “Don’t scream.” The voice is a coarse, rasping whisper. “Get. In the car. Don’t scream.”

You saw him earlier. He was hunched over a table inside. He has his hood pulled up and dark, stringy hair hanging in his face but you can see scabbed, slightly parted lips. The hand wrapped around the knife is shaking badly, fingertips blackened and withered with what looks like frostbite. The front of his hoodie is a mess of blood and dirt.

“Driver’s seat. Now,” he hisses, the tremors in his hand making him slip and nick the girl’s throat. It’s a shallow cut but it’s bleeding and her chest is heaving with quiet sobs. You do what he says, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. There’s something wrong with him. He’s making a strange noise, a rapid clicking in his chest or throat like something is loose and rattling around inside him. “You’re. Going to take me. Away. From here,” he says.

You grip the steering wheel. “Wh…where?”

“Doesn’t. Matter.” The muscles in his throat bulge strangely. There’s something under his skin that shouldn’t be. “Drive.”

He’s less agitated when you’re on the road. He doesn’t let the girl go but he lowers the knife. The rattling sound quiets. He keeps turning around and peering out the back window. The girl is biting her lip so hard it’s bleeding, head down, stiff as a board. “What’s your name?” you say quietly. You want him calm. He twitches, half-turned towards you. “Where are you trying to go? I’m a courier. I can get you there if you don’t hurt us.”

“I know. What you are.” There’s that clicking again, and a slurring, guttural noise. Laughter. “Hhhhahahaaagh. Lost. That’s. What you are.” That harsh chemical stench from the rest stop is strong again. Something dribbles from the corner of his mouth, too cloudy and thick to be saliva. He twists himself around in an uncoordinated motion, lopsided, struggling to make his legs cooperate, and reaches into the front seat. You watch his gnarled fingers pluck an egg out of the box with some difficulty. His fingers move slightly off-rhythm from each other, the movements conscious rather than automatic.

The first one he takes for himself, but the second is for the girl. She tries to wriggle away from him as he presses it into her hands.

“Scrawny. Pathetic,” he hisses. “Eat, cousin. Or you’ll be. Like this. Forever.” When she doesn’t move, the clicking gets louder and he digs his fingers into her shoulder. “Eat.”

“How far am I taking you?” you ask.

You get his attention away from the girl, but now he’s grasping the side of your seat and leaning forward, his face uncomfortably close. “As far. As I tell you. Don’t ask again.” He lifts the egg past his mouth, to his eyes. Pushes his bangs aside. Your stomach churns.

His eyes are gone. Something long, thin and covered in spines curls out of the empty socket, pierces the eggshell, and sucks up the juice inside.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

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betterskatethannever · 2 years ago

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2022 best of

best parts

Nick Matthews - Venture x Uprise / Nike x HUF

Mason Coletti - RIGHT HERE FOR PABLO . Deep Fried Pescado

Eddie Cernicky - Deep Fried Pescado . RIGHT HERE FOR PABLO

Tiago Lemos - Primitive DEFINE.

Gustav Tønnesen - SOUR SOLUTION III

Leonardo Bodelazzi - Leozinho

Juan Virues - Hotel Blue pro ‘penthouse suite’

Cyrus & Max - Limosine Promaster . “Toes Down” . i just took a bite of dirt

Diego Todd - Hockey X

Braden Hoban - emerica Emerge

Tristan Funkhouser - Baker 420 . Deep Fried x Baker

Nyjah Huston - Need That . Shine On . “DISRUPTION”

Tyshawn Jones - “Play Dead” . KINGDOM COME . ‘The General’

Carlos Ribeiro - Primitive DEFINE.

Gilbert Crockett - DENIM CAR

Grant Taylor - Fantastic Voyage

Will Marshall - Alltimers You Deserve It

Lucien Clarke - LAUST IN TRANSLATION

Shaun Paul - DC ‘NorthUnda’

Noah Nayef - April

Elijah Odom - Alltimers You Deserve It . Andrew RASCAL

Brian Reid - Brian, Brandon & Will . DGK Zeitgeist

Shin Sanbongi - adidas

Jordan Trahan - Ace ‘Fais Low Low’

Bobby de Keyzer - Bobby

Brian Delatorre - Live & Direct

Vincent Milou - SOLO: You Changed

Jaakko Ojanen - Manana . E.S.P. vol. 2

Ryan Lay - DR in Color . Sci-Fi Fantasy

Myles Willard - Bones Bearings . ”Myles and The Machine”

Will Mazzari - Brian, Brandon & Will . DGK Zeitgeist

Marcello Campanello - Maxallure pro

Heitor da Silva - Vice Versa Love

Jake Wooten - Big Sky

Felipe Gustavo - CODE

Ishod Wair - REAL

Ish Cepeda - AD ASTRA

Louie Lopez - As You Wish . “Honor Roll” . FA, Again & Again

Danny Renaud - Brass Tacks

Silas Baxter-Neal - Portland Public Skating 3 . Burrow

Brian Delatorre - Habitat Live & Direct

Keiran Zimmerman - Jenny x Emerica

best full-lengths

Polar - Sounds Like You Guys Are Crushing It

Antihero - Fantastic Voyage

GX1000 - RIGHT HERE FOR PABLO

The Sour Solution III

Primitive - DEFINE.

Hockey X

Supreme - “Play Dead”

Alltimers - You Deserve It

Shake Junt - Shrimp Blunt

Bronze TV Channel 56

Element - E.S.P. vol. 2

Deep Fried - Pescado

Cafe - TENOR

Rassvet - “I Missed You”

Homies - Fun Raiser

DGK - Zeitgeist

Plan B - CODE

Emerica - EMPOWER

Bleach USA - “SPIKE”

Foundation - Splendor

best breakout parts

Vince Guzaldo - Bleach USA “SPIKE” . Immortality Research

Davide Holzknecht - Baglady. Pack Light . Hélas

Arthur Ribeiro - Vento Bravo

Blake Norris - FULLER HOUSE

Alan Bell - be honest

Johnny Cumaoglu - Mind How You Go

Joe Campos - Hockey X

Brian O’Dwyer - She’s Cheating

Shane Farber - CONS One-Star Pro x RIDING A HORSE NAKED

Jake Yanko - “MOSQUITO”

Christoph Friedmann - LOBBY DREAMS

Donovan Wildfong - Glue ‘wick & spit’

Marley Humphrey - “DIME BAG”

Jason Nam - carousel

Sam Fairweather - Indy Raw Ams

Shogo Zama - MAGENTAPES

best women’s parts

Breana Geering - Spitifre

Nelly Morville - Limosine Promaster . “Toes Down” . i just took a bite of dirt

Mariah Duran - Thunder

Adrianne Sloboh - Krux

Mami Tezuka - Blood Wizard “Destiny”

Nicole Hause - REAL

Reese Nelson - Birdhouse welcome

best independents

Tim Savage - Brian, Brandon & Will

Fritte Söderström - Jante 5:33 x Jante 11:00

Tor Ström - Is This The Place?

Gray Area: Push Button to Destroy the World

Mettz Quest 2 (nyc)

Eryk Burton - THE TALE OF A TOXIC KING (nyc)

Harry Bergenfield - She’s Cheating (Philly)

Nicolas Marti - be honest (nyc)

Neema Joorabchi - limp x okay then (nyc)

Jeff Cecere - Mind How You Go (nyc)

Felix Soto - “ANGEL” (LA)

Calvin Millar - THE SQUAD (Austin)

Emilio Dufour - MAL CIUDADANO (Uruguay)

My Favorite Things - 31 (Helsinki)

Andrew Meyer - flinch (Philly VX)

Widdip - RIDING A HORSE NAKED (ATL)

Viktor Kretsis - Down Low (Manchester)

gang international - WITH ALL DUE (DC)

Chris Mulhern - [untitled] 006 (Philly)

Leando Chocho - HANDYCAPS_2

Tyler Bamdas - V3

Alex Doyle - CLUB BANGERS 3 (Vancouver)

Portland Public Skating 3

DUPLEX 3 (West Palm Beach FL)

HITTIT 3 (Kopenhagen)

Tristan Warren - MONEY TIME (LA)

Zach Fuller - FULLER HOUSE (SF)

Get Lesta - Darling (UK)

James Morley - GOD BLESS (Toronto)

andres garcia - MILO (LA)

James Cruikshank - SENSIBLES (Paris)

Brian Hunter - SLANG (Long Beach)

Daniel Dent - faith in bro (LA)

best promo / medium-length / squad

Limosine - Promaster . “Toes Down” . i just took a bite of dirt

Free x Vans - Full Circle

The Union Square Video

Game On - Mark Suciu SOTY Trip

Chocolate - Upper Cruster

Primitive x Independent

Austin Bristow - LAUST IN TRANSLATION

eS Terminal 002

Bronze x DC What If God Said

Pangea Jeans - POCKET DIAL

adidas - The Sky Ain’t Falling

Pass~Port Nike

Internet Birthday ep.1

Thunder: Pleather Jacket

SCREWLOOSE - EXILE

Last Resort AB - Alv’s Angels

Thrasher Germany Vacation

RACKZ Gallery - Pandora

adidas Australia - Light Years

Sunday Hardware - LUV YA LOTS x x

Baglady - Pack Light

HUF x Thrasher Brazil

Sk8land Skateshop - Veinte

Cowtown - TWENTY FIVE

Am Scramble 2021

Girl - ‘Desesh Mode’ Euro Tour

CPH OPEN 2021

Poolroom - RUNNER UP

Brick & Mortar - Autumn

Maxallure “INT CIRCLE” . “Beautiful Thoughts”

Dime comp vol 7 - Alexis Lacroix

SLP - KARI

Vans - Scandis

Kadence - DAIS

WKND - BOTTLE NECK SEWAGE . Street Fighters 2 . Alan Gelfand High

WORBLE III: Rough & Tough

Tree skateshop x Delivxry Buenos Aires - TREENIDAD

THE VIOLET PROMO

Stussy - Car Pool

Frog x Thunder

another massive year in skateboarding. hope things are good in your world. tell your friends you love em & let’s persevere to make 2023 even better

extended youtube playlist here

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kaceypink · 1 year ago

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A small preview for a longer short story I have been picking away at for the last couple months. A will they won’t they type lesbian story about a high powered ceo and a butch groundskeeper.

Twincone Lodge

A wolf of impeccable precision, like every strand of fur was laser cut, pulled open a set of double doors. She wore a thin puffer jacket, black and like new, Under her jacket, a carefully selected "leisure" attire, a pair of black jeans and a dark blue turtleneck. Both pressed, clean, like they'd just come off the factory line. Simple, something a person could buy at a grocery store in the middle of the night, but the labels and the fit were beyond perfect. Around her neck, a silver necklace glinted as she walked into the lodge’s lobby.

The lobby was small, smaller than her office. It was tacky too. Not last season, last decade, if it was trying to get away with just being gauche. Dark beadboard walls, tall raw wood beams. Off to one side there was a red brick fireplace crackling in front of big plaid fabric sofas, and the other side of the lobby led to a sitting area and a hall. She stood in front of the counter for what seemed like tens of minutes. She could smell burnt coffee and laundry detergent. There was a man, a person of some kind, too distracted by some pedantic bookkeeping. Simple minded, pathetic, low level, a roster of guests hand scribbled. How could anyone function so slowly.

She dropped her designer bag to the worn hardwood floor in front of the counter, producing a loud clunk. It was heavy, over-packed with expensive clothes over-designed to keep her warm on the slopes. Brown leather and gaudy blue and gold fabric, if the bag hadn't been over five thousand dollars she would have thought it was ugly. "Excuse me," she said, firmly, tapping the top of the counter impatiently.

The wooly cow on the other side of the counter looked up from the paperwork she'd been focusing on. So many new bookings, and with reports of snow storms few other workers had made it up the mountain. This wasn't even her job, didn't even know how to use the computer. She had to print everything out, scribble stuff down like the old days.

"Oh," the wolf woman said, looking at the cow closer. The cow's pleasant smile and patient eyes glinted under her long red hair, the same color of the rest of her fur. The look cut through the frustration that'd been building inside the wolf's cold corporate heart.

"Sorry for the wait," the cow said. "Been sorta busy." Like a gentle breeze from the highlands, just a faint accent she was hiding under her customer service voice.

The wolf took in another breath, wondering if she found the new guest pleasing to the eyes. "I uh," she murmured, mouth hanging slightly ajar. "No problem," she said, tensing her jaw.

The two women locked eyes for a moment, the crackle of the fire and the sound of wind were the only noises in the lobby. Looking over their eyes, then each other's features. Nose, eyebrows, and inevitably to the lips. The cow looked away first, though the captivation was mutual, there were notes to keep.

"You must be Misses Escarra?" The cow asked, her voice was so gentle for such a large woman. Big forearms, a multi-tool and a pair of worn gloves on her belt. She wore denim and plaid and a kind of body that could hold up the whole lodge if one of those tall wood columns needed a break. The cow set a paper down on the counter between them. "You have an alright drive?"

"Miss," Escarra drew a pair of reading glasses from a pocket in her jacket. She set them on her mostly pale furred muzzle. White fur across her cheeks and down her neck. Gray fur down the middle of her muzzle, and over her face. Red tan fur, trimmed the edges of her fur colors and across her ears. "But," she murmured, "You can call me Miranda."

"Miranda," the cow repeated slowly, her Scottish accent pouring out. As she was clearly not thinking very hard, or thinking very hard, watching Miranda uncap a pen of her own and sign the paperwork. Her fingernails, her hair. The cow could smell her subtle perfume. It was some floral scent, some fruit notes maybe.

"What should I call you?" Miranda asked, very purposely closing her pen.

"You can just press five," the cow murmured. "If you need anything."

"No," Miranda said, as she closed her fountain pen. "Your name."

"A-aye," the cow looked away, trying to catch the words rolling away. She put the paperwork down on her side of the desk, looking at the signature. "I'm Aila."

"Nice to meet you," Miranda said.

