#robert thinking of new york or something

[grimmaneal]

@railheist

"What a unique city, though it does feel rather familiar."

[mariasont]

Please, Don't Prove 'Em Right - A.H

a/n: my girl sabrina can do no wrong and i have been listening to this song on repeat since it came out so i just absolutely needed to write a fic about it

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: aaron hotchner is a busy man and he tends to disappoint you by missing important events

warnings: angst (sorry in advance), aaron is like not a great husband, reader is also an imperfect character, reader is a girl boss though

wc: 1.2k

You were in your best dress. More expensive than you'd ever think about buying for yourself, but it had been a gift from Aaron. You had fought him on it, scolding him for spending so much on a dress you were sure to only wear once. But he had insisted, telling you that this opportunity was once in a lifetime and that it would be a sin for it to not be celebrated with a dress that made you shine like a ruby.

He was right, partly, you were shining--glowing, sparkling, glittering--as you moved through the library. It was beautiful, to say the least--all opulence and history that was almost too much to absorb. The marble floors almost seemed to amplify the conversations around you, the clinking of glasses, the swish of overpriced gowns and tuxedos.

Your eyes settled on the tiered desks fitted with bronze reading lamps, now repurposed as a station for hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The circular arrangement of desks, once centered around knowledge, now facilitated hushed gossip and the discreet laughter of society's finest.

You could almost hear what they were thinking: there she is again without her husband, that poor thing always by herself, and your personal favorite—does he even exist?

You wanted to be angry, to scold their prying eyes, for putting their noses into something that had nothing to do with them whatsoever. But could you really blame them? Every event you attended you told the same story--my husband is a busy man with an important job--a line you had grown tired of repeating. 

And that was all true. He devoted most of his time to saving lives--how could you find fault in that? How could you complain to having a husband whose very essence was self-sacrifice and heroism?

This evening was set to be an exception; he was in New York for a case, and the Pulitzer Prize ceremony was not something he would miss. He had given you his word.

You understood his passion for his job, completely, because you held that same passion for your own. You dedicated years of your life to your journalism, investigating corruption at its highest levels. This is exactly how you ended up here tonight, nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for that very work. A Pulitzer Prize.

The term once seemed like a fantastical concept to you, a lofty accolade reserved for the likes of JFK, Bob Dylan, Robert Frost--icons, not someone as ordinary as you. Yet, against all odds, you find yourself among the select few, a nominee for an honor that has only been won by 1,512 individuals since 1917, a fact Spencer had supplied you with.

Someone was speaking to you, saying your name. Almost without thinking, your hand found a flute of champagne, taking a generous sip before turning to face them.

"You look stunning, and a well-deserved congratulations are in order. Everyone back at the office is cheering for you." It was your boss, her stilettos adding inches to her already imposing frame.

The flattery didn't quite mask her usual coldness, it was all too artificial. She wasn't your biggest fan, and she had made that clear from your first day. Still, you mustered a smile and thanked her anyway, taking another sip of champagne, hoping to drown away her nauseating voice.

"It's too bad your husband couldn't be here," she began, and you had to resist the urge to rip out her extensions. "This is an incredible accomplishment, but he's quite the busy man, as you say."

"Yes, he is busy, but he'll be here tonight," you replied, flashing her your best smile as you smoothed the red fabric that suddenly felt too tight. "He's actually here in New York on a case."

"Oh, how great. I can't wait to put a face to the name." You could tell by the look she shot her own husband that she didn't believe a word from your mouth. "Anyway, I have to go speak with an academy representative, but I'll see you and your husband at the ceremony?"

You responded with a nod, not dignifying her with words as she left, her giggles a bitter sound. You hated her. And you were ready to make her eat her words when your husband, who looked absolutely incredibly in a suit, showed up.

But then it was dinner, and you found yourself alone, surrounded by a table of important people whose names you couldn't remember. The seat beside you was empty and suddenly that omnipotent, cloud-nine feeling you had vanished with the time that passed.

The text you sent piled up, feeling a little juvenile, like you were back in high school again getting stood up at prom.

Let me know when you're close!

Is everything going okay?

Call me if you can.

An onslaught of anxious thoughts skyrocketed around your mind as you mechanically chewed the fancy food that only seemed to upset your stomach further. What if something happened? Was he okay? Did the case go wrong? Did he get in a car accident on the way here?

You were a bundle of nerves, gnawing on the inside of your mouth as your heel tapped up and down against the floor. But this wasn't borne from concern for his well-being; deep down, you were certain he was fine. The truth was simpler and sharper: he wasn't coming.

You should have been prepared, should have braced for this, but you were convinced that this time, this occasion would be an exception.

You name was being called, but this time not by someone wanting to extract prying information or stir speculation, no, this time it was carried across the crowed, wrapped in the microphone's static hum.

Your head snapped up, fingers ceasing their fidgeting as you struggled to mask the shock and avoid the gaping, breathless look of a fish out of water.

You had won.

People were clapped, but it seemed far away as you made your way to the stage, hands coming from all directions to offer pats on the back and handshakes of congratulations.

You had won.

Your feet were carrying you up a small set of stairs. You were trying to remember how to walk--left, right, heel, toe. There was a bright light on you now, prompting a slight squint and you worked to keep a smile on your face as you accepted the award.

You had to be dreaming. Had to be. There was no other explanation.

You were on display now, under the intense stage lights. Your body was on autopilot, stepping behind the podium, words flowing out of your mouth--a speech you had rehearsed over and over again in the slim chance that you would win. And here you are.

But the more you spoke the more you seemed to deviate from the script.

You paused, voice catching as you tried your best not to let the tears fall--your makeup was too pristine for smears.

"But tonight, as I accept this honor, I am reminded that while we may seek comfort in the presence of others, our truest strength comes from within." Your eyes dart around the audience, clinging to the slim chance he's there, that he showed up. "It comes from knowing that when we step into the moment, we step in with conviction, with passion, and sometimes, with a singularity that says we are enough."

The final words of your speech hang in the air, a brittle hope that disappears as quickly as it surfaced. He proved them right, and no amount of applause can drown out the sound of your heart breaking just a little.

part 2

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179

[roosterforme]

Brighter Than a Supernova | Bob Floyd x Phoenix's Little Sister

Summary: Bob planned to simply stop by Phoenix's Hanukkah party for a few minutes before heading back home. He'd hang out with the guys for a bit, even though he never quite felt like he fit in with them, and he'd meet the little sister Phoenix often referred to as annoying. But he had no idea how bright and magical one night could be compared to every other night that had come before.

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, feeling insecure, loss of virginity, smut, drinking

Length: 9000 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Phoenix's Little Sister (OC)

This was written for the Winter RomCom Challenge hosted by @bellaireland1981! Check my masterlist for more. Beautiful banner made by @ryebecca

"Bob, you're coming over tomorrow night, right?"

When he turned to look at his friend, Bob couldn't help the feeling of apprehension that washed over him. "I think so."

Natasha sighed and reached for his hand and gave him a little squeeze. He hadn't been at Top Gun as long as everyone else, and he felt like he didn't really fit in with them. Even now, the other guys were all hooting and playing keep away with Reuben's phone while Bob stood off to the side on the tarmac. 

"There's nothing to be nervous about. It's just a Hanukkah party," she whispered with a smile. She always seemed to be able to tell when he got lost in his own thoughts, and he would be forever grateful that she was the pilot he got to fly with. 

He shook his head and looked over at their Super Hornet. "I've never been to one before," he muttered. "And I'll probably just end up sitting quietly all night."

Now Natasha was squeezing both of his hands. "But we already drew names for our gift exchange. And you won't be the only one newer to the group. My obnoxious little sister, Nova, is coming in from New York, remember? She's graduating from college in the spring? She hasn't met any of the guys yet."

"But-"

"Bob, I really want you to come," she said firmly, looking up at him with her dark brown eyes. He trusted her in the air, he might as well trust her on the ground, too. 

"Okay. I'll be there."

But when Bob parked his truck in front of Phoenix's tiny house on Saturday evening, his hands were shaking slightly as he held the wrapped gift. He absolutely hated that he got this way around the guys. They hadn't done anything to make him feel this way, really. He just generally didn't fit in anywhere, something he was very aware of at age twenty eight. But he would do this for Natasha. 

He climbed out of his truck with the gift and a bottle of wine and walked up to the front door. Should he knock? Or just walk inside? It sounded noisy even out here, so after he tapped on the door a few times and nobody opened it, he just let himself in.

"Bob's here!" Jake called out from the couch, waving him over to where he was drinking a beer while Javy tried to spin two dreidels at the same time.  

"Bob!" Natasha practically shouted as she ran his way. He had to juggle the bottle of wine so he didn't drop it. "Can you help me make latkes? Nova and I have been peeling potatoes for what feels like hours, and now we're heating up the oil."

"I don't know how to make latkes," he told her, but his eyes caught on the woman standing in the kitchen laughing at Bradley. He could only see her profile, but she had long, dark brown hair just like Natasha. Only she was a little taller and a bit curvier, and when she turned to look over her shoulder, he wanted to run and hide. 

"It's easy, Bob. It's just a potato pancake. Nothing scary," Natasha whispered, trying to sound reassuring. "Come meet Nova, and you can help us cook."

He swallowed hard, realizing that the brunette goddess holding a potato peeler in one while she smiled directly at him was Natasha's little sister. The one she always referred to as obnoxious and annoying. This was... decidedly not what he had imagined. 

Bob didn't know where to look. Every part of her was so pretty. She was wearing black leggings and a cropped long sleeve shirt that was purple and said NYU on the front. He could see some of the soft looking skin just above her leggings, and his eyes dropped to the floor in embarrassment. She was barefoot with neon orange painted toenails that for some reason made Bob a little short of breath.

"Bob, this is my sister Nova," Nat told him, rubbing his back gently as his gaze wandered back up along her curves. His eyes landed on her face as Natasha said, "Nova, this is Bob. Please don't annoy him."

"Hi," she said with a little smirk on her face. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and reached her hand out to him. "I've heard a lot about you, Bob."

He was terrified that he would stutter or trip over his words, but he just said something stupid instead. "You don't look annoying."

She laughed as she shook his hand. "Oh, I can assure you, I am." Her eyes were the same color as her sister's, but they were looking at him playfully as she nibbled on her lip. It was easy to tell Nova and Natasha were sisters, but there were some differences, too. Bob had the fleeting thought that he wouldn't mind just looking at her all night until he identified them all. 

"Feel free to ignore her," Nat told him as she went to stand in front of the stove. "I usually do."

"I don't see how that would be possible," Bob murmured, and Nova laughed again before he realized what he'd said. He could feel his cheeks flush as he tried to look at anything besides her, but as soon as he did, Bradley dove for her attention. 

"So tell me all about New York CIty," he said as if he'd never heard of it before. This was fine though. Better even. Nova and Bradley could just flirt all night, and Bob could help cook and then probably leave soon. That way everyone would win. 

After a few minutes, he desperately wanted to ask Natasha if they could cook any faster so he could open his impersonal gift from one of the guys and get going. But he found that making latkes was actually pretty enjoyable. 

"That's too much egg," she told him, laughing at his messy hands as his glasses slid down his nose. "You need more flour." But her hands were a mess, too, and Bob was trying to adjust his glasses on his shoulder. 

When he turned to the side, he saw Bradley, Mickey and Jake all talking to Nova, but she was actually looking right at him as he very awkwardly shrugged his shoulder against his glasses. "I got you, Bob," she said, closing the distance to him and helping him out. She adjusted his frames on his face, and then she ran her fingers along his hair and behind his ears. "Better?"

He watched her pull her hands away and wished she wouldn't. "Yes," he whispered. "Thank you." Then he just stared at her as she made no move to back away. 

"You're welcome. Do you celebrate Hanukkah?"

He swallowed hard as he washed his hands and shook his head. "This is my... first time."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh! Perfect! You can help me light the candles, and I can teach you the prayers."

"Might as well light the menorah now," Natasha told her as she flipped some of the squishy looking potato blobs over in the hot oil. The kitchen smelled like fried food, and there was a huge box of donuts that the other guys already got into. Javy brought the dreidels into the kitchen, and he was currently spinning five at one time. This holiday actually didn't seem so bad. Especially when Nova reached for his hand. 

"Gather around," she announced with the kind of confidence Bob would never have, and all the guys followed her to the other side of the island. But she kept Bob right there with her and smiled up at him. "Here you go," she said, handing him the lighter. Then she stuck some candles in the menorah. 

"Don't you light them from left to right?" Bradley asked as he sipped a beer and ate a jelly donut while glaring at Bob.

"Yes!" she replied as she put the last candle in for the eighth night. 

"You want me to light them for you, Bob?" Bradley asked, and Bob was just about to hand the lighter over when Nova reached for his hand.

"I'm going to say a really pretty prayer in Hebrew about how Hanukkah is a time to celebrate miracles," she told him, seemingly ignoring the rest of the guys as Jake started whining that he was hungry. But Bob was transfixed. He was suddenly dying to hear this prayer. He could see the light smattering of freckles on Nova's cheeks as he stood this close to her. He never noticed before if Nat had freckles.

It would be a Hanukkah miracle if Bob could get through the evening. When she told him to light the center candle and then pick it up, he did. And then her hand joined his as they lit the candles together, but Bob wasn't looking at the menorah. He was looking at her face and the way her lips moved as she almost sang the prayer. Then he kept his hand on hers as long as he could, the warm candlelight making her face glow. 

When she dropped her hand to her side, Bob could feel her fingers kind of tangle with his, and he had no idea what to do about it. He was suddenly painfully aware that he'd never had a girlfriend before, and he almost wished she was paying this much attention to someone else. 

"Latkes are done!" Natasha announced, and Bob took a step away from Nova. He cleared his throat and then turned to leave the kitchen as everyone else made a dash for the food. When he retreated for the relative quiet of the powder room, he could feel dark eyes on his back.

Bob realized he'd been in the bathroom for long enough that someone might think he was sick, but he couldn't stop splashing cool water on his face. He had been prepared for something else tonight, but not this. Maybe Nova was just an annoying little sister to Phoenix, but to him, she was exquisite. He needed to leave now before he could embarrass himself more. 

After he dried his hands, he quietly opened the door, but then he paused. He could hear voices. Two female voices, and he could easily tell them apart as he stood there eavesdropping.

"Natasha, you lied to me," Nova whispered loudly. "You said Bob was kind of nerdy!"

Oh no. She must have thought Bob was extremely nerdy. Perhaps he could make a run for the front door, and maybe nobody would notice he'd gone.

"I mean, he is," Natasha replied softly. 

"No, he's not!" Nova hissed. "He's hot! You know I have a thing for glasses and biceps, you rotten liar!"

Now Bob was frozen in place. He was pretty sure they were talking about him, but there was a chance he misheard.

"Nova," Natasha snapped a little louder this time. "Bob is one of my best friends, and he's very kind. Do not toy with him."

There was a pause, but then Bob heard her soft response. "I wouldn't. You can tell how sweet he is from a mile away."

He looked in the mirror one more time before leaving the powder room. It wasn't that he was bad looking, it was just that he was awkward. Compared to the other guys, he was a joke. Maybe Nova somehow hadn't noticed that yet. He forced himself out to the small hallway where the two sisters were standing close together near the kitchen, and the way Nova looked at him just didn't make sense. 

"Grab some latkes," she said as he walked past. "I'll save you a spot on the couch for the gift exchange?"

Bob swallowed hard. "Sure. Thank you."

When he ducked into the kitchen, he heard her whisper to Nat, "He has nice manners, too."

Nat groaned. "I can't believe you have a crush on my WSO."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't have kept this information from me."

Bob was anxiously piling a plate with more latkes than he could probably finish when Nova flounced into the room, picked up her half empty glass of wine along with an unused one and winked at him. "I'll be in the living room, and I have a glass for you," she said.

He looked down at the potato concoctions on his plate, and they looked good. He tried a bite, and it was delicious, but he'd lost his appetite. Nova Trace had a crush on him, and now he had to go sit with her and drink some wine without looking like a moron. 

After a few more bites, he pushed his plate aside and headed to the living room where she was sitting right next to Bradley. He had his arm draped across the back of the couch a little possessively, and Bob froze, blinking at the scene before him. He had the undeniable urge to remove Bradley's arm and wrap her up with own. 

"Bob," she called, scooting away from Bradley and patting the cushion. Once he squeezed in between her and Bradley, he realized he was touching her no matter what he did. And then she took his arm and draped it around her shoulders, leaning back against his chest a little bit. "It's a tight fit," she said, handing him a glass of wine. 

"Seriously?" Bradley grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. Bob wasn't sure what to say as he had an armful of the cute girl who was in demand. This was all new to him. So he just drank all of his wine and pretended to watch everyone open their gifts. 