"Most call me, Ross," the cow explained. Pulling a stack of plastic cards from a drawer, she ran one through a machine and fiddled with a paper jacket for the card. "My middle name…"

"Yeah," Miranda said, it was meant to come out like a question but it was more of a demand. "Thank you, Ross," Miranda said, feeling a warm smile break through the stress of traveling alone in winter.

"Supposed to be some real weather soon," Ross said.

"I’m aware," Miranda said, a coarse tone slipped from her without focus. "I planned around it. Going to get some skiing in before it hits and I'll be back before my vacation is over."

"Ah," Ross murmured. The cow hadn't noticed before, maybe she was too busy looking into Miranda's beautiful eyes, but she wasn't nice. Nice to look at, very fun to see, but when she opened her mouth, Ross knew she shouldn't say it or even think about it. She seemed mean, mean and spoiled and too self important. Ross could feel it, warm cheeks once taught from a smile, slacking turning cold to this stranger. "Well," Ross said, holding out the card. She pulled her best impression of a receptionist up, "You have a nice ski."

"I will," Miranda said, a smile began to form as she took the card from Ross's hand. Miranda touched her fingers. Rough fingers, strong wide hands. Ross was no simple hotel attendant, no receptionist or booking agent. "Can I call you if something… is missing?"

Ross looked back into Miranda's eyes for a moment, then sat down behind the counter looking away. "Sure, I'll do my best. I'm just the groundskeeper though. Not used to working the day shift. So uh, go easy on me."

"I have high expectations," Miranda said leaning over the counter. She licked her lips as she rested her head in her hands. If the cow had been paying attention, maybe the come on would have been clearer. Instead the cow only laughed, laughed. Laughed at her.

"Miss Escarra," Ross said tactfully. "We'll get it right, I promise you that."

"Alright," Miranda said, leaning away from the counter. Feeling like a wet towel, wadded and kicked into the corner of the room. A spark of "how dare she" threatened to catch, but focus shifted her mind. Skiing was the goal, the plan was to relax, not get bent out of shape over a missed connection. Her pride waned as she took up her bag and looked at the room number on the card sleeve. “Thank you.”

Boss lady.

#lesbian writer #Lesbian #short fiction #preview #WLW #wlw literature

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kookicat · 4 years ago

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Consequences That He Renders

He's shaking hard enough for her to feel, fine tremors running through his hands, his arms and it's freaking her out because as a rule, Eliot Spencer isn't a man who shakes. The last time she'd seen it was after a job went majorly, horribly bad, when he'd been so battered and bruised and bloody they'd actually managed to get him to visit a hospital. It's too dark in the car to get a proper look at his face, but the streetlights offer glimpses and she'd swear on a stack of hundred dollar bills that he's pale, eyes shadowed, gaze fixed at some point miles past the glass.

The car hits a pothole, hard, and he grunts, lip curling, one hand creeping up to cup his left shoulder. It's the one he favours first, some nagging remains of an old injury, and it makes the tension in her stomach curl a bit tighter, like a snake burrowing into the sand for the night. She's a thief; she's trained to notice the smallest detail because it can be a matter of life and death if she misses something. Another piece of the mental jigsaw she's building clicks into place when he shifts, jaw tightening as some sore spot somewhere presses against the seat.

"Eliot," she starts, resisting the urge to poke him, to see how badly he's hurt this time in favour of leaning over a little.

"Parker," he says, voice hoarse with exhaustion, and turns towards her. He can't quite meet her eyes. Another piece. Something bad happened. She's not great with emotions but she's learning. It's not shame on his face, but sorrow.

"Are you okay?" She gives into the urge and presses her hand against his arm, half expecting him to move away.

He doesn't, just blinks tiredly at her and dredges up a weak smile. "I'm fine," he says and she lets the lie slide because she knows he's not fine at all.

"What happened, at the warehouse?" She keeps her eyes on his face, seeing a flicker of something before he shoves it down deep.

"I did my job. Got Nate and his Italian friend out of there." As he says the words, voice flat, the smell of cordite floods his nose, thick and bitter and choking. He can feel the weight of the guns in his hands, feel the shock of the recoil burning up his wrists as he takes the next target out. As he kills the next man, the voice in the back of his head mocks.

It had felt clear and clean in the moment, the kind of clarity only found at the right end of a gun but he's reeling, because he stepped into the kill box and didn't expect to walk back out. His life for his team's, a fair and more than even trade. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, but after the fact, he's not quite sure how he managed to survive.

"Oh," she says, voice so small, it makes him really look at her. There's a pensive frown between her eyebrows that he longs to wipe away but his hands aren't clean and he doesn't want to stain her. She needs a distraction, and he inadvertently gives her one when the car hits another bump, forcing another soft grunt out of him.

He's wrenched his back and bad shoulder all to hell and he's pretty sure that both knees are skinned raw from his slide. There's a low grade throb in both hands that he knows will evolve into a full on ache before too much longer. He knows guns, but he rarely uses them and he's paying the price.

"I thought you said you were okay!" She reaches for him, and he wards her off with one arm, biting the inside of his lip when she grabs his arm right over a growing bruise.

"I've had worse," he says, and it's true. He's pretty sure nothing is broken. He's just sore all over, abused muscles aching but it's not life threatening, just enough to make him miserable.

Something in her eyes shifts and she blinks, hard, hand tightening a little on his arm. He expects her to speak, but she just presses her lips together and leans against him gently, staying there until the car stops.

Hardison looks up from his laptop, taking in the scene with a sweep of his eyes, and gets out, coming round to open the door. Parker slides out of the other side and Eliot realises with a jolt they're all waiting for him, even Sophie and Nate.

It's going to take him a moment to get out and he'd really rather not have an audience for the performance.

"I'll catch up," he says and holds his hand out for the keys.

Parker snatches them from Nate. "We'll catch up," she says, giving Hardison a meaningful glance.

Sophie catches on and takes Nate's arm, tugging him towards the hotel entrance, casting a worried glance back at the car as she goes.

Eliot gets a good look at his friends’ faces and chokes back a sigh. They're going nowhere at least not without an argument, and he just doesn't have the energy for it right now. He swings his legs out of the car, pausing for a moment when his back spasms, then forces himself to stand. Being upright hurts, the long muscles in his abs tight and sore, back aching. The shootout ran him through the wringer and the aftereffects are starting to kick in.

"Come on, man," Hardison says and leans past Eliot to slam the car door. One hand lifts like he wants to offer assistance, but the older man shoots him down with a quick look.

They flank him, Parker on one side, Hardison on the other as he limps towards the entrance, feeling the denim peel away from his knees in a way that makes him want to hurl. His shirt is sticking to his back in a similar way and he rolls his shoulders in annoyance. It sends a bolt of pain down his spine and he stops, eyes closing until it eases.

"You're freaking me out, man," Hardison says, running his gaze over the other man, checking for blood. There's a few spots - his left shoulder is sporting a nasty blood stain, as are both of his knees, but nothing major jumps out. They've seen him hurt worse and walk it off but this time is different and Hardison just can't put his finger on why.

Eliot starts walking again, eyes fixed on the doors, but he's distant, pensive and Hardison realises with a jolt that's the problem. There's a level of quiet they only see from the older man when he's really hurt but that doesn't tally with the visible injuries and it's ringing alarm bells in Hardison's mind.

He glances at Parker, getting a nod in return. Something dreadful went down in that warehouse, bad enough that Eliot doesn't want to talk about it, bad enough that he's pulled back into his shell. The thought of what it could be sends a chill down Hardison's spine. Part of him wants to push, to needle a confession from the other man but a bigger part of him doesn't want to know. Their hitter had done his job and got everyone back safe and beyond that the details don't really matter. They won't judge him no matter what he did.

There's an elevator waiting in the lobby and they shuffle into it. The mirrored walls show Eliot just how bad he looks, and he suddenly understands why his friends are so concerned. He's pasty, dirt streaked and vaguely clammy in the air conditioning. He wants a shower, a change of clothes and a time machine, so he can go way back before this whole mess started and stop Nate from throwing them at Moreau. He knows which of those he's likely to get and leans against the wall with a sigh.

He's lucked out on this stay, managed to get a room to himself and he fishes in his pocket for the key, vaguely surprised it's still there.

Parker and Hardison are looking at him and he licks his lips, tries to dredge up some sort of response and settles for a quick, tired smile that he knows doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. "Thanks," he says and unlocks the door, "I'm going to go clean up. See you in a few."

He ducks inside, closing the door on them, knowing it's a shitty thing to do. He's pretty sure they'll forgive him, pretty sure they'd already figured out this wasn't a normal job and he's not in the mood for twenty questions. He pauses, slides the chain into place like it'll stall Parker for more than a couple of seconds if she decides she wants in.

Pain runs through his fingers as he grabs a change of clothes and carries them to the bathroom, starting the shower. His clothes stink, a bitter mix of smoke and cordite and sweat and he struggles out of them, throwing them in the corner for now. The water engulfs him, washing away the physical traces of what he did and it suddenly hits him, hard enough to unlock his knees so he ends up sitting with his back to the shower wall.

The tears are a surprise, because he thought he'd forgotten how to cry, used them all up. He pulls his knees up and rests his forehead on them, gulping in breaths when black spots swirl through his eyes. He's not weeping for the men he killed - their own choices put them in that warehouse, and none of them was an innocent - but for the man he was becoming, someone closer to the kid he searches for everyday in the mirror. They leave him aching and empty and hollow and it's going to take a while to soothe the new raw spots inside his soul.

He's chilled from sitting in the cold tile and the water is starting to run cold so he forces himself to his feet, reaching for soap and a washcloth, scrubbing any last trace of the battle from his body. It stings in places, highlighting minor cuts and knicks he didn't know he had until the lather found them, painting a map of damage to his body. He can't quite lift his left arm high enough to wash his hair and settles for doing his best one handed. He rinses, shivering, under the now cold water and steps out, wrapping a towel around his hips, leaning towards the mirror to find out why his shoulder hurts so much.

There's a splinter longer than his hand in the back of his shoulder. He can see it in the mirror but he just can't get the angle to dig it out. It hurts, a nasty throbbing ache that makes him want to tear his arm off and he tries again, flinching when his fingers just brush the wood. He's going to need help and stoops to find his phone in the pile of filthy clothes, sending a quick message.

He drys himself, slipping into soft sweatpants, draping a towel carefully around his neck to catch the water trickling from his hair. Somehow he's not surprised to find Parker and Sophie are already in the bedroom when he opens the bathroom door and steps out. There's the big medical bag between them on the couch and he pauses, steeling himself because the damn thing has to come out but it's not going to be a fun process.

"Hi," Parker says, voice just a tiny bit unsure, like she's not sure how he's going to react.

"Hey, Parker," he says, voice so rough that he winces, tries to swallow. "Sophie."

He's not sure which one of them is more surprised when she stands, wrapping her arms around him carefully.

"Thank you for bringing him home," she whispers in his ear and he nods, having to swallow hard before he can answer.

"I'd do the same thing for any of you," he says simply and lets himself lean into the hug for a second.

The towel slips and she gasps when she sees the sliver of wood lodged in his flesh. "Jesus Christ, Eliot!" she says, ducking out of his arms for a closer look. "This is not a little problem!"

He flinches, a little at her raised voice, knows they both notice. "Still needs to come out."

The room has a small table and he turns one of the chairs, sitting down slowly and resting his good arm on the back. His left shoulder doesn't want to bend and he gives in, tucking his arm in in front of him.

"Eliot, are you sure about this?" Sophie asks. "I'm sure we can find an actual trained medical professional to remove this from you."

He scoffs at that. "It's a splinter. If it was somewhere I could reach, I'd be digging it out myself right now."

"It's going to hurt," she says and if his head wasn't already throbbing, he'd roll his eyes at that. It already hurts, and getting it out before an infection sets in is his main concern.

"Just do it," he says, and put his chin down on his good arm, watching Parker as she lays out various medical supplies on the table in front of him. There's tweezers, squares of gauze, dressings, tape and wound ointment. He bites the inside of his lip, lifting his head to speak. "Grab the scalpel and stitch kit too," he says simply and she nods, one sharp bob of her head and reaches back into the bag.

Sophie presses an ice pack over the wound and he shivers under the chill, but it helps, takes some of the throbbing away and he's damn grateful for that.

Parker slips a pair of gloves on and moves behind him, reaching over him to grab some gauze and the tweezers. The closeness makes him feel twitchy and his hand tightens on the chair.

He grits his teeth as she lifts the ice pack off and probes the sliver with the tweezers, the plastic catching on the wood. It makes him flinch, muscles twitching and he feels her freeze behind him.

"I'm okay. It's okay," he says quietly. "Keep going."

"Tell me, if you need me to stop," she says, one hand brushing his bare back before she gets to work with the tweezers again.

It's a nasty sliver, maybe four inches long, jammed in the muscle just under his shoulder blade. The end is ragged and friable and every time she thinks she's got a good grip, the wood breaks off. The muscles in his back are tense under her hands, breathing deliberately steady and she knows all the poking must be agony.

"Parker," Eliot says, voice slightly hoarse, and she stops instantly. "Just cut it," he adds and blows out a ragged breath.

"Cut you, you mean?" She glances at the scalpel and shudders.

"Yeah," he says, and turns as much as he can to look at her. "That's where the damn thing is, after all." He's pale again, eyes shadowed, and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his face.

She licks her lips and nods. "Tell me what to do."

He does, in more detail than she ever wanted and her hand only shakes a little when she picks the scalpel up, trying not to think as she follows his instructions, swabbing his back with antiseptic first. Shaky doesn't seem an acceptable trait for performing minor surgery and she presses the ice pack against his shoulder until she has the shake under control. She places the blade against his skin and makes one swift cut. It frees some of the splinter and she reaches for the tweezers again but the wood still stubbornly refuses to come free.

It rips a pained grunt out of him and he swallows so hard she can hear it.

"Eliot…" Parker says, free hand on his good shoulder, thumb rubbing absent circles on his skin. She looks up, meeting Sophie's horrified gaze. It's not the first time they've had to do stuff like this and given their jobs, if probably won't be last but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Just get it done," he rasps, tacking on please as an afterthought to soften his tone.

"Okay," Parker says and makes the cut bigger, swiping away blood and letting the gauze drop to the floor.

His back is still under her hands, but she can hear the strain of it in his breathing when she goes in with the tweezers again. His good hand is gripping the chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white, head tipped forward so his hair falls past his face, hiding his expression.

Blood wells again as she gets a good grip on the wood and tugs. It moves this time, sliding out maybe half and inch and Eliot makes a noise halfway between a hiss and a grunt.

His whole world has distilled down to the throb in his shoulder, the sharp but cleaner pain from the incision, the ache down his back as he fights his instincts to stay still so he doesn't scare Parker half to death.

"Nearly done," Parker says, and he can hear the wobble in her voice that means she's crying and trying to hide it.

Must be the day for it, he thinks. "You're doing great," he tells her, because she is. It's a damn brave thing she's doing, and he's not sure how to make her understand how grateful he is for the help.

She changes her grip on the tweezers and takes another hold on the sliver, pulling slowly, easing it out from under his skin. The entire thing slides free suddenly and she feels like cheering. "It's out," she says and drops it on the table in front of him.

He swipes his hair back from his face, blinking at the damn thing in surprise. It had felt huge in his back, like a stone in a shoe, but it's actually bigger than he'd expected.

"Well, fuck," he says simply, and takes a deep breath that doesn't pull obscenely at his shoulder.

Sophie hands over a dish of antiseptic and more gauze. "It says it doesn't sting," she says and takes a minor risk, resting her hand on his arm. His muscles tense under her touch at first before he blows out a long breath and lets himself relax.

She's right, it doesn't sting at all as Parker cleans the wounds, adding wound ointment for good measure before taping a dressing securely over the top. He's glad she's being so thorough because pallet wood tends to be coated in all kinds of dirty stuff and the last thing he wants is an infection.

He's exhausted and all he wants to do is give into the pull of the bed and sack out for a couple of hours, give his brain and body chance to rest a bit but he's painfully aware of Parker standing next to him, face pale.

"Thank you," he says. "Feels better already," he adds, and it's not quite a lie.

She nods, sharply and he forces himself to his feet, accepting a t-shirt from Sophie who tips her head towards the door and slips out quietly.

"You were shaking in the car," Parker says and he sinks back into the seat. "Why were you shaking in the car, Eliot?" she asks, like it's something she can't quite square in her mind.

He licks his lips, knowing he's too exhausted and mentally fried to have this conversation right now. He also knows that he owes her. "It was a rough fight," he says simply, after a long pause, thankful there's enough cuts and bruises on his skin to sell the story.

"Did you kill someone?" She can't look at him and he feels a stab of self hatred rip through him, more painful and cutting by far than the wound on his back.

He hesitates, again, because he doesn't want her to think badly of him, but she's been brave enough to ask the question and he needs to be brave enough to answer. "Yes," he says and doesn't try to explain or excuse it. He did his job and he'll take the consequences, no matter how much they hurt.

"Okay," she says and looks at him. "You should rest," she says and a rush of gratitude races through him for the way her brain works. She's got the answers that she wanted and she's not going to press him for more.

He stands, body aching, and brushes past her, dropping a featherlight kiss on her temple on the way to the bed. "Stay?" he asks, in the same tone she'd once used on him, and she nods, curling up one one side of the big bed, one socked foot resting against his calf.

It takes him a while to get comfortable and he watches as the tension slowly drains from her face before he lets his own eyes close.

Thank you, he thinks. Thank you for not hating me. Thank you for giving me another chance when I don't deserve it.

He's not sure how or why or which God is setting up a long joke at his expense, but he's found a family and he's going to do everything he can to keep them whole.

Even if it costs him more of his already tattered soul.

That's a consequence he can live with.

Losing them isn't.

#leverage #eliot spencer #whump #hurt/comfort #parker #team as family #emotional whump #big bang job tag #minor surgery

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echo-hiraeth · 4 years ago

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Chapter 10: One of those long-sleeved dresses

Part of the “Ilicit Limerence” series

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Summary: The pressure is on now that the government is negotiating with Escobar. The team decides to take the edge off, but when it comes to it, Javier can’t keep calm.

Warnings: swearing, angst, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, nudity, mentions of pregnancy symptoms, alcohol

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A/n: Hello sweethearts! My sincere apologies for going MIA, I had a really rough week with tonnes of deadlines, but accept this 6k plus chapter! Let me know what you think. Lots of love!

“He did what now?”, Connie questioned, brow quirked in amusement as she sipped on her wine.

You cackled along with her, fingers playing with the stem of a wine glass, which was filled with orange juice. “I’m serious, he’s surrendering his key this weekend!”

“Well would you look at that, Javier Peña settling down huh?”, she smiled, clinking her glass to yours, “I don’t know how, but you did it.”

“I’ll cheers to that, sister”, you gloated, the smile on your face just getting bigger and bigger as the night went on.

The boys were out together, leaving you and Connie alone with the baby. Olivia had been sound asleep for about an hour now and as soon as that baby monitor didn’t detect any fussy noises, it was go-time. How she got the drinks out that fast, you hadn’t a clue, but you weren’t complaining when she got out the chips as well. Seeing how you were back to work and she had a kid to take care of, you hadn’t seen one another a lot this week, but tonight you were just hanging out, catching up.

“How’s the clinic been?”

She sighed, letting her head fall back on the couch. “Sometimes I wish you would just quit and join me already. I swear they only speak in Spanish to spite me.”

You huffed out a laugh, only laughing harder as the two of you locked eyes. It was one of those moments that didn’t make sense, but was hilarious nonetheless. You clutched your stomach as a cramp threatened to come up. “Okay – okay, stop, stop, stop”, you yelped, struggling to catch your breath as you kept laughing.

Connie was wheezing at this point, doubling over as well, the rest of her red wine spilling into your lap. “Aha – shit that hurts”, she gasped, rubbing at her cheeks as they cramped up.

You took a few deep breaths, finally having stopped giggling away. In one swift motion you took the fragile glass from her hands. “Alright, alright, Murphy, you’re too drunk to keep this going.”

“Oh come oooon, it’s my house, I call last round!”, she whined, reaching for the bottle on the coffee table.

You jerked it away just in time, holding it over your head as she groaned and rolled her eyes. “Connie, I’m serious, you have a baby to take care of tomorrow, go get ready for bed.”

She pouted, dragging herself up off the couch as she slumped towards the bathroom. “You’re no fuuuun.”

Shaking your head, you walked over to the kitchen, rinsing the glasses and putting the half-empty bottle in the fridge while your friend attended to her business in the small bathroom. It was a little past midnight now, just about time for the guys to come back too, in fact they were a little late already. The three of you still had work in the morning, considering it was a Thursday night, but no-one other than you seemed to give it much thought.

Some stumbling in the general direction of the two backrooms caught your attention, drying your hands before hurrying your way over to the bathroom. Only there wasn’t anyone there. You peeked into the bedroom, seeing your friend sprawled out on top of the duvet, still fully dressed. Her husband could take care of that. She’d knocked the alarm clock over, successfully unplugging it from the wall in the process. You picked it up, putting it back into place before heading back into the kitchen. Being the good friend that you were, you filled up a glass of water and along with an aspirin, put it on her nightstand. She’d thank you in the morning.

Once back in the living room, you cleaned up the messes, stowing away the snacks in the cupboard and washing the dirty dishes in the sink. By the time you were putting everything back into its spot, clock striking past one, the door swung open. They were mid-conversation, Steve way too loud for your liking, drunk out of his mind. Well, they were married after all – you thought, thinking back of your passed out friend.

Javier seemed fine, supporting Steve as he guided him onto the couch, shooting you an annoyed glare halfway through. You rested a hand on your lower back, trying to ease the pain as you just watched the two of them, Steve’s hand grabbing towards you.

“She’s maaaad”, he noted, giving Javier a look.

You bit back a chuckle, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, instead just motioning towards the door. The other man understood, slowly nodding before throwing a balled-up blanket at his partner. “See you at the office, Murphy.”

He grabbed your coat off the hanger, opening the door as he waited for you. You pecked his cheek in passing, taking the coat from him as you put it on, the coldness in the hallway already making you shiver. “M’sorry hermosa”, he sighed slinging a warm arm around you.

“How much did you have?”, you asked, leaning your head on his shoulder as you walked down to the lobby.

“About three, I’m good to drive”, he replied, pressing a sweet kiss to the crown of your head.

It was a difficult night, having to run to the bathroom every other half hour as either your bladder or stomach pestered you. Javier was sleeping soundly, his whiskey tending to have that effect. You’d hit him over the head if you didn’t love him as much as you did. The acid reflux was killing you, no matter how upright you sat. You were never touching orange juice again, you vowed, fuck that.

Javier woke up to you sitting up against the headboard, neck at an awkward angle as you softly snored. It was then he noticed the bucket by the bedside, empty, but still there as a precaution. He’d let you sleep a little longer, off to the kitchen to prepare a breakfast while he woke up fully. As he flipped his omelette you shuffled out of the bedroom, rubbing your eyes as you stubbed your right into the couch.

“Motherfucker”, you exclaimed, pursing your lips in pain.

He grinned from his spot in the kitchen, winking as you flipped him an early morning bird. “Sit down before you break a leg.”

You plopped down on the chair, cradling your head in your hands out of sheer misery. You were exhausted and had an excruciating pain in your neck and back, not to mention how raw your throat felt, the acid reflux having left its mark. “Would you mind grabbing a coffee at work? I-I don’t feel particularly well.”

He put two plates on the table, sitting down next to you, resting a hand on your upper back. “Should’ve woken me up”, he mumbled, keeping hand there as he started digging in.

“Wouldn’t have made much of a difference anyway. Thank you for cooking”, you smiled, starting on your own plate.

The rest of the morning was slow, Javier proving to be very helpful as he rinsed your hair for you. There was nothing sexual about it, just simply wanting to ease things for you. You’d been okay for most of the week, morning sickness seemingly gone, but last night’s shenanigans got you good. On top of that your jeans didn’t button, stomach starting to protrude a bit more in your ninth week. Whether it was the exhaustion, annoyance or a culmination of everything at this point, you didn’t know, but you broke down into tears.

“Corazón?”, he asked, barging into the room, cupping your face in both hands. “What’s wrong, what happened?”

“I-I don’t know really, just my jeans don’t fit and – and”, you couldn’t speak anymore, just crying it out, keening into his touch as his thumbs swiped the salty tears away.

He let go with one hand, bringing it down to the denim, softly inching it down your legs. “Weather’s nice enough today, why don’t you wear one of those long-sleeved dresses? Casual Friday was still a thing last time I checked.”

You huffed out a breathy laugh, hiding your face in the safety of his shoulder. “God Javi, I’m such a mess. Are you sure you wanna move in with this?”, you asked half-joking.

“Stop that”, he groaned, lifting your chin to tangle his lips with yours. “You are the most gorgeous, smart, funny, beautiful, passionate and sexy woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Now put on that cute dress or I will throw you onto that bed and make sure you know just how riled up you get me.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, smiling as you did so, stepping out of your jeans before tiptoeing over to your wardrobe. He watched you as you slipped on the dress, fishing a pair of tights from your bottom drawer. You sat on the edge of the bed, rolling up the tights before slipping a first leg onto your foot, carefully hoisting them up, being mindful not to rip them with your longer nails.

In a passing motion, Javier vowed to rip them off of you later that same day.

In preparation of new measures, you had to sit through another couple meetings and to say they were boring, would’ve been an understatement. You and Javier sat close to one another, Steve sat on the chair between the two of you. He’d noticed you were struggling to keep up, eyes drooping as the search block just went on and on. After about an hour, a break was announced, which was much-needed. Everyone got up as you remained seated, not entirely sure of what was happening, attention span completely missing.

Steve got up as well, leaving the room to fetch some caffeinated drinks for the three of you. But Javi stayed put, scooting closer as he cautiously touched your arm. “Hey, what’s going on?”, he hovered, spinning your chair around to face him.

You stretched your arms over your head, letting out a loud yawn. “’M just sleepy.”

“I know baby, couple more hours. Why don’t you take the couch in the office during lunch?”, he suggested, leaning back in his own chair.

“Hmm, wouldn’t be fair to the two of you, really”, you sighed, standing up to stretch your legs.

He stood as well, bringing you in closer to capture your lips in short-lived kiss. “Go walk around the office for a bit, it’ll wake you up. Steve’s bringing you some of that tea.”

“Thank you Javi, you’re a hero”, you praised, dragging him down for another kiss. “Be back in ten.”

You meandered your way into the restrooms, finishing up at the sink, dunking your tingling hands under the cold water. Once dry you put your cold hands up against your neck, hoping that the temperature shock would help you out of your drowsy state. It did to a certain extent, the icy cold feel of your fingers on your warm skin making you shiver a bit.

Fuck – you craved that sweet kickstart of coffee, but even just passing by the small kitchenette, the odour was too pungent, nearly making you wretch. You nose scrunched up in revulsion, you quickened your pace, hoping to get away before any nausea could settle in. It was then you felt the familiar hot liquid tickling down your chest, letting out a yelp as it scorched your tender skin.

“Shit – are you alright ma’am?”, an unfamiliar voice sounded.

You peeled the fabric of your dress away from you, to relieve some of the heat. “That’s gonna stain”, you joked, trying to divert your attention from the burn on your skin.

“At least it’s a memorable introduction”, he chuckled, dipping his head into the kitchenette to grab a hold of the tissue box. “Stechner, Bill, I’m CIA.”

You pulled a set of tissues from the box, stuffing these between your body and dress, trying to alleviate the two, creating somewhat of a barrier. As you dabbed away you told him your name, which resulted in a raised brow. “Am I wanted or something?”, you quipped, trying to rub some of the stains out of the fabric.

“You’re partnered with Murphy and Peña, are you not?”

“That I am, speaking of which, I have a briefing to rush to”, you laughed awkwardly, the look he was giving you nothing short of unnerving.