When he set his empty glass down on the table, Nat handed him a small box wrapped in silver paper. He didn't recognize the pretty handwriting that said To: Bob.

"Oh," Nova whispered, reaching for it. "You don't have to open it."

"It's from you?" Bob asked, and she looked up at him over her shoulder, face just inches from his.

"Yeah, but it just seems kind of dumb now," she muttered, playing with the hem of her top. "Nat made it seem like you were super nerdy or something," she laughed. "And clearly that's not the case. You're hot."

Bob chuckled; this whole entire night was completely absurd. "I've never been called hot before."

Nova rolled her eyes. "You know what? Just go ahead and open your present," she said, shoving the small box closer to his chest while she blushed. 

Bob started to carefully tear into the paper when Bradley leaned across Bob and asked, "I'm sorry, Nova, but did you just call Bob hot?"

"Yes," she replied immediately. 

Bradley stood and grunted while he put on the hat that Javy just gave him that said 100% Certified Fuckboy. "She picked Bob. Nice work man," he said, patting Bob's shoulder. "Who needs a beer?"

"I do," Nat told him as she eyed Bob and Nova together on the couch with curiosity. Bob wasn't sure what he should even say to her. It wasn't like he was going to date her sister or something. She lived in New York.

"Open it," Nova whispered. "Just open it so I can get my embarrassment over with."

Bob couldn't believe she seemed more embarrassed about the gift than she did about announcing to the room at large that she found him attractive. When he took the lid off the box and looked inside, it was filled with a set of sky blue dice. 

"I'm sorry," she said with a laugh. "Nat said you play Dungeons and Dragons, and I found the dice and thought they were pretty, and now I'm noticing that they're kind of the same shade as your eyes." She took the box from him, put the lid on and set it aside.

"Wait," he said, reaching across her to pick it up again. "I do play. And light blue is my favorite color. How did you know?"

"I didn't," she said, cheeks pink. "It's my favorite color, too."

He could see her freckles again as she grinned so close to him. Bob suddenly realized that the living room was getting loud as he held the box between his body and hers. "Thank you. I really like them. I was a little afraid to see what the guys were going to buy for me, so I'm glad it was from you."

"Nat dropped down on the couch on the other side of Bob as she spun the keychain around her finger that Bob got for her. "Thank you," she said, kissing him on the cheek as the airplane charm hit her palm. The guys were spinning as many dreidels on the coffee table as they could while fighting over the mound of chocolate candy coins. "You know, if it's a little too loud, you could always step outside for a minute," she told him, patting his thigh before joining the guys. 

"Let's take a break," Nova said as she stood and pulled him to his feet. Bob felt like Nat had just given him some sort of permission. But for what? "I could use a break as well. It's hot in here." 

She opened the front door and slipped out into the darkness on the small porch, and Bob joined her, closing the door and stifling the sounds inside. "Aren't your feet going to get cold?" he asked softly, looking down at her neon toenails.

"Good call," she replied before wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on the tops of his shoes. Bob's hands went to the soft curve of her waist immediately, startled by the sudden turn of events that had Nova's body pressed to his. "Is this okay?" she asked casually, looking up at him as she let her fingers trail down his neck.

His body was throbbing in delight as his brain cried out in terror. "Y-Yes. It's... very okay. You're very pretty." His eyes went wide as she laughed, and it sounded too intimate this close. He could feel her bare skin against his fingertips, and it was so soft. Softer than anything. He couldn't help the way he let his palms spread out on her back, as he blurted out, "I like you."

He noticed her soft smile first, and then her eyes closed. Bob was admiring how her eyelashes brushed her cheeks as she said, "I like you, too." And then she kissed him. She just kissed him. It was suddenly time for kissing. And then it was over before Bob really got to enjoy it. Nova was looking up at him like she was trying to gauge his reaction, but he just stood there trying to figure out what to do next. 

Her fingers stilled on his neck before she released him and tried to step away, her face falling into a much shyer look. But he kept his hands on her back. Her lips were softly parted, and Bob wanted them on his again. Even though he wasn't quite sure if he was doing any of it right, he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers a little too hard at first. 

She moaned softly as she brought her hands back up around his neck, and Bob eased himself back a little bit, making the kiss softer. This felt good. She had smooth skin and eager lips, and now her fingers were in his hair as her cheek bumped his glasses. He felt like he was getting the hang of things when she parted her lips and tasted his tongue. 

Bob's hands slid down to grab at her hips through her leggings, and Nova laughed softly as she tasted him again. The soft vibrations against his lips had him more aware of his body than he ever had been before, but not in a bad way. He seemed to be making her feel excited as she wiggled her curvy hips back and forth slightly in his hands. 

Nova broke the kiss and raked her fingers along his forehead and back through his tidy hair. "You smell good," she told him, leaning in close again and running her nose along his neck. "Like... something outdoorsy mixed with a fried potato."

He couldn't help but laugh as she kissed the spot next to his Adam's apple. "That sounds like it would smell bad."

"It doesn't," she reassured him with a giggle. "It just makes me want to taste you." Bob had to press his lips together and count to ten in his head as Nova ran her tongue in a slow and steady stripe up his neck to his ear. When her lips met his earlobe, his hands on her hips were pulling her body closer to his as she said, "I could eat you up."

She was still standing on the tops of his feet, but now Bob had her back pressed against the doorframe. They were making out, and it was all coming pretty naturally for him. She kissed his neck and told him something sweet, so he decided to go ahead and try the same thing. "I think I love kissing you," he said, his voice raspier than normal as she tipped her head back.

Nova was moaning his name as he kissed the front of her neck, and she pressed her thigh against him. And oh no... Bob had an erection. She didn't seem bothered, but he pulled himself a few inches away from her and looked down at her pretty face. "Do you want to go back inside?" she asked, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. 

"Should we?" he asked softly, sliding his hands back up to her waist as she shrugged. 

"Probably. But I'm sure they all know exactly what we're doing out here."

His eyes went wide. "They do?"

She smiled and ran her fingers along his cheek. "Yeah, I'd venture to guess they know we were making out, Bob."

How was he supposed to go back inside now? He thought about just leaving; his truck was parked right there on the street. But he didn't want to go without his new dice. Or Nova.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah... maybe we should go back in."

"Okay." But first she wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck and pressed one more soft kiss to his lips. "Just let me know if you want to take another break, because I'd be more than happy to tag along."

Then she opened the door, and the bright light and loud laughter coming from inside were enough to have him reaching for Nova's hand as she stepped down from his feet and onto the living room floor. She looked back at him with a coy smile as she laced her fingers with his. It was so obvious that they had been kissing. Bob knew he was blushing, and her lips looked a little puffy from the way he'd been enjoying them. When Jake fist bumped him as they walked past, Javy winked, and Bradley was on the couch with Nat pouting. 

But Nat smiled and shook her head as Nova led Bob into the kitchen. "Want some more wine?" she asked, pulling a bottle from the refrigerator. There was something about the way she looked in the semi darkness as the candles from the menorah burned low. Her face was cast in warm light as well as shadows, and Bob found that leaning down to kiss her again was the most natural thing in the world. 

The cold bottle was pressed to his arm, and she kissed him back. When Bob opened his eyes again, his glasses were crooked and two of the candles had burned out. The kitchen was even darker now as she pecked his cheek and then strolled out into the living room. He took a few seconds to consider that now he'd initiated more kisses than she had. The desire to follow her and kiss her again was so strong, he almost tripped when he thought about her going back to New York. Had he ever felt this way about a girl after a few hours? No. Absolutely not.

He knew he should have found another place to sit in Nat's tiny, loud living room, but when he saw the spot on the couch next to Nova was empty, he couldn't force his steps in any other direction. She tracked him with her eyes, clearly feeling no shame about what was happening here. 

"How much have the rest of you had to drink?" she asked the guys. Jake was laying on the floor laughing while Javy tried to spin a dreidel on his nose. Bradley's cheeks were bright red, and he was half asleep at the other end of the couch. Mickey actually was asleep in the armchair. The only one who looked okay was Reuben. 

"A lot," Javy said. "We turned dreidels into a drinking game, and clearly Nat is better than the rest of us." Nat winked at Nova who winked back. "And Mickey can't hold his liquor for shit."

Nova laughed at him in the armchair. "Is that a WSO thing, Bob? Or can you handle another glass of wine?" she teased. 

"I can handle what you give me," he replied before he could consider how that might sound. She gasped softly and kind of nodded as she poured some more into his glass from earlier. 