He gave you a smirk. “I do hope we run into one another again, ma’am.”

You shivered at the comment, hastily making your way back to the conference room. They’d already picked up again, conversation in full-swing as you cracked the door open, wordlessly retaking your seat. You got some looks, no doubt because of the huge stain on your front and wide-eyes.

You certainly didn’t feel sleepy anymore. The feeling now overtaken by one of discomfort and unease as your clothes clung to you, the tissues already soaked through. Steve handed you a cup of green tea, face contorting in confusion. You made a gesture of dismissal, it clearly not being the place and time for an explanation. But the meeting was cut short as Noonan was whisked away by her assistant, clearly a matter of urgency, if not emergency.

The two men directed their attention in your direction, tilting their heads almost synchronically. “Who the fuck is Stechner and why does he hate both of you”, you demanded, clearly not amused.

“Stechner? Oh that’s all Javi. Ya see, your sweet menace of a boyfriend has had some communistic tendencies in the past”, the blonde taunted.

“Murphy. Watch your mouth”, Javier warned, throwing his friend a death-glare.

Your mouth fell open in shock and something along the lines of amusement. “You slept with a communist?”

Steve and you shared a glance, both sputtering out a string of laughter as Javier just sat there, looking up at the ceiling. “That was years ago. Now cut your bullshit, both of you. Stechner’s just an entitled asshole.”

The two of you calmed down, catching your breath as Javier grew steadily more annoyed, giving you an angry glare. “Oh come on, at least let me laugh about your hook-ups!”

Murphy clapped Javi on his back, mumbling about getting back to work as he exited the room, leaving the two of you alone once again.

“Is that why you wanna get out of that apartment, get rid of the evidence?”, you continued mocking him.

He took a few strides towards you, placing a hand on the wall beside you, towering over you. With the proximity you could feel the soft tickle of his huffs on your lips as you stared up at him. “I’m warning you, hermosa, you don’t want to go there.”

Something about his tone made it difficult for you to determine whether he was being genuine or not. For fear of aggravating him, you decided to shut up and not press on it anymore. “Lo siento cielo”, you croaked out suddenly feeling very self-aware as he brought up his other hand to rest on the opposite side of your face.

He looked you over, gaze lingering on your dress. “Mi corazón, ¿te hizo daño?“ (My heart, did he hurt you?)

Words didn’t come to you, mind overtaken by his cologne and frankly how tempting his lips looked right about now. He cleared his throat, making your eyes dart upwards. “Yeah, yeah – I mean no! No! I’m fine.”

His lips were slightly parted as he indulged in the desperate look you gave him, fingertips softly stroking your neck. “Should probably change out of that dress”, he muttered, lips ghosting over yours, “unless you need some help.”

You couldn’t help yourself as you threw yourself against him, lips painfully colliding with his in a bruising kiss. His hands found themselves on your hips, drifting towards the curve of your behind. “If you don’t stop now we’re gonna get in a lot of trouble”, you cautioned, supressing a moan as his fingers squeezed your ass.

“Cierto.. pero quítate ese vestido, estás empapada”, he groans, slipping his hands under the skirt. (True.. but you need to take that dress off, it’s soaking wet.)

You nodded fervently, pushing your hips into his, panting: “Supply closet, spare t-shirts.”

With your hand held in his, he hauled you towards said closet, making sure to be quick, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. It had to be a quickie, unless you wanted the whole office to know. So you hastily slipped the dress over your head and Javi ripped your tights down, leaving a run or four in your hose. He forcefully shoved his trousers down his hips, taking himself out of his boxers.

You sat on top of some plastic bins filled with spare supplies, legs spread as he moved to stand in between them. There was no time to be gentle, only to take the edge off. He had to lean over a bit, notching himself at your entrance before slowly pushing, bottoming out. You let out a breathy whimper, which resulted in one of his palms clasping over your mouth. His strokes grew more and more aggressive, the need to be closer to you spurring him on even more. The muffled noises you made were enticing to him, almost as if you were begging him to keep going, show you just who was to be in charge. And so he did. His pace was on the verge of brutal as he drilled into you, the metal racks behind you squeaking and rocking along in rhythm with his tempo. When you head tipped backwards and your eyes closed he knew you were close. He moved his hand to replace it with his mouth, swallowing down the sweet, filthy sounds as you hit your peak, closing your legs around him, locking him into place as he came. His lips left yours with an audible sigh, his forehead resting on your collarbone as he caught his breath.

The two of you cleaned up in the small space, stealing kisses left and right. With every sweep of his calloused fingers across your bare thighs you felt your heart flutter. But eventually, after he found you a pair of joggers that wouldn’t fall off and a t-shirt that wouldn’t be too tight you got dressed.

“How’s it look? Everything you ever hoped for?”, you joked, showing of the baggy, nonchalant outfit.

He pulled you flush against his chest, smirking before embracing you. “Muy hermosa, corazón. You head out first, I’ll bring some lunch.”

With one last peck you left the closet, trying to act as normal as possible with your ripped tights and stained dress under your arm. The post-coital lethargy mixed in with the lack of sleep soon had you struggling to stay awake again. As soon as you plopped down in your rigid desk chair you felt the familiar heaviness settle in your limbs.

“Am I really that boring?”, Steve quipped, not looking up from whatever he was reading.

You straightened up a bit, rolling your shoulders. “Sorry Murph, didn’t really sleep last night.”

“I noticed you looking a little green earlier. Take the couch, I’ll move the boxes so you can lay down”, he offered, already getting up out of his chair.

“It’s okay really, I’ll just get another cup of tea”, you ushered, knowing fully well you were expected to type a whole report by the end of the day based off of someone else’s notes.

Steve walked over to your desk, snatching the notepad out of your hands. “You’re pregnant for God’s sake, go lay down or I’ll have Noonan send you home.”

After some more bickering you’d agreed to switch tasks and that you would be reading up on previous reports and strategy proposals while he’d type the report for you. But after barely three pages your eyes just shut on their own. When Javier came back about twenty minutes later, the folder, still clutched in your hands, laid on your chest, softly rising and falling. He nodded towards his partner, gesturing for him to come grab his lunch. Meanwhile Javier sat down on the end of your couch where your feet laid, carefully placing them in his lap.

“What the fuck do you do to her?”, Steve asked jokingly.

Javier took his lunch out of the plastic bag, replying without looking up: “I dick her down.” Later he added a quiet: “like you’re supposed to.”

When by the end of lunchbreak you were still out, Javier decided to stay put. With your legs resting in his lap he grabbed a hold of the folder on your chest, starting to intently read it. It was in that moment that Steve pulled the old polaroid camera from the bottom drawer, snapping a sneaky picture as the two of you just sat there, somehow entangled with one another wherever you were.

He put the picture in his top drawer, not wanting to interrupt your little moment as Javier rubbed small circles on your ankle, sunken in thought. Today would be the deciding day, and everyone was anxiously awaiting the government’s next move. Though they all knew in the back of their heads, that no matter the decision, it wouldn’t change shit.

It was just a little past one when the news got delivered, some fellow agent sticking their head in to tell them: Escobar’s deal was accepted. La Catedral would become a reality. Javier flung the files onto the ground, tipping his head back as he heaved a disappointed sigh. All those years of chasing, murder and devastating guilt just for Escobar to get away once again.

Steve took note of his partner’s annoyance and never related more. “We’ll get him eventually. For now, we take out the smaller guys. He might’ve won this one, but the fight ain’t over yet Peña.”

Javier rubbed his chin, the other hand still resting on your ankles as he tried to keep his cool. He just couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d done, seeing the faces of those damn informants flash before his eyes with every blink. The shots he’d fired rang in his ears, making him gnash his teeth. His fingers wrapped around your leg in a bruising grip, only getting more and more forceful. You jolted awake, drawing for a weapon on your belt that wasn’t there, panting as you locked eyes with him. He promptly released his hold of your leg, instead moving to take a hold of your shoulders, steadying you.

“What happened?”, you asked, the scattered papers on the ground enough of an indication for you to know that there was something off.

His lips were pursed together in a thin line, eyes avoiding yours as you got up off the couch. “They agreed”, Steve explained.

Your mouth hung open a bit as you looked at your friend, crossing your arms in front of you as you gave an exasperated huff. “Of course they fucking did.”

The two of you went home early that day, the car ride uncomfortably silent. You’d noticed the sheer rage and resentment in the way he walked. Without a word you’d taken the keys from him, climbing into the driver’s seat. He looked out of the window the entire time, not bothering to look at the road, or you for that matter. Whatever was happening in that brain of his had a vice grip on him and you weren’t sure if he’d let you help him out.

“Do you want to get some take-out?”

He whipped his head around to face you, noting the way your fingers flexed against the leather of the steering wheel. “What now?”

“F-for dinner. Do you want take-out?”, you stuttered, feeling small under his burning gaze.

A muttered “whatever” was all you were given, his eyes once again trained on the world outside of his window.

Not wanting to elongate the duration of the drive any more, you decided against it, knowing that you had some things left in the fridge. The walk up to your apartment was equally awkward and tense. But when his key didn’t immediately turn in the lock and he banged a fist against the wall, you knew what kind of a night it would be. You gently took the piece of metal from his hand, calmly unlocking the door before letting him in.

“Javi, baby, why don’t you grab a shower while I get dinner started?”, you suggested, setting down your bag by the door.

He kicked his shoes off, humming an agreement before shuffling off towards the bed- and bathroom. When you heard the shower turn on, you felt like you could finally breathe again. You’d seen him angry before, especially when dealing with sicarios first hand, but here, in private – in the comfort of the apartment, it was somewhat unsettling. You got out of the cupboards what you needed, and started washing some veggies while turning the tv on.

When he emerged from the bedroom, loose t-shirt and jeans, damp hair, you gave him a small smile. He pressed a quick kiss to your temple on his way to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of beer. “You smell nice”, you cooed, stepping closer to him as you reached for the glass of water.

“You’d hope so after using all of that bodywash bullshit”, he grumped.

“I’ve been reading up on those pamphlets the doctor gave me”, you started, turning your head towards him, “and it says the baby is about the size of cherry now.”

He gave you a look, shrugging his shoulders before walking off with his plate. “Not really in the mood for baby-talk.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Anything you’d like to talk about?”, you tried, sitting down on the chair across from his.

He shoved a large bite into his mouth, hunching over a bit. “Nothing.”

You stopped trying after that, just finished your plate and got started on the dishes. Javier brought you his plate and went to have a seat on the couch. You rolled your eyes, scoffing softly, clearly not amused with his antics. I he wanted to be like this about it, then you weren’t going to stick around for it. So when all of the dishes were put away, you headed towards the bedroom, not bothering to talk to him.

Stepping into the bathroom, you locked the door, putting his soaked towels in the hamper. As you cleaned up the water on the floor, you ran a bath, desperately wanting to assuage your aching spine. You wanted to talk to him about, but knew better. If he wanted to talk he’d come to you about it – right? Or was he pulling some reverse psychology shenanigans, really just wanting you to talk to him? Your head was spinning by the time you lowered yourself into the warm water, a pleasurable whine leaving your lips at the contact.

Once the water got cold you got out, wrapping yourself in the fluffy towels you laid out before slipping into some softer pyjamas. You got ready for bed, seeing how you were still exhausted and treated yourself to the “nice-smelling-expensive lotion” for once. By the time you stepped into the bedroom again, door still slightly ajar, Javier was still in the living room. Seeing how it was not even seven yet, you concluded that it would be too early to go to bed and that you could catch up on some housework first. So you emptied the hamper and headed into the kitchen, basket under your arm, trying to get to the laundry room.

Javier looked up from where he laid on the couch. He was on his fifth beer by now, but craved something stronger. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, his need for relief overwhelming at that point. His fingers trembled as he went to light it, closing his eyes in relief as the nicotine hit the back of his throat.

You shut the washer’s door, punching in the right controls before heading back into the kitchen. As you walked into the living space again, you noticed the plumes of smoke trickling upwards. With your hands on your hips you cleared your throat, successfully capturing his attention. “Thought we had an agreement on those?”

“It’s just one”, he groaned, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

“Take it outside then, you have a damn sunroof, balcony and shared terrace, plenty of options”, you tutted, not putting up with his attitude.

He turned around to look at you, raising a brow at you. “Will you stop bitching already? It’s just a cigarette.”

“In case you forgot, pendejo, I’m still pregnant”, you retorted, marching over to grab a hold of the pack.

He stood up, burning cigarette pursed between his lips. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

You yanked the balcony door open, throwing the pack over the railing. “You want your precious smokes, well go fucking get them.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”, he sneered, stepping out onto the balcony.

“I think it’s better if you go home tonight”, you said in a hushed tone.

He gave you an offended look, the smoke lingering in his breath as it fanned across your face. “Over a cigarette?”

“If you don’t want to open up to me then I can’t help you”, you explained, turning away from him.

His form towered over you as he stepped closer, chests nearly touching, a stern hand on your elbow. “Open up to you? And when exactly were you ever open with me? Because last time I checked I’m not the one signing a settlement because it’s convenient.”

“Let go of me”, you ordered, glaring into his eyes.

“You’re being unreasonable”, he pressed, grip on your arm tightening.

You tried to wiggle out, whining at the intensity of his grasp. “You’re scaring me Javier, let go”, you pleaded, voice shakier than before.

“You’re gonna listen first. You’ve been down here for two years and that’s barely anything. Compared to Murphy, to me, you’ve had it easy. Let me catch you up to speed, you haven’t killed anyone, you haven’t washed someone else’s blood off of your hands. You haven’t lost anything or anyone here. You, little miss perfect, have nothing to whine about. So when your boyfriend comes home after a rough day, let him have a drink and cigarette and maybe offer to suck him off.”

Tears had started forming in your eyes. This wasn’t the Javi you knew, even at his worst, this wasn’t the agent you were familiar with. It reminded you of that night where he showed up at your apartment, before he knew you were pregnant, when he fucked you and left. It made you feel sick.

“Who are you?”, you spat, untangling yourself from him. “I’m here for you every day, loving you, hoping to make you happy and this is what I get from you?” He didn’t say anything to that, just faced away from you. “If that is how you want things to be, then you need to leave.” Your voice started faltering, the emotion taking over. “I’ll be in my bedroom, if you want to talk whatever this out, then I suggest you join me and think about what the hell you need to say very carefully.”

His head hung low as you disappeared into the apartment, the sound of your muffled sobs stinging in his chest. He hadn’t meant for it to sound that harsh or condescending. He knew perfectly well what you had been going through both in and out of the field. Truth is, he was completely out of line and felt like a complete dick. It was a defence mechanism he had yet to get rid of. Javier wasn’t used to somebody helping him just because, that’s not the way things went here in Bogotá. There was always a catch, always something, whether it was money, power or information, there was always something.

You were his girlfriend, he knew that, he just wasn’t used to it yet. You telling him to leave the apartment – your apartment at that had angered him even more and made his reaction all the worse. He tried to take those vital deep breaths, trying to figure out a way to make it up to you. He remembered you complaining that your favourite ice cream flavour was always out in the store. So he got inside, put on his jacket and shoes and headed for the shops.

When you heard the door close, you cried into your pillow. It felt like a middle finger to the face and for a moment you thought that this could be it. This could be the time that he realised he wasn’t up for this. The following twenty minutes were the most painful ones yet. You thought you were hallucinating when the door cracked open again, shuffling out of your bedroom to see Javier standing in the doorway, plastic bag in hand.

“I – I uh, I went to get some stuff, so we can talk”, he stumbled, toeing his shoes off.

You cracked a small smile at him, beckoning for him to sit down on the couch with you. He grabbed some spoons from the kitchen before joining you. As he sat down you grabbed the tub of ice cream from the bag, eyes going wide. “Oh my God, how did you-“

“I asked them to set some aside last time we went”, he confessed, cracking the lid off for you. “Seemed like a good truce.”

You sunk the first spoon into your mouth, eyes rolling back as you moaned at the taste. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

He chuckled at the sight of you devouring the creamy goods, carefully scooting a bit closer. When you didn’t try to get away he slid an arm around you, pulling you against his chest. “Lo siento por lo de esta tarde. That was way out of line, I shouldn’t have said any of that.” (I’m sorry about earlier.)

“Shut up and try this ice cream, we’ll talk after”, you tutted, shoving a spoonful in his mouth.

The two of you ate the entire tub together, often interrupting the spoon shoving for a sweet, lingering kiss. By the time the tub was empty your legs were draped over his, head resting on one of his collarbones. He was just looking at you, tenderly caressing your cheek.

“I’ve done a lot of heinous shit just to get to Escobar.. so what happened today, it just set me off. It really shouldn’t have, I try not to let it come through when I’m with you but I slipped up.” You didn’t speak or interrupt, just let him say his piece while your softly scratched at his scalp. “I slept with those informants to get crucial information, intel that helped us a long way. But I also just slept with them to get everything out of my system. And then there was you and a month after we slept together I stopped seeing the other girls, even when they’d show up at my door. But there was this girl, a sweet girl really, that was so desperate to get out of here.. it didn’t end well and I couldn’t fucking protect her.”

“Javi, baby, look at me”, you cooed, shifting to straddle his lap. “That girl did what she thought was right, she wanted to escape. It’s not your fault, you did everything you could for her.”

He rested his head against your sternum, wrapping his arms around you to have you just that tad bit closer. “I’ve killed so many people, I’ve done so much fucked up shit.”

“Javier, you’re so much more than that. I adore you, I know you’re a good man. Good people do bad things, it’s the way things go around here. That day out in the small district, you nagging about my vest? You saved my life. And what we’ve got going on, us and this baby, it’s a good thing, something you deserve, Javier.”

He pressed a kiss to the left side of your chest, close to your heart. “You’re the one thing keeping me sane.”

“I try my best”, you chuckled.

“Stop being so amazing, I can’t take it”, he joked, kissing his way up your neck.

You grabbed a hold of his face, having him look up at you. “Javier Peña, I’m in love with you and all your quirks. But if you smoke one more cigarette in this here apartment, I will kick you out.”

Taglist: @pedritomando @peterhollandkait @ophelia-ingenue @radiowallet @phoenixhalliwell @diogodxlot @rosiefridayrogersunday @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @asta-lily @the-bottom-of-the-abyss

#javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier pena #javier pena x reader #illicit limerence #imagine #narcos

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ladyonfire28 · 4 years ago

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Adèle Haenel: "And the fight against racism, is that a black thing?" (March 1, 2016)

Her raw talent and her unique personality are shaking up French cinema. With two Césars in her pocket, the actress from Les Combattants became an icon of auteur cinema in Les Ogres and soon with the Dardenne brothers. Interview with a thoughtful and shady feminist.

The first vision we have of Adèle Haenel when we enter the hotel room, where she has just been photographed, is that of a tall girl in denim and worn-out suede boots looking for cotton to remove her make-up. She says that it's too much, that it's not her, that we have to take it all away - this sticky femininity - and right away.

She announces her color: strong, fierce, temperamental, a little prickly, when, during the interview, she frowns and throws your questions back to you - always with great relevance. She is beautiful and abrupt, her adolescent brusqueness (even though she is 27 years old), gives the impression of robustness: a sportswoman with the shoulders of a swimmer but the face of a femme fatale from the inter-war period, green eyes and a pulpy mouth. This is an unprecedented combination in French cinema, which tends to be dominated by young first-time coquettes looking for contracts with luxury brands. We have never seen Adèle H. at the front row of fashion shows, her appearances on the red carpet - the playground of her fellow female cast members - did not stick in our memories, and that's good.

We've been keeping an eye on her since Water Lilies (2007), by Céline Sciamma, to whom she declared her love at a César Award ceremony. She won two of them, hands down: for Suzanne, and then, last year, for Les Combattants, an emblematic film that created a new image of a virile heroine in French cinema. Adèle Haenel, an icon of auteur cinema, was thrown at the heart of the system: she is the most coveted actress of the moment and has just finished in Liège The Unknown Girl, by the Dardenne brothers, who will inevitably be screened again at the next Cannes Film Festival.

You have to hear her talk about cinema, with her eyes fixed and uninterrupted flow, to understand how incandescent this girl is. In Les Ogres, a choral film by Léa Fehner that talks about the daily life of an itinerant theater that performs Chekhov, she plays Mona, actress and pregnant. The diary of this tribe that travels from city to city, a tent on their back, also draws a universal portrait of actors, truculent monsters full of love and violence.

Madame Figaro - Since the success of Les Combattants, you intrigue people...

Adèle Haenel. - I can see that the demand is stronger, but I'm not chasing after advertising and I don't intend to invade the public space. I think we have to remain discreet. Notoriety hasn't changed anything in my life and it certainly won't change my desire to make films following the same line.

What is that line ?

I make a film to carry a message. I can feel when a director has something to say. I feel something, a desire, a vibration. There is a thread, an intuition, a truth that imposes itself on me. I know what I have to do, I can feel it. It is both mystical and very rational. What is interesting is to come out of a navel-gazing, to rise up, to talk about people, to talk about the world. I like the idea that everything fits together collectively: feelings, economics, politics. A film is a common story, and I want to be part of that dialogue. A film must be in direct resonance with its time: cinema is today. I do things for now, and it's not up to me, to us, to decide whether a film is going to stay, whether it's made for eternity. I feel extremely responsible.

You feel very inhabited when you talk about cinema...

I have many other reasons to live, but, yes, I am deeply interested in the representation of things. How does cinema fit into society? Who is it for? Cinema is obviously a political act. For example, even the latest Star Wars is political. I was really relieved to see so many women and different skin colors: it means that everyone can be a hero and that feels good.

It is said that in the movies women are taking over...

It's an evergreen content. They make a big deal out of it, but if you look at the numbers, it's not so true: women are still in the minority. I can't be satisfied with that.

Do you feel the prevailing machismo that is associated with cinema?

I'm not going to waste my time and energy educating these people.

Is it easier to succeed in this job when you are a man?

Your question is a strange one. Either we point out superficial phenomena - the decision-makers are men, they have the money and therefore the power - or we debate a broader question: in what world are we evolving? And there, it's always the same thing. The world is cut in two: on the one hand, there is the man, the virile, all linked to superior qualities, and on the other hand, the lower part, the woman, the secret, the moods. Of course, all our representation is linked to this division. I often ask myself the following question: in a fair world, without discrimination, what is art? Art today is in dialogue with its time, so it does not abolish anything but is involved in the fight.

As we can't classify you, you have been labeled as virile...

I'd like someone to explain to me why people should always be defined. To be a woman, you would have to be a feminine woman, right? For me, it's redundant. I don't maintain any posture, I am myself. But the way people look at me doesn't bother me: make up your mind, there's no problem.

However, you embody a renewal at the antipodes of actresses on their first red carpets...

I don't know which ones you are talking about, but I will never be against other propositions from women. After all, they also are undoubtedly dealing with their inner truth. But then again, I don't want to comment on something that escapes me completely: the gaze of others. I realize that everything is complicated for actresses who are so solicited that they end up participating, willingly or unwillingly, in a kind of general cacophony.

Are you one of those ogresses that Léa Fehner describes in her film?

I've just eaten about twenty-five croissants, isn't that a clue? In Léa's film, there is an energy close to the one in Les Combattants: action as a solution to an era in crisis. Here, it's laughter and gluttony facing a personal anxiety and an era that values suffering. I think we need to wake people up, to make them understand that fatality is a terrible and disarming discourse. We are told that the planet is warming up, that people are being massacred, that entire populations are on the move. I am not saying that we are not powerless against this, but feeling concerned and responsible is already a first step towards action.

Are actors monsters?

I don't know and I don't care. I'm not here to tell people: I'm like this, I'm like that, I'm better than you. I don't have to deal with that. Why me? I don't know.

Yes, why you and not someone else? Actor, it's an elective profession...

What is an actor? Their hypersensitivity should not be overestimated. The key is courage. That's the most difficult thing, courage and sincerity: not hiding, committing yourself with what you have, with your face and your body, with everything, with no escape. We often say: "To be an actor is to be someone else" but above all, you have to accept being yourself. It's not the most well-balanced job on earth, but a healthy actor would be weird, wouldn't it?

Precisely, you are sometimes compared to... Depardieu.

There are worse critics. What I like about him is his poetic sensitivity, which is not fake at all. You can sense his love of texts. And then, come on, what an incredible freedom of acting!

Can you play everything?

I don't know. What I do know is that the feeling of comfort is dangerous. It would turn us into a small factory. As soon as I start a film, I don't sleep anymore. The first scenes are hell.

Is shooting naked a problem?

It annoys me. In all films, there's this double injunction from society or the audience: we actresses are asked to get naked but to feel guilty about it! But no guys, I'm not going to feel guilty so you can be fully satisfied that I hold this assigned place of the whore and the well-bred girl! The commitment I make when I make a movie is much bigger than that.

Your feminist side...

I don't have a feminist side, I'm a feminist simply because I want to exist.

Today, not all women are feminists…

So feminism is a girl thing, then? And the fight against racism is a black thing? It's not a power struggle or lobbying, it's not Pepsi against Coke. No, it's a fundamental question about humanity.

#adèle haenel #adele haenel #madame figaro #2016 #it's been a while since my last interview translation !#i've always loved that interview #don't think it was translated before but who knows aha #here you go anyway !#sometimes i translate things #les ogres

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dweetwise · 4 years ago

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a short one this time, ft. a lighthearted breakfast together <3

ship: felix x ace warnings: none word count: 2350

[previous] [next]

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire (part 4)

Ace had a pretty good feeling about this morning.

He'd tried to slip away gracefully to avoid the awkward morning after, but Felix had stopped him. In Ace’s opinion, getting in some silly chatter and morning cuddles was much preferable to a walk of shame before the sun was even fully up. At the very least, it beat going to his room to start the day with a shot of gin from the mini bar like he’d originally planned.

Felix had seemed much more relaxed this morning, though he was still awkward; at this point, Ace just accepted it as part of his charm.

Suggesting to get breakfast together was a spur-of-the-moment idea—as if Ace ever had any other ones. As soon as the opportunity to spend time with Felix in a casual setting where Ace didn’t smell like week-old-liquor presented itself, Ace took it, and Felix happily accepted.

Which is why Ace wasn’t really nervous when returning to his room to get more presentable. He even had time to start cleaning his messy room in preparation for Felix's visit for tonight, because after only a quick shower and even quicker internal debate between two different shirts, Ace was ready to go.

And from the way Felix's gaze immediately drops to said shirt, he seems to have made the right choice.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Ace offers with a grin, pleased with picking the navy blue button-up with a pineapple print.

It's cute how quickly Felix's nervous demeanor seems to calm down in Ace’s company. He goes from tense and running a hand through his hair to smiling in just a second, whatever he was fretting about momentarily forgotten.

“I was worried I'd be late,” Felix says, stepping into the elevator and coming to stand way closer to Ace than is appropriate.

But this time, they don't have an audience that would make it awkward.

“You really do worry way too much,” Ace offers with a carefree smile.

“I've been told that,” Felix smiles sheepishly, before his eyes are drawn downward, to the second button of Ace's shirt that he deliberately left unbuttoned.

Following suit, Ace lets his own gaze roam appreciatively over Felix's outfit, a sadly not as tight tee with a tasteful, open vest and snugly fitting washed denim jeans. His hair is loose and looks even softer than it was in the morning.

All in all, he looks extremely kissable.

“I like the look,” Ace says, meeting Felix's eyes. And if he tilts his head up in silent invitation, nobody can prove it.

“Me too,” Felix says, returning a small smile, before flustering. “I mean—your look. The outfit,” he explains.

And somehow, the awkward floundering makes him even more kissable.

Sadly, the elevator ride isn't infinite, and they arrive at the lobby floor before Ace can instigate a make-out session.

“Shall we?” Ace offers with a smile.

“After you,” Felix agrees, oh-so-polite.