"I guess we'll find out."

She tapped her glass to his, and they joined in the game with the others. Bob had never played before, but he was a quick study. It certainly didn't hurt that Nova kept touching his hands as she taught him what to do. And two glasses of wine later, Bob felt lighter and more carefree. His right hand was resting on her lower back, and she leaned in to his side as the game progressed. And the best part was, Nat seemed more than okay with this.

In fact, as midnight was fast approaching, Nat stood and stretched. "I'm beat. I don't care who stays over, but Nova is in the extra bedroom, so the rest of you can fight over the couches."

Bradley and Mickey both snored in response while Reuben started to gather Jake and Javy off the floor. "I'll drop the two of you off," he said. "It was nice to meet you, Nova. Thanks, Nat."

"Thanks, Nat," Javy and Jake echoed as Nat waved. Nova blew them each a kiss. 

Once they were gone, Nat started to gather up the empty wine bottles to take them into the kitchen, and Bob figured he should get ready to go as well. "Do you need help with anything?" he asked his friend, but she just waved him off. "No, I insist," he added.

He picked up some more of the trash the guys left, and as soon as he and Nova both stood, Bradley stretched out on the couch. "Just leave the rest of the mess. It's honestly fine. We can clean it up tomorrow," Nat said as she looked at her sister. 

Nova nodded. "Yeah, I'll help you clean everything when we wake up." 

They carried the trash they had already gathered in their arms to the kitchen, and then Nat hugged her sister before kissing Bob's cheek. "I'm assuming I'll see you again quite soon," she told him with an amused expression before she headed for the stairs. 

Bob wasn't sure exactly what that was supposed to mean, but he wasn't going to dwell on it. Right now he had to figure out a way to say goodbye to the woman in front of him. He wondered if there was some way he could tell her that the few hours he spent with her somehow meant something to him. If she lived in San Diego, he thought he would very much like to take her to dinner. Maybe he could figure out a way to say so without completely ruining the moments they'd shared tonight.

"Nova, I-"

It was time for more kissing. She didn't hesitate at all, almost like she felt as comfortable with this as he did. Her hand found the bottom of Bob's tee shirt and eased the fabric up so her palm could rest flat on his abs. She nibbled gently on his lip before she let him taste her tongue. She was sweet like wine. Then his hands were back on her hips again as she eased his shirt up a little further. 

"You had a lot to drink," she whispered with a wink, rubbing the tip of her nose against his. "Maybe you should come upstairs with me?" Bob wasn't drunk in the least, and he thought he knew what she meant. When his posture stiffened, she looked up at him. "It's just a twin bed, but we can both fit. If you want."

"You mean to... sleep?" he asked, embarrassed that he had to confirm instead of just knowing how to do things. 

Her hand glided down to the top of his jeans, and she laughed softly. "We don't have to mess around," she said as she kissed his lips softly. "But I don't think I can keep my lips away from yours."

When Bob nodded in agreement, heart pounding rapidly, she took him by the hand. Mickey and Bradley were both sound asleep in the living room where Bob made sure to grab his box of dice. Then he let Nova lead him upstairs. 

She looked back to smile at him a few times and tugged on his hand when he started to fall behind. Once they were in the extra bedroom with the soft lamplight and the door closed, Nova seemed a little more hesitant.

"Well, there's the twin bed," she said, gesturing toward it before putting her hands on her hips. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and laughed as she looked at the floor. "And I mean, obviously this was all a ploy to get to spend more time with you. But also, I don't think you should drive home after drinking so much wine." She paused before adding, "But mostly I just kind of thought maybe you and I could keep talking and making out."

Bob smiled when she looked up at him. "Yeah, I would like that."

She bit her lip, and Bob swore he had never in his life seen a woman who was so eager to be around him. He toed off his shoes before reaching for her hand again. And then he decided he was going to go for it. He was going to say what was on his mind as they both sat down on the edge of the bed together. 

"Hey, Nova? I..." he paused as he looked at her pretty face, and he had to clear his throat before he kept going. "You're really... I like you a lot, and I just wanted you to know that if you lived in San Diego, I would ask you on a date."

She scooted a little closer and let her hand come to rest on his thigh. "Where would you take me?" she asked, pressing her lips to his jaw as he stuttered.

"I would... I'd take you to um, a restaurant that I like called Starlite. It's in the city. It's really pretty inside at night, and they have fairy lights and champagne. And I think you'd look beautiful sitting at one of the tables with me."

"Oh my god," she moaned against his jaw, and Bob had absolutely no control over how his body was reacting to her. "Tell me more."

He tried to keep talking as she moved her hand further up his thigh, but he wasn't sure he was making sense. "I'd get you whatever you wanted, of course. But the steak is really good, so I'd ask if you wanted that. And. And I'd be hoping the waiter was really slow, because you'd look so pretty with the soft lights all around you. I'd want to keep you there with me as long as I could."

"I want to go," Nova whispered, kissing his ear. "I can practically picture it."

Bob closed his eyes, willing his cock to stop having a mind of its own as her fingers went as high as the bottoms of his boxer briefs. If she kept this up, Bob would have to excuse himself, and he really didn't want to leave her right now. Then she straddled his thighs and wrapped her arms around his neck, and Bob's arms were full of her. 

"I wish we could," he whispered, unsure what to do with his hands. "I'd take you there tomorrow, but Nat told me you're flying back east in the evening." He finally let his hands settle on her waist as she nodded sadly. 

"I am," she said as her lips brushed his. "But just humor me. Would you kiss me at Starlite?"

"I'd have to," he replied immediately. "It would be mandatory. All the light and shadows on your face... you'd be ethereal. And if you were looking at me, I wouldn't be able to help myself."

"Bob," she moaned against his lips, nibbling on him softly as her fingers went to his hair. "And where would you take me for our second date?"

He laughed as she licked his tongue. "You'd go out with me a second time?"

"You're joking right?" Nova asked, pulling back a few inches as she played with his hair. "This is all hypothetical, and it's still the best date I've ever been on."

"Okay," Bob replied, and he couldn't help but smile as she nodded for him to go on. "For our second date, I'd take you to the Mission Hills Rooftop Theater."

"What would we watch?" she asked, smiling as Bob let his hands drift up a little bit under her shirt. 

He shrugged. "Probably a foreign film. You'd think it was cool, but I'd just be watching the way the colorful lights flickered across your face."

She squeaked softly. "Can we pretend we're at the theater now?"

"Sure," he whispered with a smile. "We're at the theater. You look beautiful, reading all the subtitles. But I lost track of the plot of the film already."

"Why's that?" she asked with a grin.

"Can't pay attention to anything except you."

She pushed on his chest until he was laying on his back, her long hair brushing the side of his face as she leaned down to kiss him. She was rubbing herself against his hard length through his jeans and making little sounds that he'd never heard before. His hands were stroking higher, and he could feel her bra with his fingertips. He didn't want any of this to stop.

"Now you seem like a respectable guy, Bob," she murmured. "Would you take me home with you after our second date or make me wait until our third?"

Oh no. Bob loosened his grip on her as he went silent. Nova was still kissing her way across his cheek to his ear when her movements slowed. She eyed him curiously before nudging the rim of his glasses with her nose. 

"Bob?"

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "I don't know. I've never... taken a girl home before."

She looked down at him with a soft smile on her lips. "What?" she asked as she pushed her fingers back through his hair. 

Bob was terrified that she would stop touching him as soon as he said the words. She was so lovely, gravitating right to him all night just the same way he subconsciously felt like he wanted to be near her. He already recognized that he could fall for his friend's little sister. Maybe he already had. 

He took a deep breath as he adjusted his glasses. She was waiting for him to respond, and there was no point in lying about it now. "I'm a virgin."

Nova's brow creased, and her lips parted wordlessly. She examined his face, probably trying to see if he was lying, because there's no way someone his age shouldn't have lost his virginity by now. And it was a million times worse for a guy than for a girl. He knew that. It was all so very embarrassing. 

She didn't laugh, rather she kissed the corner of his lips and simply asked, "How?"

Bob shrugged. "I'm awkward."

"No. You're hot," she replied, shaking her head. "That's not it."

He tried to turn his head and look away, but she followed his gaze until he returned her soft smile. "I'm not really sure," he whispered. "I got close a few times, but it just didn't seem right. That sounds dumb."

"No, it doesn't," she replied, surprising Bob as she kissed him again. "Are you picky?" she asked between each soft press of her lips to his.

"Yeah. Kind of," he told her honestly. "Always have been. Picky about who I spend time with.

She brushed her fingers back through his hair again, and Bob melted at her touch. "That makes sense. A guy like you should be picky."

Somehow Nova was making him feel a lot more normal about this as she wasn't shying away from him. "Picky," he confirmed. "And the timing was never right."

"That's important," she said with a smile. "You have to do what feels good to you."

Bob swallowed hard. He was picky, but he really liked Nova. And for some reason, tonight out of all nights kind of felt right. He could easily blame Nat's Hanukkah party and the soft glow of the menorah candles on Nova's face for getting him to this point. She was on top of him, still kissing him, and he didn't want this to end. 

"This feels good to me," he blurted out, reaching up to push his fingers through her dark hair. "Tonight feels right."

She nodded, smiling as she crawled off of him, leaving Bob a little cold as he missed the feeling of her immediately. He sat up on the bed as she crawled up to the pillows and whispered, "Come here." She coaxed him along until she was laying on the pillows and he was on top of her, bracing himself with his arms so he didn't hurt her. 

"Okay, so, we already went to Starlite for dinner and then to the Mission Hills Rooftop Theater. I'll give you until our third date to make your move," she whispered, grinning up at him as she ran he hands up his biceps. "Where are you taking me?"

He took a deep breath; now was not the time for this wave of confidence to falter. "Cliffs beach. I'm packing a picnic, and we can sit in the bed of my truck and watch the sunset while we eat."

Nova moaned again and hooked her leg around Bob's thigh, pulling him impossibly closer. "Dinner was perfect. But now that the sun went down, I'm a little chilly."

"Well, I could keep you warm." He kissed her. "I'd hold you as I tried to work up the nerve to ask you if you wanted to come back to my place."

"I'm wrapped up in your arms, patiently waiting for you to ask," she replied with a smirk.

He nodded, and he knew he was blushing. This whole thing was kind of silly, but it just made sense. "I really like you. I could probably fall for you. If I let myself," he whispered, and she whimpered softly. "Do you want to come back to my place, Nova?"

"Absolutely."

Her hands were all over his face and in his hair, and eventually she took his glasses off and set them on the nightstand. She kissed him slowly as she rolled her hips up against his, and Bob blushed as he got hard again. When she carefully pulled his shirt off, she set it next to the pillow, and then she explored his body with her hands. But as soon as she pulled her own NYU shirt off and was laying beneath him, she arched her back. 

Bob reached beneath her, and he fumbled for a few seconds before he unhooked her bra. As he pulled the black lace away from her body and looked down at her breasts and her confident face, he marked this as the furthest he'd ever gone with a woman. She seemed to sense he needed a moment as she ran her fingers through his hair as he stuttered, "You're gorgeous."

Nova looked up at him with her playful dark eyes, but right now they seemed a little more serious. "I could probably fall for you, too."

Then his lips were on hers, and his hands went to her breasts gently stroking each soft handful. He could fall for this, he was sure of it. He wanted to take her on all of those dates, and he would have if he could have. He was charmed by her, and she seemed equally interested in him. 

"Bob," she moaned, breaking the kiss and tipping her head back as he pushed himself against her core. He brought his lips down to taste her breasts, and soon she was rolling her hips a little faster. "That feels good," she whispered as she looked up at him. "I like that."

Nova responded just like that to everything he did. When he kissed the side of her neck, she blushed a pretty shade of pink. She shivered for him when he ran his fingers down her side. When he paused with his hand just above the top of her leggings, she whispered, "Bob, you're making me kind of crazy."

She guided his hand down a few more inches with her own, but she didn't get annoyed when he took his time pulling her leggings and underwear off. His heart was pounding as he looked at her, completely naked. Maybe she could sense his hesitation, because she sat up, too, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I'll tell you if I don't like something, okay? And you do the same?"

He nodded. "I like everything so far. I just don't want to mess this up."

"You won't," she promised, taking his face in both of her hands and kissing him softly at first. Then her lips became more demanding, and Bob wrapped one strong arm around her, pulling her on top of him. She giggled against his lips before swiping his tongue with her own. 

Her fingers roamed his bare torso and found the light trail of hair below his belly button. "I'm going to take your jeans off," she whispered, carefully unbuttoning and unzipping them. Her hair was already kind of a mess, and he knew his must have been as well. But then all thoughts left his mind as she started to pull his pants down. Bob wasn't dumb; he knew he was at least average size from the amount of time he'd spent in naval locker rooms. But he was surprised by her soft gasp when she pulled his underwear down far enough that his erection sprang free. Then his jeans, socks and underwear were in a pile at the bottom of the small bed, and he was naked, too.

He grunted as she wrapped her hand around him. This was the best thing he ever felt. Until she kissed him there. "Oh god, Nova. Wait," he moaned, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. "Don't we need a condom?"

She responded by licking his length before crawling up his body to kiss his lips. "I can go ask my sister if she has any if you want to use one." 

"No!" he gasped, nearly headbutting her as he sat up. "No, don't do that." Bob wasn't sure that Natasha would respond kindly to that question coming from her sister. "Please don't."

But Nova was all smiles as she straddled his waist. "Okay," she whispered as he braced himself with his hand behind him on the bed. "I won't alert Natasha to the fact that we're about to have sex."

Bob sighed in relief and reached out to push her hair behind her ear. "Actually, if you could not mention her again right now, that would be great." 

Now she was laughing softly as she scooted up until Bob could feel her wet pussy rubbing his cock. "Promise," she confirmed as he looked up at her face. When he glanced down between them, all he could see was her perfect body and his cock jumping against her in excitement. "I'm on birth control anyway," she whispered, kissing along his jaw. "And I know you're a little nervous, but so am I."

"Why?" he asked, surprised by her words. 

Nova hummed as she kissed her way back to his lips. "I want this to feel good for you." She wrapped her arms around his neck as she slowly rolled her hips against him and made the softest sounds. His heart rate picked up as she added, "I want you to think about our hypothetical dates after I'm gone."

He was sure he would be thinking about Nova for a very long time. She was all gentle fingers in his hair and confident smiles. She was beautiful, and Bob could easily get addicted to this. 

She guided him to lay back on the pillows as she asked, "You ready?" 

"Yeah." His voice sounded hoarse as he looked up at her and pushed her hair over one shoulder. When he let his hands trail over the soft skin of her shoulders, breasts and sides, she shivered as she kissed him. Bob could feel her hand around his length, and then his head tipped away from her as he moaned. "Does that feel good?"

Good. That didn't seem like the right word for it, but now his brain felt a little hazy. Nova's lips ghosted over his as he moaned again. She felt tight and inviting, and when she rolled her hips with him inside her like this, Bob gripped her hip a little tighter. His other hand ended up tangled in her hair as he traced her freckled cheek with his thumb. "Nova," he gasped against her lips before devouring her. 

Her soft noises got a little louder, and each roll of her hips had Bob praying that this would never end. Every passing second was better than the last. Every time she whispered his name and tasted his tongue was too exciting. When she ended up on her back, looking up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, he kissed her neck and pushed himself deep inside her.

"Oh," she moaned, and he had to slowly shake his head to keep his focus. Her leg was hooked up around his hip, and he was suddenly very aware that he didn't know how to make her orgasm. 

"Nova?" he gasped as she reached for his hand. But he should have known she'd be willing to help him with this as she showed him where and how to rub her. 

"Fuck," she whined, taking a few gasping breaths. "That feels so good." He kept moving his hips, too, and a few seconds later, as she was nibbling on his lip and whining, he felt her squeezing around him. "Bob. Bob. Bob!"

Her back was arched off the bed, and her breasts bounced with every wild breath she took, and then he had no idea it would all happen so fast for him. He tucked his face against her neck and shoulder as he bucked into her without finesse. He couldn't control it. He came so hard, his vision looked like a kaleidoscope of colors when he opened his eyes. But she was right there, and she was perfect.

He half collapsed against her chest as she played with his hair, and it felt like it might have been a long time before he moved. Bob wrapped his arms a little tighter around her, and even though he thought he should feel timid, he didn't. He felt so relaxed and almost loved as she touched him like this. When he tipped his face up to look at her, she was smiling. 

He was picky, and the timing never felt right before now. But Nova was lovely, and tonight was the right night. "My Hanukkah wish is to go on all of those dates with you," he whispered, and she closed her eyes as she blushed. "And see how pretty you'd look with the sun setting and all the fairy lights."

She leaned up slightly to kiss his lips. "I wish we could."