They give their room numbers at the restaurant counter, and then are off to the breakfast hall that’s somewhat crowded despite the late hour. Ace isn't surprised that people decided to sleep in after the rude wake-up in the middle of the night, but the crowd does make it somewhat of an annoying experience.

Luckily, he has company to keep him entertained while they wait in line.

Felix trails after him, which Ace doesn't mind in the slightest, but it's only when the German stops in front of the cereal section and looks at him meaningfully that Ace cocks his head in confusion.

“You were supposed to help me pick,” Felix says, deadly serious.

Ace tries not to laugh that Felix seemed to take his earlier invitation literally. He really shouldn’t be surprised at the man’s quirks anymore.

And that's how Ace ends up improvising a three-minute lecture about why corn flakes are superior to muesli.

“I see,” Felix says, nodding in understanding, reaching for the cereal—

And choosing muesli.

“Hey!” Ace exclaims, mock offended. “Didn't you listen to any of what I just said?”

“Yes. I just don't agree,” Felix says, way too nonchalant, spooning the cereal onto his bowl. “I like this one better.”

“It has raisins!” Ace exclaims, flabbergasted.

“I like raisins,” Felix points out.

“Oh, babe,” Ace sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “And here I thought you had taste.”

Ace quickly peeks back up at Felix, needing to make sure he didn't take the joke personally.

“Shut up,” Felix snorts, elbowing Ace. “Come on, let's go argue about juice next.”

After a brief conversation about juice ("Who the hell drinks apple juice!?" "I don't like the texture of orange pulp") followed by going through the rest of the breakfast selection together, Ace discovers that Felix is an incredibly picky eater.

When they sit down at a table, the difference between his and Felix's servings is hilariously prominent.

Felix's plate holds two pieces of toast, a fried egg and some sliced fruit, compared to Ace's overflowing plate featuring 90 % of the entire breakfast selection.

Usually Ace wouldn’t care about other people’s eating habits, but the knowledge makes him a little nervous about their dinner.

“Really adventurous with the white toast, I see,�� Ace teases.

“At least I don't have bacon with pancakes,” Felix shoots back.

“I ran out of room on my plate!” Ace protests, but Felix only smirks behind his cup of coffee. “So, what kind of food do you like?” Ace prods, digging into his meal.

“I don't really have a preference,” Felix says diplomatically.

But Ace can smell the bullshit a mile away.

“Really?” Ace asks, raising an eyebrow. “So you wouldn't mind if I picked the place for dinner tonight?" he teases, only to realize something. “Uh… we're still on for that, right?”

“I hope so,” Felix says, smiling bashfully.

"Good, just checking!" Ace grins. "Well, since you're not picky… how about a Mexican place? What about sushi? Or an oyster bar?”

Predictably, Felix cringes at his suggestions.

“I'm… not great with spices or raw fish,” Felix admits.

“Or?” Ace pushes.

“Steak, shrimp, mushrooms, tofu, kebab, or greasy food in general,” Felix lists and Ace tries not to look too confused at how someone can so nonchalantly rule out entire food groups.

“What about Italian?” Ace asks.

“I don't like pizza, either,” Felix says apologetically.

“I'm not taking you to a pizza place for a first date!" Ace protests, while simultaneously trying to figure out how someone can not like pizza. "I was wondering how you feel about pasta or risotto?”

“That…” Felix considers. “Actually sounds nice.”

“Italian it is!” Ace grins victoriously. “I'll find a nice restaurant, just leave it to me.”

“Alright,” Felix says with a small smile.

“Now…” Ace says, realizing he's been running his mouth instead of actually eating. “Excuse me while I stuff my mouth with bacon pancakes.”

Felix huffs out a quiet laugh before following his example.

They eat in silence, or as much relative silence as a bustling dining hall allows. Ace does his best to not eat like a pig, feeling Felix’s stare on him as the other sneaks glances. After not having had any food for 24 hours, Ace is kind of surprised he didn't pass out in the parking lot, especially after the bright idea to have a few drinks on an empty stomach.

“So, how…” Ace trails off mid-sentence as he suddenly notices a couple of pigtails sticking up right beside him, narrowly missing the kid’s head when he reaches for his coffee.

“Good morning!” the kid, a little girl, beams up at him.

“Uh, hey there,” Ace says, a little taken aback at why this random child is approaching him.

“Hello,” Felix jumps into the conversation, getting the girl’s attention. “We meet again.”

Ace shoots Felix a weird look; does he know the kid?

“Did you remember to give him your number?” the girl asks Felix, tilting her head in curiosity.

A grin spreads over Ace’s face in realization, while Felix only clears his throat self-consciously. Ace didn’t really pay much attention to their company in the elevator last night, but the girl clearly remembers them.

“He did, yeah,” Ace says, shooting Felix a smug look over the table.

“Good,” the girl huffs, before turning back to Felix. “You need to stop being so forgetful, mister!” she accuses, hands on her hips.

Ace bites his lip to stop from chuckling as Felix flounders for an excuse to this sassy eight-year-old.

“You’re right,” Felix settles on. “It was silly of me, I’ll try to do better.”

While Felix is talking, the kid seems to get distracted, standing up on her tiptoes to peer into Felix’s now empty cereal bowl.

“What did you eat?” the girl asks, like a typical nosey kid.

“I had some yogurt with muesli,” Felix explains, way more patient than Ace would be in his situation.

“Do you like Froot Loops?” the kid asks.

As Felix calmly explains that the cereal in question isn’t his favorite, Ace starts discreetly scanning the room for the girl’s mother. He tolerates kids just fine, but he’d rather not have one ruin his unofficial date with Felix. Hopefully, the girl isn’t lost or something—

“There you are!” a woman appears from the crowd and gives the kid an exasperated look, Ace distantly recognizing her from the elevator last night.

“Hi mom!” the girl interrupts her cereal debate with Felix to greet the woman.

“I’m so sorry, I swear she was right behind me a second ago—” the woman glances at Ace and Felix apologetically, steering her daughter away with a hand on her small shoulders.

“No worries,” Ace defuses with a smile. “Kids, huh?”

“Always getting into trouble,” the woman agrees with a sigh, grabbing the girl’s hand. “Come on now, let’s go back to our table.”

“Bye, misters!” the girl calls.

“Goodbye,” Felix offers, and even Ace forces a smile and wave as the pair disappear into the rush of the dining hall.

“So, you got any kids?” Ace asks, having noticed how patient Felix was with the girl.

“No, I… maybe in another life,” Felix says, sounding melancholy, and Ace realizes there's probably more to that story. “Um. You?” Felix asks, clearly not wanting to elaborate.

“Nah,” Ace says. “I have a niece, though. She's a real demon. Great kid.”

“That sounds accurate,” Felix says, smiling. And somehow, Ace gets the overwhelming feeling Felix would be a great dad. “At least she has an interesting uncle.”

“Oh, you don't know the half of it!” Ace grins, taking the opportunity to tell Felix about some of his more memorable moments with his niece.

All too soon, they finish the last of their breakfasts and Ace offers to walk Felix to his room.

“Thanks for the company,” Ace says when they’re coming up to Felix’s door.

“You as well,” Felix says.

“See you tonight?”

“I'll call you,” Felix promises. “I should be available around five."

“Can't wait,” Ace grins.

Felix turns to his door, but then almost instantly whips back around to face Ace. His gaze flicks obviously to Ace's lips as he swallows.

“I have an hour before I need to leave for my meeting,” Felix says. “If you want…”

Ace's gut flutters at the implications, but then he remembers he has things to do. Though he'd much rather make out with Felix than go find a fence or shady pawn shop that will buy his shit, now is not the time.

“Sorry babe, I've got some errands to run,” Ace says good-naturedly, pretending not to see how Felix deflates in disappointment.

“I see,” Felix says.

“I'll make it up to you later,” Ace promises.

“It's okay, I should prepare for my presentation anyway,” Felix says, and upon the mention of his work, instantly seems more tense.

“Well, good luck with your work thingy. I'll be waiting to hear from you!” Ace says with fake cheer.

“Right,” Felix says, reaching for his door. “See you later.”

When the door closes in front of his face, Ace can practically feel the anxiety radiating from within the room. Ace really has his hands full, if he's going to get the guy to relax and forget about his work like he promised.

In the next thirty minutes, Ace ends up turning his own hotel room upside down while he scours it for valuables. He finds the watch he was looking for, as well as an earring behind the headboard, and some spare poker chips in one of his jacket's pockets.

He can’t help but smirk as he runs his fingers over the poker chips; it looks like destiny is trying to point him in the direction of the casino after all. And who is he to deny fate? After all, it's what brought him this far.

Ace thinks back to a couple months ago, where he—or well, his alias, Diego Sanchez—had still been living a somewhat stable life. Over the course of a year, he’d managed to pick up a few part-time jobs to fund poker tournaments and talk himself into more than a couple of loans. But as with most things, Ace had gotten too cocky, and his associates had figured out he wouldn’t be able to pay back the debts he owed.

At this point, uprooting his life and starting over was something Ace was very familiar with. For the last few weeks, he’d been motel-hopping across the country, having shaken the debt collectors off his trail while he tried to figure out the next place to settle down—at least for a little while.

Meeting Felix was just the kind of morale boost he needed right now. Even as Ace opens his wallet and finds a whopping two dollars among the handful of stolen credit cards, he knows he’s going to be okay.

He grabs his things and throws on a blazer along with shades and a hat; even if he should be safe, it doesn't hurt to protect his identity.

Finally, he heads out into the city, with an agenda of restaurant, pawn shop, and casino.

#riconti #ace visconti #felix richter #dbd fanfic #dweetwrites #dbd #dead by daylight #felix x ace

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bowieandqueen11 · 5 years ago

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Inconvenience / Bill Denbrough Imagine

Request: Hiii! I’m very sorry for the bother but could you please write a story where Bill’s girlfriend has self-esteem issues so Pennywise uses this against her (like telling her she was ugly, etc.) but Bill comes with reassuring words? Thank you! ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Ahh anon and all my lovely readers you are beautiful! <3

Writer’s block has been kicking my ass this week, so as always, comments are much appreciated!

The lobby of Derry’s townhouse is classy in the most classless way possible. It has all the corporate taste for luxury items, but something seemed off, as if the furniture was taken from a different realm. There are flowers, beautiful, the perfect shade of orange to compliment the woody hues and creams. On closer inspection their stamens have been pulled to prevent even the pollen disturbing the perfect sheen on the mahogany pedestal tables. There’s a faint smell that makes your nose crinkle as you sit down on the bottom step of the staircase, a sort of nursing home smell, the floor carpet a decade too old and with an old fashioned pattern of large flowers interrupted by worn and thread-bare patches. The large windows should allow a lot of light through, yet the heavy drapes and Derry dirt on the panes leaves it dull to the point of darkness.

Sighing slightly, you close your eyes, wishing the rest of the guys would hurry up and come back. You missed your husband, you missed your friends, and you didn’t want to be alone right now. Having found your artefact, you just wanted to get all this over with.

Lost in your own thoughts, squeezing your eyes shut as they flicker behind your eyelids, desperately trying to remember at least some things from your childhood, some things before the fight between Bill and Richie, before you had killed the clown and Bill had kissed you for the first time-

Slam

‘Bill, honey, is that you?’

You hear slow footsteps coming down the stairs as you cradle your head in your hands, a smile gracing your face as the footsteps became heavier, became closer.

They sounded like Bill’s boots.

‘Hon, you didn’t tell me that you were in the bedroom the whole time! When did you get back?’

Feeling two powerful, thick hands dig into your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin, you lean back a little with a small groan, shivering at the feel of his warm breathe wafting across your cheek, his chest broad and hard against your sore back.

You stop when you hit something soft, something tufty tickling your neck as a pointed chin hits the top of your head. Opening your eyes, your breathe starting to come out in short gasps as you fall down off the stairs and hit your head off the opposite door, scrambling on your hands and feet out of the way, desperate to get away from the white gloved claws that left welts in your skin.

‘Did B-Billy leave you here all by yourself Y/N? It’s because he doesn’t care about you; they all know why. Of all the Losers, you have always been the biggest failure. It’s because you’re ugly, Y/N, it’s because no one wants to look at you, isn’t that right-’

‘Shut up, just shut up. You’re not real! None of this is real!’

Finally letting out a gasping scream, the air being knocked out of your lungs again as your back cracks against the wall, your fingernails fill with blood as they scrape against the ground, the Clown grabbing your ankle and dragging you closer to his leering face, his gasping laughter filling the empty air as he enjoys the way you shuffle your thighs away from the blank darkness that seems to seep around you and swallow you whole. He smiles; a mouth only used to mask cruelty, one that only twitches upwards when deception is achieved.

‘Go back to the freak show, Y/N!’, he snarled. ‘Even the circus doesn’t want you!’

His face was mottled crimson, his eyes popped as he drooled down onto your skin. His words were spat out with the ferocity and rapidity of machine gun fire. Without wiping the spit from your ashen face you leaned closer, perfectly composed and uttered just three words, ‘I don't care.’

Kicking him hard in the face, you managed to escape from his grasp, running out of the door and slamming it harsh behind you, covering it with your arms. After a moment, your legs give out and you fall onto the pavement, your muscles shaking with fear.

Your eyes drip with tears. The walls, the walls that hold you up, make you strong just... collapse. Moment by moment, they fall. Salty drops fall from your chin, drenching your shirt, your heart raw as you raise a shivering hand to your mouth, biting down onto your thumb until it draws coppery blood, and that’s when you begin laughing: hysteric, unstoppable, uncontrollable laughter that rumbles against your whole chest and just makes the tears pour harder.

‘Holy s-shit, y/n, what the hell h-happened? Are you alright?’

Wiping your eyes roughly, you sniffle with one final giggle as you look up into the orange sky, the light illuminating in soft rays the grey fringe of your husband as he drops Silver onto the road, a look of shock on his face as he runs over and falls onto his knees next to you. His plaid shirt, the green and blue one that you bought him for his twentieth birthday is warm and familiar against your arm as it wraps around you, and you pull the thread of it absentmindedly as he waits for you to speak.