As she laced her fingers with his, Bob whispered, "Maybe we can trade phone numbers? And talk until you get tired of me."

She nodded and asked, "And what if I don't ever get tired of you?"

Bob studied her face as she ran her fingers through his hair and down his neck to his shoulder. "Then we'll go on the dates for real."

Eventually they fell asleep around four in the morning after talking and having sex again. When Bob woke up at nine, it was to Nova's lips on his neck and her voice in his ear. "Morning, Bob." 

He just held her a little tighter. When they went downstairs, nobody was surprised they'd spent the night together, not even Nat. She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, and he ended up staying all day, even after Bradley and Mickey both left. He just wanted to be around Nova for as long as possible, but eventually he had to leave so her sister could take her to the airport. So she could go back to New York.

"I'll miss you," she promised when she walked him out to his truck. She took his phone and saved her number for him. 

"Should I text you now? So you have mine, too?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, "Fair warning, once you text me, I'll write back and probably never stop."

Bob laughed softly and quickly typed up a text to her while she kissed his neck. 

I miss you already, and I didn't even leave yet.

Then he kissed her back until her sister started yelling out the front door about going to the airport. "Bye, Bob," Nova whispered before kissing his cheek and bounding back in the house. As he drove away, his phone lit up in the cup holder with a series of texts from her, and he hoped she was telling the truth when she said she wouldn't stop.

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

Five months later...

"Are you really this nervous to see her again?" Natasha asked him as they walked through JFK airport together. "You've talked to her everyday for months. Hell, you flew out to see her for a weekend in March."

Bob blushed as he thought about those three days when he'd been here during a late winter snowstorm that kept him and Nova inside her apartment for most of the weekend. She'd hardly let him out of her bed. And while they weren't dating, not exactly, Bob knew he wanted to be.

"Yeah, I'm a little nervous. She has no idea I'm here for her graduation. Do you know how hard it was to lie to her?"

Nat laughed as they walked outside in the May sunlight to get a cab to Nova's apartment. Bob was slightly afraid she'd be upset when they got there. Or maybe there would be evidence of another guy. It might break his heart, but he'd have to accept it. But he just couldn't get past that night they spent together during Hanukkah, and he'd been falling in love with her since then. Even over the phone.

"I'm sure she'll be happier to see you than me," Nat told him. It seemed like no time passed at all before they were pulling up to the building he'd only seen once when it was surrounded by a layer of snow. 

He got out of the cab and stood awkwardly on the sidewalk as Natasha got her phone out. She looked up at him with a smile as she called her sister. "I'm here," she said before looking at the blank screen. "She screamed and then hung up."

Bob laughed nervously with his backpack on and Nat's hand rubbing his arm in a soothing circle. "If she's not excited to see me, I'll just get a hotel room or try to exchange my ticket for something earlier," he mumbled. 

But the next thing he knew, Nova was throwing open the door to her building. She barely looked at her sister before she gasped, "Bob!" and launched herself down the stairs and into his arms. 

"Hi," he whispered as she clung to the front of him and shamelessly kissed his lips and neck right in front of her sister. "I missed you."

She moaned softly and wrapped her arms around him as she let her cheek rest on his chest. "You brought me Bob? Is he my graduation present?" she asked Natasha as Bob ran his fingers through her hair and chuckled.

"Something like that," she replied, reaching for the key that was still in Nova's hand. "I'll meet the two of you inside." 

As Nat let herself in the building, Nova looked up at him. "You lied to me. You said you had to work this weekend."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'll never do it again." She was melting into his touch as he cleared his throat and added, "I know you're still going on interviews and trying to decide on a job, but I took next week off just in case I could persuade you to come back to San Diego for a bit."

She smiled. "Now why would I want to do that?"

Bob shrugged. "I just really think we should go on those three dates before I ask you to be my girlfriend."

"Starlite. Mission Hills Rooftop Theater. Cliffs beach," she said softly.

"In that order," he confirmed. "But I'd be taking you home with me after each one."

"Then yes."

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

Happy Holidays! I'll be thinking about Bob and Nova through the New Year. Thanks to @mak-32 @beyondthesefourwalls and @ryebecca

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[megafaunatic]

Hello! I’ve always really respected your taste, so I was wondering if you had any book or fic recommendations? Any genre/trope/fandom is cool, as long as you’re enjoying it!

OOHOHHGHGHGHH YES

wow first of all thank u for saying u respect my taste. what a kind thing to say about someone 😌💛

second of all LETS SEE (CRACKS OPEN MY RECENTLY READ LIST*)

THIS IS A LONG POST. SORRY

BOOK RECS

obviously there's something wrong with me and i've been reading nonstop discworld books at the exclusion of almost all else for almost a calendar year now. in my defense it was 2024 and then as if that weren't enough it became 2025. so if you haven't read any discworld yet and you want to know what the hell i'm talking about, you should give it a shot! i wrote a whole big long post about where you should start based on thematic interests etc but recently i've revised my position to a much simpler one which is adults should start with THE TRUTH and go from there

have you read WHEN THE ANGELS LEFT THE OLD COUNTRY by sacha lamb? you should read when the angels left the old country by sacha lamb. every time i am forced to read something that sucks and is bad, i am compelled to perform a palate cleanser by reading something that rocks and is good instead, which is wtaltoc by sacha lamb. wtaltoc was written by someone who was like What if good omens were jewish, and transgender, and gay, and concerned with labor struggles in early 20th century new york

the book that i read in the last couple years that i've spent the most time thinking about in non-fandom-y ways is THE FOX WIFE by yangsze choo! REALLY interesting juicy characters and super fun setting (mostly china + japan in ~1910, very end of the qing dynasty / mid meiji era - so things are changing very rapidly in both countries in many ways). extremely compelling depiction of fox spirits! the author reads the audiobook herself which i found really pleasing and listenable

another total banger audiobook experience was RED RABBIT by alex grecian, read by john pirhalla - road trip horror in the old west (but like, relatively light horror). GREAT ensemble cast with extremely distinct voices (esp as read by pirhalla who does great accents), interesting and nuanced treatment of "magic is real" / "some of you mfers are just racist and misogynist"

nghi vo's SINGING HILLS CYCLE is obviously absolutely nothing but banger after banger. i don't always love vo's other longer works for some reason but every single singing hills novella turns me inside out. so good. if anyone out there has been struggling with reading original work after fanfic braining themselves too hard (been there!!!!!!!), these are great ~training wheels in that they're VERY short, you can read them in any order or just pick one as a standalone, and they're a really pleasing mix of like. nuanced and textured and rereadable, while also being quite straightforward and obvious in what they're saying and what's happening

LOTE by shola von reinhold and Y/N by esther yi are both NOT very straightforward or obvious in what they're saying and what's happening. they both have something to say about obsession, academia, and fandom (interpreted loosely in lote's case). they are both pretty weird. i enjoyed both immensely! in LOTE, a compulsive scammer / person who ghosts her own life devotes herself to unearthing a black woman artist from the 20s who's been systematically excluded from the canon. things get weird. in Y/N, a grad student discovers kpop fandom and self-insert fanfiction, and then gets the opportunity to meet Her Boys in real life. things get weird.

zoë: damn how long have you been sitting there writing that answer? i would have been like "just read tiger tiger" and been done. me: FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!! read tiger tiger by petra nordlund (which continues to update on discord)

zoë upon reading all my book recs: no nonfiction? me: FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! just read THE OLD WAYS by robert macfarlane my best friend and comrade for life. and also THE HARE WITH AMBER EYES by edmund de waal

*- none of these are actually that recently read bc of aforementioned discworld-related ailment

i do actually also have a public storygraph account. not sure what "following" someone on storygraph entails but if you're ever curious what i've recently read (i don't do "currently reading" bc i'm a flake. i LOVE to dnf books. life is not long enough!!!!!) you can always peek in there!