‘H-hey.’

‘H-hi’, he says, with a desperate, hoarse laugh. He then begins to laugh again as you struggle up into his arms, your head thumping against his chest. It was comforting, feeling his heartbeat, and as you draw your fingers up over his denim thigh, running it up his naval to finally rest against his heart, he knows something’s up.

‘It was the c-clown, wasn’t it. That b-b-bast-’

‘I don’t want to talk about it Bill, I just want you.’

‘Look, we need to t-talk about it Y/N, b-because I know y-your fears, r-remember, because I know you better than you know yourself.’

His hands grasp at your face delicately, trying to wipe away as many unwanted tears as he can reach with his thumbs before settling for grasping your hands tightly, littering each knuckle with soft peppering kisses. You snuggle your head as far into his chest as you physically can, your eyes squeezing shut as you feel him pull you tighter, a thick sigh emitting into the air as the only sound that surrounds you two is the quiet buzz of cars passing by. He leans down, his fringe covering your face as he rests his chin against the top of your head, his hands running gently up and down the curve of your spine in tingly circles, his face blank and eyes closed as he just rests there, tired and frustrated to see his love so upset and he wasn’t there to help. He gazes down softly, his doe eyes tender and light as he smiles to himself, tapping softly against your thighs as a sign for you to lay them against his lap. As you do, he wraps your legs around the denim of his waist, his face nuzzling into the soft curve of your neck, his breath hot and brushing against your skin as he whispers,

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You’re so beautiful, so beautiful, and I’m a fool for not telling you enough. God, I love you so much, you are ethereal, Y/N, you are so so incredible and I’ve loved you every single day of my damn life.’

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ctionalyarns · 4 years ago

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Textile production is India's second major economic industries

About the quota before the end of the market share of polyester yarn for EPDM Indian textiles set too high, but industry leaders and analysts say India is not competitive for the future and prepare for surge in demand. From January 1, 2005 onwards, all WTO member countries will be lifted all restrictions on textiles and clothing, it will produce low-cost countries, paving the way for large.Widely expected that China will occupy 50% of U.S. apparel import market, China in 2002 in the U.S. apparel import market share is 15%. The world textile market, 400 billion U.S. dollars, experts said that India will soon increase its market share doubled to 6%. Analysts estimate that, in order to keep up with demand in the next 5-6 years, the Indian textile industry needs 1.4 trillion rupees (310 million) investment.Big manufacturers Arvind Mills and Raymond India Company, and the benign operating companies such as Welspun India, has expanded production capacity, improve the export plan last year, rapid growth of their market share. India's largest denim factory Arvind's market share increased by more than 75%, while India's largest fabric market share in factory Raymond grew by over 80%.

Textile manufacturer Welspun's sales doubled.Khandwala's Sunil Agarwal said, "Our textile and apparel exports to nearly 70% of the quota countries, so we can expect after the abolition of quotas on exports of Indian goods. But in the last 10 years, India's market share of almost no growth Therefore, we can not blindly optimistic. "EU in 2001 and 2003, imports of Chinese textiles and clothing almost doubled, partly due to the quota since 1994, gradually be removed.U.S. textile manufacturers have been lobbying the Government to set up a new China textile and apparel import tariffs, while the EU is imported from China to develop a special monitoring system. India has rich raw materials, low cost and skilled labor advantages, these advantages lead to foreign buyers can not rely entirely on China.New Delhi hoped that by 2010 the scale of annual exports of textiles increased to 50 billion U.S. dollars, is now more than four times. But analysts said that to achieve this goal, large enterprises must enhance the value chain, healthy businesses should work to high-end market, small business should be to consolidate market share.

Textile production is India's second major economic industries, second only to agriculture, nearly 35 million workers. India has one billion population.Textile industry in a few large integrated companies, as well as hundreds of small companies, large companies with multinational clients, small companies rely heavily on quotas and trade protection policies was able to survive. Analysts said that many smaller companies will be shuffling out. Some companies may scale up, but they will face tremendous price pressure, the profit will be reduced.Ranmond company will invest 1 billion rupees in the suit, trousers, formal suits and denim clothing production, will invest 1.27 billion rupees in denim production, plans to raise annual output to 30 million meters, to become India's second largest denim fabric manufacturer. World's fifth largest towel manufacturer Welspun's production capacity more than doubled. It produces towels, bathrobes and bed linens, nearly 90% of exports to the U.S., major retailers, including Wal-Mart, JC Penney, and Shopko stores.

#polyester yarn for EPDM

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shawnpetermuffins · 5 years ago

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Pictured with You (iv.)

A/n: I got super excited writing this let me just tell you.

Summary: Shawn gets a little too excited after a show and Andrew has to pull him aside before things go too far

Warnings: none

Word count: 1.9k a little shorter than the last 2 sorry

***

This show is insane! The energy of the arena is almost tangible, it's so amazing. I've never felt so at peace while at the same time so off the walls. If I knew I wouldn't break anything, I would probably jump off stage and into the crowd, or maybe do a backflip. But we all know I physically can't do that. And after what happened last time I jumped off a stage, I'd like to refrain from becoming a meme again.

And y/n is definitely feeling it too, because every time I throw a glance her way, she's smiling, even when she's holding the camera up to her face, snapping pictures of me and then the crowd too. I'm grateful that she does that, it's always fun to look back on when I'm on break, missing the tour life. I asked her one night, early on during tour, why she does that.

"I did yearbook in high school. My teacher was all about candids and reactions. Especially during games and stuff, she wanted to have crowd reactions. I think I just found a special kind of appreciation for them. And now it's just something I always get; it's second nature. She's really the reason I fell so in love with photography."

I thought it was cute that she started doing what she does because of her yearbook teacher. The idea of it just fills me with happiness, because she's told me before how much she struggled emotionally in school and it makes my heart happy to know that she found her escape.

And I can hardly take my eyes off her during my - what the fans love to call - emotionally raw performance of Why. But if she noticed, she doesn't show it. She's in work mode, and I should be too. But I mean every word spilling from my lips.

We want each other, no one will break first.

I wish that I could tell you that you're all that I want.

The post show adrenaline is one I wish I could have contained. But I'm still bouncing around to release what's still left in me while we all gather in the green room. The band is buzzing, talking about how great Zubin's solo was or how Mike absolutely killed it with the intro. But I'm not talking. My eyes are focused on the door. Brian and Cez walk in and clap my shoulders.

"Bro, that was amazing! You fucking killed it out there!" Brian squeezes my shoulders and I manage to smile widely at him.

"Thanks, man. It was… better than any show I've ever done." But I don't say anything after that because I'm waiting for y/n. Ready to engulf her in my sweaty embrace that she claims she hates, but I know she secretly loves. But she's taking so long to get back here. She's usually one of the first because she fully follows me to get more photos. But I'm looking around and the two people missing are her… and Connor.

I know I shouldn't think anything of it because she's not mine - she's her own person and she can do whatever she wants. But my mind still betrays me thinking of all the things that she and Connor could have done before this tour - what they still could be doing. And I think that's why I do what I do when she finally enters the room, our friend right behind her.

She smiles when she sees me and instead of just going to wrap my arms around her in the most innocent hug that I could possibly give, because I'm aware for everyone (especially Andrew and Cez) watching our every move, I pick her up and spin her around.

She lets out a surprised squeal, but her arms still enclose around me, her head buried into my neck, covering up her giggles that make me weak. "Well hello to you, too, rockstar. What was that?" She asks when I set her back down, but I don't answer.

I push a strand of hair out of her eyes and hold on to either side of her face. I don't give myself a chance to second guess my actions because within a second my lips are on hers and I'm pulling her closer to my body. She doesn't react at first, but then she's kissing me back and I can feel how awkward it is for her because she's still holding her camera in the hand that's reaching for my sweat glistening bicep. Not to mention everyone's eyes are no doubt on us now, as if they weren't already before.

Neither of us want to pull away and I'm teasing her bottom lip with my tongue when I'm wanked back by the collar of my tank top. Andrew doesn't stop pulling until we're in the dressing room. "What the hell was that?" He asks, slamming the door behind us.

But I'm too focused on the way she felt against me, how soft she was. I'm smiling like an idiot in the mirror, my fingertips tracing my mouth, red and swollen from her lips. "Shawn!"

I, at last, look at him, my smile fading. "What?"

"You said there was nothing going on. You said that nothing would go on. I trusted your judgement on hiring another friend because Brian has worked out so well. But this is unacceptable! You can't be with y/n, she works for you!"

"I'm not with her, Andrew! It was -"

"It was what, Shawn? Because that wasn't a friendly kiss. You two have been flirting like crazy for months. You think I don't know about what happens on the bus? Or about your late night milkshake dates? I saw her wearing your hoodie. This is more than just a friendship, and you know I'm right."

"Don't use my own lyrics against me! I know, what I'm doing, Andrew. Just let it go."

"I can't just 'let it go.' This compromises the entire aspect of tour."

"How?" I throw my hands up, "How does it affect you in any way? It's not your love life!"

"You promised me when we hired her that nothing was going to happen. Do you remember that? We were in my office and before I could even ask you if you had feelings for her you said that nothing was going to happen. Remember?" He pushes his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Well now we're three months in you're kissing her in front of everyone! This wasn't just a private thing that happened one night in a hotel room that you can just brush under the rug like nothing happened. You did this in front of the entire team!"

"Okay! I get it!" I run my hands roughly through my hair, "I messed up! Is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry that it happened in front of you, but I'm not sorry I kissed her."

"Shawn."

"I'm not. I wanted to. And if you weren't yelling at me right now, I would kiss her again and again and again." I say, a defiant smirk playing at the corners of my mouth.

He let out a deep breath, "Okay, listen. I understand that it's your life and you can do what you want with it. But let me make myself clear. She works for you. That's what she's here to do. She's not here to work you. But you want to hook up? Fine, hook up. But when this ultimately gets too messy - because you know it will - Don't come to me begging for a new photographer. She's gonna stay and it's going to be the most unpleasant remainder of tour ever. You got that?"

"What happened to 'we don't want to lose another photographer'? Knowing that we won't get rid of her if this happens only makes me want her that much more."

"Jesus Christ." He shakes his head. "You're twenty-two, Shawn. Okay? Think about this. I know being a pop star at a young age kind of cut you off from going and hoeing around. But at this point in the game, you need to decide if you want her just because she's here and it's easy. Or if you want her because you genuinely think your relationship could go somewhere. We've worked so hard on your image and for seven years of work to go down the drain because you can't keep it in your pants? I won't have that. The label won't have that. But you know the second something happens with y/n, the fans will talk. The media will get a hold of it. It'll be everywhere in just days and you won't even have muttered a word about it." He claps my shoulder. "You might be used to them watching your every move, but you're bringing another person into the spotlight, who very clearly loves being behind it. So think about that. Hook up, don't hook up. That's up to you. But do something that's going to benefit both of you. Because I'd hate to see her get hurt."

"What about me?"

Andrew scoffs with a sad smile on his face, "You're the one doing the hurting."

---

I may or may not have been avoiding having to spend too much time alone with y/n this past week. Neither of us have said a word about the kiss, not that I expected her to bring it up anyway.

But just because I haven't been around her, doesn't mean I haven't been watching her. (And no, I don't mean this in a creepy way. I just mean I pay attention. I want to make sure she's doing okay.) She's isolated herself, so it seems. I haven't seen her around Connor as much either, and while it makes me happy to see her finally create some distance from him, I know that the cause of the distance is me and that hurts a little. But what hurts even more is that this morning when I was going through my suitcase to find something to wear, I found that hoodie I let her wear when we got our milkshakes. I hold it up to my nose and sigh loudly; it smells like her - clean with just slightest hint of sweet, vanilla definitely.

My phone buzzes from the bed and I shuffle over to it, still only in my boxers.

Drinks at a bar up the street. You down???

I read over Brian's text three times before responding.

Who's going?

The reply is almost immediate.

Almost everyone. Andrew and Cez are out. Already in bed. Bring y/n?

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I don't know if she want to talk to me or not, but I'm pulling clothes on as fast as I can. Black jeans - of course - the hoodie I just threw on the bed. And a denim jacket over that.

Give me ten minutes. We'll meet you in the lobby.

I'm rocking back and forth outside her room. With a final deep breath, I knock on the door, my eyes closed. I'm not waiting more than ten seconds before she comes into view, still in her jeans from earlier, but now an old t-shirt swallows her frame. Looking just as beautiful now as she does every time I see her.

"Shawn, what are - what are you doing here?" Her arms cross over her middle, shielding herself, no doubt.

"We're going out for drinks. You coming?"

***

Tags: @curlyshawny @shawns-badreputation @anamariel2301 @turtoix @tomshufflepuff @ivegotparticulartaste @bbellbagel @dino-16-avocado @sleepybesson

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horrorsleazetrash · 6 years ago

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MURDERERS I HAVE KNOWN.

By Tom Leins

The first time I see Lucius Lamont he is wearing a nylon stalking mask and a pair of greasy jeans. There is a snail-trail of fresh semen down his right leg. At best, he looks like Tailgunner centrefold material on a particularly bad month. At worst, he looks like the kind of guy who advertises his services at the back of the magazine, and ends up handcuffing you to a radiator and stealing your wallet. Hell, what do I know? I only buy it for the fucking articles…

My claw hammer craters the nylon when he opens the door, and I bundle him into the dingy hallway, away from the prying eyes of the other sheltered accommodation shit-bags. The sagging floorboards feel as soft as shit beneath my boots. I kick him down the dank passage and he moans like a fat hooker, curling into a foetal ball on the exposed wood.

I don’t see the switchblade until it is wedged between my ribs, turning my sweaty t-shirt the colour of cheap lipstick. He laughs, but through the mangled bone and fabric it sounds like someone wanking into a verruca sock. Me? I don’t have too much to fucking laugh about…

***

Four days earlier.

The sky above the Dirty Lemon was the colour of diseased lungs. Fat clouds swirled above the pub, and the bronchial sky erupted as I pushed through the double-doors – bullets of rain thudding into the wheelchair ramp behind me.

Remy Cornish was sat adjacent to the cigarette machine, perched awkwardly on his mid-range mobility scooter. He chose the meeting place – the only pub in Paignton with a ramp – but it was no hardship on my part – I was coming here anyway…

I ordered a pint of Kronenbourg from Spacey Tracey and sat down opposite Remy. A thick, pissy stench hung in the air above him, and even the pub’s cigarette fug couldn’t mask it. Presumably showering has been a problem since Franco Moretti took his fucking kneecaps…

He made half-hearted speech-marks in the air with his sausage-like fingers as he told me that his “niece” Claudette was missing. Wanted me to find her. He passed me a photograph. It was a typical small-town glamour shot: badly lit and barely legal. She was a toothy brunette with small, uneven breasts. She didn’t so much have blowjob lips as gob-job gums. I felt my cock twitch, took Remy’s money and finished my pint. In that order.

***

I didn’t find Remy’s “niece” – the harbour master did. Wedged behind a dumpster that was overflowing with fish guts. The Herald Express nicknamed the killer ‘The Cartographer’, because he carefully wrapped each one of his victims’ bodies in old maps. Claudette was the fourth victim. She even looked pretty in the autopsy photo. No tattoos. No piercings. No life in her dead eyes. She had been wrapped in a map of Paignton; her spine was very slightly curved – just like Hyde Road.

I tried to give Remy his money back, but he decided to renegotiate our contract instead. Find the motherfucker responsible and deliver him to his portakabin up at Paignton Yards. His bloodshot eyes were so red-raw that they look like flesh-wounds. I nodded and slipped the money back into my jacket pocket. An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.

***

The lead landed in my lap – like a cracked-out lap-dancer...

I met David Cummings outside Foxy Booze. He was wearing a denim jacket with a sheepskin collar. He had the word ‘Mum’ tattooed across his throat. It looked new. And infected.

He chuckled when he saw me.

“I heard you died.”

“You look disappointed.”

He laughed even louder.

He smoked two high-tar cigarettes in quick succession as he spilled the beans. Said he was in the cop-shop being processed for affray – he had been caught on CCTV beating a man with the metal bar from a dumbbell – when he heard the story.

While he was in the holding tank a guy named Lucius Lamont was cut loose due to a lack of evidence. The desk sergeants – Benson and Hedges – had been drinking brandy, and blabbed to Cummings that the skinny prick re-lacing his shoes in the police station lobby was the fucking Cartographer.

***

When I rip off the nylon mask, I see that Lucius has grey hair shaved to stubble and a few pubic-looking beard hairs along his crooked jaw. He is skinny like a stray dog, and it is hard to believe that he is responsible for those strangled, mangled bodies.

He glares at me through his left eye – his crumpled right eye socket is already matted with black blood. He grins nastily, as I probe the knife-wound in my gut.

“You’re so full of doubt I can fucking smell it,” he lisps.

I shrug. The only thing I can smell is the wet stink of shit and blood.

“Is there another girl in the house?”

He shrugs.

“If you move I will kill you, you know that, don’t you?”

He shrugs again.

“I’m not afraid. Death is something that happens to other people.”

I trudge out of the room, checking the rest of the house as quickly as possible. Inside the third room I try is a teenage girl. She has been handcuffed to the rusty looking iron headboard. A stack of mouldy looking ordinance survey maps have been stacked neatly on the bedside table next to her.

She screams silently when she sees me, eyes pleading. Her left eye-socket has been broken and a single bloody tear slides down her badly bruised cheek.

I place my blood-soaked hammer on the floor and hold my hands up, trying to make myself look as unthreatening as possible.

I rip the parcel tape off her mouth, and remove the stained Y-fronts that have been wedged inside her mouth.

“Wh-wh-who are you?”

I consider answering, but grunt instead. Then I turn sharply and stomp back towards the lounge.

Lamont has replaced the nylon mask, but removed his filthy jeans. He is slumped against the wall, trying to masturbate with bloody fingers.

I weigh the gore-streaked hammer in my left hand, holding my pulsing guts in with my right. I swap hands and the hammer feels blood-slick.

I raise it above my head, hoping that I don’t kill him – mainly because Remy will want his fucking money back…

He looks up at me curiously, but doesn’t bother to stop playing with himself.

Crunch.

Fuck it.

Death is something that happens to other people…

THE END.

Biography:

Tom Leins is a disgraced ex-film critic from Paignton, UK. His short stories have been published by the likes of Near to the Knuckle, Akashic Books, Shotgun Honey, Flash Fiction Offensive, Horror Sleaze Trash and Spelk Fiction. He has published two novelettes, Skull Meat and Snuff Racket, and one short story collection, Meat Bubbles & Other Stories (Near To The Knuckle). His new book, Repetition Kills You (All Due Respect), will be out in September 2018.

https://thingstodoindevonwhenyouredead.wordpress.com/ Facebook . Instagram . Twitter . Patreon . HST Merch!

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dippedanddripped · 5 years ago

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Picture hemp-based clothes, and you’ll likely imagine a rough textile akin to a burlap sack — but that may soon change. “In 20 years [hemp] will be the fabric of the future,” states Isabel Siracusa, Fabric Developer for denim brand Orta Anadolu. With the ratification of the 2018 Farm Bill, hemp is poised to become a fully industrialized commodity, as the bill allows for the plant to be legally farmed throughout the country. As Siracusa affirms, that may well lead to hemp to be more widely utilized in the fashion industry. However, hemp’s potential adoption as the textile of choice would likely disrupt fashion’s current number one raw material: cotton.

Cotton is a seemingly innocuous textile. And yet, the production of the textile for the fashion industry has had detrimental environmental impacts. Although fashion’s true contribution to climate change is hotly debated, the industry’s sheer size means its impact on the world can’t be ignored.

“In 20 years [hemp] will be the fabric of the future.”

Rob Jungmann, founder of Manastash and owner of Jungmaven was elated to hear of industrial hemp’s legal status. Jungmann has advocated for hemp’s use in fashion for decades, having spent countless hours educating himself and others on the crop.

Jungmann became one of the early contemporary vanguards to experiment with the fabric in his designs. “In the ‘90s, there was a big boom, around ‘94 to ‘98. There was a big taste for it,” he explains to HYPEBEAST. He founded his first brand, Manatash, in 1993, and rooted the label in a “healthy clothing” ethos.

He created his second fashion label, Jungmaven, in 2012 with similarly ethical intentions. Jungmann’s goal is to raise awareness for the positive environmental impacts of hemp farming and, in his eyes, “the T-Shirt [is] the easiest way to spread this message.”

JUNGMAVEN

Other brands small and large have followed a similar model to Jungmann in using hemp-based clothes to communicate a philosophy. Levi’s® Wellthread™ x Outerknown Spring/Summer 2019 collection introduced “cottonized hemp” denim garments, furthering Levi’s commitment to sustainable fashion. The innovative process in creating “cottonized hemp” has also allowed hemp’s texture, which is naturally rather rough, to feel as comfortable as its more famous counterpart.

Luxury brands have followed suit as well, as exemplified by Rick Owens‘ experimentation with hemp in tailored pieces for Fall/Winter 2011 and Fall/Winter 2018. “A lot of recent developments for upcoming seasons have been focusing on trying to use hemp in different structures and mixed with other natural or more precious fibers like silk,” Jessica Kipp, Head of Research Materials for Rick Owens, tells HYPEBEAST. “This is partly due to hemp being a more sustainable choice compared to cotton or linen, but also because of its raw look and hand that creates a unique image and touch.”

Bespoke designer Evan Kinori created his namesake California-based label partly inspired by his parents’ insistence on environmentally-friendly practices during his upbringing. “I wanted stuff that was rough and sturdy,” says Kinori. “And wanted to make clothes that I could wear.” He doesn’t rely on novelty messaging, but rather wants to let the clothes speak for themselves. “Ecological fashion should be the norm. The word ‘sustainable’ in fashion is insane to use by the industry’s size,” he says. “We should be striving to spread positivity and use fewer words and do more ‘doing.’”

“Ecological fashion should be the norm.’”

The United States’ decision to deregulate the production of hemp, which has largely been politicized and demonized throughout the country’s history, shouldn’t be taken lightly. Industrial hemp’s legalization could have far-ranging effects, as farmers will now be able to gather government subsidies to farm the crop, allowing them a chance to diversify their fields.

Ten million acres of cotton reserves — totaling 25.37% of the country’s farmland — has made the U.S. the third largest producer of cotton in the world, following India and China. According to the National Cotton Council, 73% of the crop’s yield is used mostly for apparel, which in turn accounts for 90% of the industry’s use of textile and has generated a $385.7 billion USD profit for the American fashion industry. That financial boon may soon be disrupted — however, it should be noted that cotton’s financial positive has come at the expense of the environment.

Typically, cotton is grown in monoculture, meaning it’s the only crop grown in a single area. Its repeated farming overtime — without the implementation of a rotation crop — degrades the soil, causing the land to eventually become barren. And because most cotton in circulation is genetically modified, studieshave shown that the genomic character — changed to thwart pests — produces an enzyme that lingers in the soil well after the plant’s maturation, decreasing the soil biodiversity.

And not only that, cotton production requires immense quantities of water for irrigation: about 8,000 liter per kilogram. At the same time, cotton production uses 16% of the world’s insecticides and 6% of pesticides.

Hemp production, on the other hand, requires less than a third of the water needed for cotton and yields 220% more fiber. The crop doesn’t require as many pesticides, effectively reducing water contamination and adjacent soil acidification. As well, hemp can act as a rotation crop and has phytoremediation properties, which not only breaks down toxic material in the soil but also acts as a CO2 sink to improve air quality.

Given these benefits to hemp production, it begs the question: why has industrial hemp not already become more prevalent in fashion? It’s not as though there is no precedent, as the crop was an industrial mainstay from America’s colonial beginnings up until World War II. Instead, what ended its use in the U.S. was largely racially and economically motivated.

From 1910 to 1920, Mexicans escaping the violence of their country’s revolution sought refuge in the States. Those migrants brought their social consumption of marijuana across the border; however, as xenophobic tensions in the U.S. rose, prohibitionists tied the drug to Mexican people as a scapegoat for crime and deteriorating social dynamics.

“A high percentage of citizens do not know the difference between industrial hemp and cannabis.”

The early development of synthetic fibers also dealt a blow to hemp production. Companies like DuPont lobbied for legislation to cripple the hemp industry. The Marijuana Tax Act of 1937 imposed a tariff on hemp farmers banned them from growing its illicit variant. And with an increasing emphasis on criminalizing marijuana, hemp farming was eventually officially banned altogether in 1970 with the passage of the Controlled Substances Act.

The new legislation looks to reverse the damage done in the U.S. and proliferate the material’s natural utility. But consumers by and large know little about the crop. “A high percentage of citizens do not know the difference between industrial hemp and cannabis, and get the two mixed up frequently,” explains Sarah Hayes, Director of Material Development at Patagonia.

Lack of marketing from big brands that use hemp and public accessibility to data and information on its use exacerbates the information deficit. “It’s up to big brands and companies to talk about it and consider how consumers interact with it,” Siracusa says. According to the Fabric Developer for Orta Anadolu, there may be less of an incentive for brands to be explicit about their hemp use, as it can open them up to criticism and cause them to be seen as inauthentic if they don’t also follow further sustainable practices.

There are also problems out of a brand’s control when it comes to using hemp. As both Jungmann and Kinori explain, brands can’t use social media business tools to reach new audiences due to Instagram, Twitter and Facebook’s restrictions on cannabis-related businesses and products. At the same time, Siracusa notes that organizations like Cotton Inc. have successfully lobbied to impose high duties on Americans who ��import anything that is not chief cotton.” Not only that, but Kinori notes that he has occasionally found customs agents won’t release his hemp fabrics.

Realistically, Jungmann believes hemp will first be adopted by other industries in the U.S. rather than fashion. Considering Italy and China have put subsidies into researching and perfecting techniques to “cottonize” the material, they are lightyears ahead of the U.S. in terms of adopting it as a textile. According to Jasper Ivy, founder of the namesake label, “The U.S. needs machinery, a decorticator, that can separate all parts of the plant right here in this country. In recent news, there may be one coming to the U.S. from Canada that will be able to do that.” But for some designers, such as Jungmann and Kinori, the ability to make a purely American-made product from plant to a final piece of apparel remains in the distant future.

To be frank, there may be no incentive in a post-industrialized society to create facilities that can necessitate the development of proper textiles in the U.S. According to Jungmann, “fashion follows poverty,” and big corporations have a comparative advantage in reducing their overhead by moving production into poorer countries with loose workers’ rights.

“It’s up to big brands and companies to talk about it and consider how consumers interact with it.”

As hemp is a “cash crop,” it’s relegated to the ebbs and flows of capitalism. Small American farmers have a greater incentive to make a profit from the crop; however, fluctuating seed prices and an involuntary reliance on pervasive, genetically-modified Monsanto seeds could hinder their prosperity. And hemp has been at the center of litigation, as organizations like PHYLOS are at the forefront of stopping companies to become the “Monsanto of weed.” That potential monopolization will hurt small farmers, and raise prices in the textile commodities market thus putting stress on the fashion industry.

Pew Research group asserts that the American sentiment about marijuana — and by extension hemp — is changing drastically from the “Reefer Madness” days. And according to the Global Fashion Agenda’s The Pulse of The Industryreport, more than half of executives now believe that sustainability should be a guiding principle in their strategies. Adopting hemp can help booster an eco-friendly ethos across the industry, but it’s of course it’s just one piece of the puzzle.

It is idealistic to expect one product to strengthen environmentally-conscious farming and sustainable fashion practices. Yes, hemp could remedy cotton’s problems, but this is a small piece of a larger convoluted problem. According Siracusa, the solution ultimately lies with brands — not consumers. For progressive practices to make an impact, it will be the responsibility of fashion labels to foster new research in develop new materials, alongside educating their consumers. But that also means placing the Earth’s wellness over profit

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