FIC RECS

REALLYYYYYY enjoyed zakalwe's most recent vetvimes (discworld) oneshot it made me feel like this

it really like. Evoked Fanfic Emotions In Me you know what i mean. the kickyfeet embarrassed delight of truly fun, funny fluff. so good and SO hard to get right

2. likewise ao3 user Vee_hee_hee's fics "a game of kings" and "the damn shrimp conference" are REALLY funny and have great characterization, but also tremendous grasp of the sense of humor of the universe of discworld in general. "a game of kings" has an INSANELY good visual element that makes me laugh out loud every time, and "the damn shrimp conference" has an explanation of Vetinari's Thing About Mimes that's so ingenious and logical that i have wholly absorbed it as a piece of dw worldbuilding

3. i'm not a batman guy but MULTIPLE of my beautiful beloved friends are batman guys. this means i get the benefits of batman (my friends' fics; fun characters and goofs) without having to actually read any batman comics. you should read BUY BACK THE SECRETS by ao3 user SUNDISCUS!!!!!!! AND while you're at it you should read SEND TO ALL by ao3 KEROSCEENE <- fic that makes me laugh out loud which i'm sure is even funnier if you know the guys

4. traces left by qi pieces by yiqie had me screaming in aiwen's dms for like 3 days straight as i read it. (SNIFFLIMGN) SHE WAS SO CRAZY FOR THAT

5. every day i make a patient beautiful concerted effort to come to terms with the idea that information gathering by tacroy probably will not get finished for a long time if ever (brief perusal of tacroy's public tumblr reveals that since the 2nd of 3 promised chapters was released, they + their wife have had a FRESH BABY) (I HAVE ABANDONED FICS FOR LESS REASON THAN THAT) and even though obviously this lost 3rd chapter weighs upon my soul............ the first 2 chapters................ lift my soul even higher.................... for a net gain in soul elevation i would say

6. tiger tiger by ao3 user acernor "acernor" acernor (no known relation to petra nordlund or the webcomic tiger tiger by petra nordlund). included in thsi list partially because it's funny to have two tiger tigers but also because it genuinely slaps ass and acernor's depiction of a tiger is really grounded and lovely

7. from halfway along by lelek. sci fi space opera au of all time to ME

ok ok ok i'm stopping there because it's 10:20pm and i need to take a shower (<- grandpa who needs to go to bed by 11pm or consequences happen to me) BUT let it be said that my ao3 bookmarks are also all public, if not particularly useful in terms of content (lots of "weeping" "jesus christ" "rending my flesh" etc, not much in the way of summary)

UM

I HOPE... YOU ENJOY LITERALLY ANY OF THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOL!!!!!!!!! if you (OR ANYONE: you reading this post right now) ever read something on my rec and enjoy it OBVIOUSLY PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!!!!!!!!!! it does actually contribute to my overall life force which in 2025 is something we all need

[tavolgisvist]

Cage / Paul and John in 1978

(after this)

Paul and the Eastmans had more business to discuss during that June visit [16-19 June 1978], namely, the still unresolved matter of dividing up the millions of dollars in record royalties that had accumulated in Apple’s coffers since March 1971. Dissolution papers, signed by the four Beatles in December 1974, severed their business ties, but the Beatles recording royalties continued to flow into Apple, with each Beatle receiving 5 percent, while 80 percent went into Apple’s bank account. According to Paul, the main sticking point in reaching a financial settlement was John’s insistence that the others indemnify him against both US and UK tax claims. Until now, the Eastmans had resisted any such agreement, but keen to break the deadlock, Paul sought their blessing to accept Lennon’s terms; after all, what good was a divorce without a settlement?

(The McCartney Legacy: Volume 2: 1974-1980 by Allan Kozinn and Adrian Sinclair, 2024)

I spoke to the Eastmans. I said, “If we all think he’s not going to have a tax consequence, let’s give [the indemnity] to him.”’Cause, you know, if all sides are that smart, let’s all offer it. Break the deadlock. I went to New York, feeling like the bringer of good news. I rang him up. “Hello, John, how are you? Hello, how’s the kids? Oh, great. What’s all this about publishing? Yeah, great”—laugh laugh laugh—“What about Apple?” Tense. You know, that was the unfortunate thing in the last ten years. The moment you mention the word Apple, all of us go, eeeeep! Dread and horror and shock goes through all our systems. I said, “Look, as I understand it, you need this indemnity.” John said, “Fucking indemnity. Fucking this, fucking that. You don’t need to give me fucking indemnity, you fucking—” I think we ended up just sort of swearing at each other. I said, “Fuck you, ya big cunt,” ’cause I just couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t be sweet and reasonable anymore. I was shaking for an hour after that. Of course, the funniest thing was, I then meant to ring John Eastman and say to him, “No, no, it’s not gonna work, this whole thing. I tried to do the indemnity, it’s not gonna work.” Of course, I got the phone numbers wrong. I rang John Lennon back instead. [When the phone was answered, I said,] “Hello, John? Yeah, listen, I just—oh—yeah well…” But it was Yoko this time, and then I said, “Look, I didn’t mean for it to get like that—but, shit, you know, it seems to have got…” The funny thing was, they knew I was trying to ring John Eastman immediately after, so that would have reinforced their little feelings about me double-dealing. I’ve hardly talked to him since.

(Paul McCartney, 1980, in All You Need Is Love by Peter Brown and Steven Gaines, 2024)

Paul’s rage turned to embarrassment. Desperate to set the record straight and not leave New York under a storm cloud, Paul took a taxi ride to the Dakota building. The Lennons’ interior gardener, Mike Meideros, was watering plants when Paul pulled up outside. “It was maybe like five o’clock in the evening,” Meideros recalled, “and the concierge called up. I don’t know the exact conversation because I didn’t hear it, I just heard Yoko saying, ‘No, he can’t come up now.’ And I thought that was pretty cold.”

(Robert Rodriguez, Audio interview with Mike “Tree” Meideros for Something About the Beatles podcast, first broadcast March 10, 2024 - in The McCartney Legacy: Volume 2: 1974-1980 by Allan Kozinn and Adrian Sinclair, 2024)

The next song Paul brought in was a peculiar but musically fascinating medley. The first part, which he had demoed during the summer [June-July 1978], was a lively track built over an energetically bouncing bass line, alternatively called ‘Emotional Moments’ (after the opening lines, “Emotional moments / You left in a rage”) and ‘Cage’ (after the refrain, which immediately follows, “And if you could love me now / I wouldn’t be in a cage”). In the demos, the bass figure, shadowed by a synthesizer, continued in various permutations through the full track, and included a brisk, ear-catching chordal interlude dominated by the synthesizer. Now Paul added a second verse, which more or less explained the “cage” reference: “Provisional license* / I’m under arrest / But if you could get me out / I’d like to take another test.” The chordal interlude was moved to the end of the song, where it precedes a final verse. In the medley, Paul has interposed an entirely different song between the opening and closing verses of ‘Emotional Moments.’ Called ‘He Didn’t Mean It,’ this second song is slower and more melodic. In its lyrics, Paul revives a trick the Beatles had used in ‘She Loves You’…

(The McCartney Legacy: Volume 2: 1974-1980 by Allan Kozinn and Adrian Sinclair, 2024)

Emotional moments, you left in a rage But if you could love me now, I wouldn't be in a cage Provisional license, I'm under arrest But if you could get me out, I'd like to take another test I've been sent to tell you That the man you were with last night Is feeling sorry, sorry But he told me to tell you That he hardly ever lies But he lied to you last night He didn't mean it, no Said he didn't mean it, no I've been sent to tell you That the man you were with last night Is feeling lonely only for you He told me to tell you That he hardly ever cries But he cried for you last night, ooh He didn't mean it, no Said he didn't mean it, no

(Cage/Emotional moment)

[artbyblastweave]

🔥Punisher: Last Gun on Earth?

This ask is referring to the fairly-obscure 2010 zombie apocalypse Elseworld Marvel Universe Vs The Punisher by Jonathan Maberry, as well as the two prequels following Wolverine and Hawkeye at different points in the same timeline. I've been meaning to do a more comprehensive write-up on this for quite some time, as it was a series distinct from but very visibly in conversation with Marvel Zombies, which Maberry was also peripherally involved with. The elevator pitch is that a fuckup by the Punisher during a hit on the Russian Mob results in a cold war bioweapon getting into the biosphere, eventually turning almost the entire human population, and most of the superheroes, into adrenaline-fueled 28-days-later style rage zombies. Content Warning under the cut for discussions of racism

Despite its many, many flaws, there was a lot I enjoyed about this series, and alongside Marvel Zombies it had a not-insubstantial impact on my own aesthetic sensibilities, which I think probably comes through in a lot of my zombie artwork. The first mini, Marvel Universe Vs The Punisher, is a pastiche of I am Legend, with Frank Castle in the role of Robert Neville, an infected Deadpool in the role of Neville's abnormally sentient neighbor Ben Cortman, and with a zombified Spider-Man the white whale that he's spent five years hunting through the remains of Manhattan. Before I get into the rancid shit, I'm going to talk about what I enjoyed:

While the series succumbs to all-too-common Punisher Wank in terms of his efficacy in taking down a number of the A-list infected heroes, it ultimately comes out the other side as a pretty competent piece of character work for Frank; the series is grimly aware that a virus turning most of the human population into a shooting gallery of sadistic cannibal maniacs would be something like Valhalla for Frank, regardless of his pretensions to the contrary. Moreover, it's subtly implied that Frank's belief that he's immune is incorrect, and what's actually happening is that a virus that turns you into a vindictive, dogmatic maniac with a hardwired us-or-them mindset had no effect on him because he was already like that. There are ultimately revealed to be thousands of other survivors in New York, all of whom have spent five years studiously avoiding him because they think he's batshit insane. Even zombie Spider-Man, played up as the Biggest Bad, is ultimately revealed to have retained enough humanity to protect his uninfected family the entire time, whereas Frank is ultimately painted as unrelenting genocide machine whose psychological inability to give quarter ultimately makes him worse than the infected.

From there the series extrapolated some hilarious commentary on the genre as a whole; the zombie outbreak was going on for months before reaching critical mass, and nobody noticed because the baseline levels of random street violence and superpowered brawls are already so high in these settings that nobody realized a lot of the fights were occurring for rage-virus reasons until Spider-Man killed and ate a supervillain on live television. The whole series can be viewed through the lens of the usual spectacle-bait crisis-crossover contrived-battle-between-heroes routine, distilled to its purest form and escalated to the point of Ragnarök; the art frequently deliberately obfuscates which combatants are infected and which are uninfected people fighting for their lives. In this way it's playing with the pre-existing logic of the superhero genre in a way that Marvel Zombies didn't.

Maberry knows how to use Deadpool in a supporting character role without having him eat the entire goddamn thing. It's a fun dynamic!

Unlike Marvel Zombies, which was deliberately unconcerned with logistics as part of the gonzo fever-dream aesthetic, Maberry put some actual thought into a semi-plausible model by which a zombie virus could overrun a superhero setting. The responsible mutagen is air-and-waterborne, causing people to start turning at random months after being infected rather than through bites or fluid contact, and sneaks around healing factors because the mutations it causes are parsed as improvements rather than disease symptoms. Mass swarms of infected, unpowered civilians are as relevant, if not more relevant, than the superhumans are in spreading the infection, leading in turn to a lot of Left 4 dead styled set piece co-op fights like the one depicted above, and leading to the failure state that a superhero might be able to mince human wave attacks all day but at a certain point they'll have chewed through everyone they were ostensibly protecting by doing so, even if they themselves survive. This is a dynamic that, ultimately, only Frank Castle is really capable of thriving within, because with him it was never about protecting people, just hurting "bad" ones.

Which leads to another major positive points- the series is also a lot more concerned with rendering the setting's downward spiral. Eight prequel issues depicting the superhero community going down fighting over the course of months, rather than folding like a dixie cup in a trash compactor for horror value. Dead Days is the closest that Marvel Zombies ever got to rendering that same process, and while that was a very good oneshot it was still a deliberately compact one-shot. Here you get tableau after tableau of survivors throwing down with zombies. Unlikely alliances, second-string deep-cut z-listers crawling out of the woodwork- all interspersed with the growing realization among the protagonists that this is not business as usual, the status quo is not going to hold this time, it's just the actual apocalypse.

Here's Punisher, Hawkeye, Iron Fist and Black Cat trying to hold the Holland tunnel. Here's Dr. Bong, Howard the Duck Ruby Tuesday and Hit Monkey making a last stand in Central Park. This shit unironically kicks ass! This is what I think a lot of people are gesturing at when they say that they want to see a superheroes vs zombies story.

And, on that note, if you're going to tell this kind of story, Punisher, Wolverine and Hawkeye are objectively three of the best characters to have as the viewpoint characters- precisely the right level of competence and street-level scrappiness to survive without having a prayer of turning the tables outright. "Shit, Man, this superhero war is fucked-" the comic.

One additional minor thing I enjoyed about the series, aesthetically, is that while Marvel Zombies was a deliberately anachronistic mish-mash where every character was depicted in their most visually iconic outfits from across decades of publication, This series was very specifically working with the Marvel Universe status quo circa 2010 when it was published- The X-Men in San Francisco, Red Hulk on the Avengers, now-long-forgotten Avengers Academy kids in crowd shots. It grounds the narrative in a way Marvel Zombies was deliberately avoiding, acting as a snapshot and a time capsule in a neat way.

Now onto the two big things I didn't like about this series, the latter of which sinks it really really badly:

One: Caption Cancer. Maberry is one of those authors who I like on balance but who also often lapses into Talking Just To Talk. How many times does the navel-gazey running commentary in the above excerpts double back on itself, and how much is it actually saying- particularly when contrasted with the story told by the art and dialogue alone? Either he felt a need to fill the space (bad) or worse, he thought that these were some kind of deep and compelling rumination on the human condition. In general the balance of exposition to action in this thing were.... all over the place, not always integrated gracefully. The best sequences in the book are the ones where the captions just shut the fuck up so we can watch these people clobber each other. This is not a problem the original Marvel Zombies had- one thing I like about Kirkman is that he's usually a caption minimalist, letting the art and the dialogue do the heavy lifting. You don't get a page as quiet and decompressed as the following in the entire 12 issue run of Marvel Universe Vs.

Two: It's Racist. Like, really really racist. The comic continuously lapses into extremely racist imagery with the infected, using the visual language of "primitive savage tribes" with seemingly zero awareness of the real-life groups that those tropes were used to propagandize against and dehumanize. It's one thing to have zombies that take human body parts as trophies- that's kind of a cool motif- it's quite another to have a zombified Hulk who braids his hair in an obvious caricature of Native Americans, complete with feathers. What the fuck, Maberry!

Moreover it's a comically unforced error- everything compelling happens outside of that imagery, it's adding basically nothing but an attack surface to the premise. 28 days later did this basic premise without the racism, Left 4 Dead did this basic premise without the racism, The Crazies did this basic premise without the racism, Fucking Crossed did this basic premise without using the same racist visual language, at least until after Ennis left the book. Congratulations- you found a way to make the zombies more on-the-face racially insensitive than Garth Ennis. Round of Applause, everyone. This specific issue is why I don't think I've ever brought this book up in depth unprompted, it's genuinely really gross.

Anyway, those are my unified thoughts on the Marvel Universe Vs. trilogy, hope you enjoyed.

[todaysdocument]

"The Flower and I" by Ralph Kuznitzki

Record Group 48: Records of the Office of the Secretary of the InteriorSeries: Central Classified FilesFile Unit: 1-5 Refugees (Pt. 1)

This is an English composition written by Ralph Kuznitzki, a 15 year old refugee living in the Fort Ontario refugee camp in Oswego, New York.

The flower and I

The fresh and rather cold morning breeze blew directly in my face, making my ears and the and the tip of my nose, red. I had passed the houses which protected me against it, and now I was crossing a wet lawn. I hurried to pass it. But when I arrived at the next block of houses, I noticed that a small part of it had come along with me. It was stuck in my shoes, that small flower. After having picked it up, I was about to throw it away, when I suddenly came to think of a strange fact. How greatly likely was the flower's life with mine! It may be a stupid idea, but there is something true with it.

Born far away, it stayed in it calm life only for a short time. Where was it born? I don't know. It didn't answer me when I asked it. In its youngest years the wind of nature brought it and the tornado of Nazis brought me away from our mother place. Many things we saw; we passed many strange spots on this earth, I imagine. Then comes the difference between our lives. After a long time it found its place, where to settle down, where to stay for all its life, till the cruel feet of a boy came to take it away. I found a place too; but will this place be my fatherland, my place where I can settle down, develop and finally -- die? I hope so, because I like it and feel the liberty which is here, as the medicine for my illness. The illness of terror and supressed [sic] nights of a man And then when the foot was bones will strike me, I'll be satisfied with my life and my work.

The shrill blast of the sirens awoke me from my dreams. I didn't throw the flower away. I kept it and now it hangs on the wall of my room, as a symbol of hope for a home for myself and a fatherland for me and my descendants.

Robert Kuznitzki

[undying-love]

Paul being very secure about his sexuality: A compilation

"The reason why we didn’t do Up Against It wasn’t because it was too far out or anything. We didn’t do it because it was gay. We weren’t gay and really that was all there was to it. It was quite simple, really. Brian was gay…and so he and the gay crowd could appreciate it. Now, it wasn’t that we were anti-gay – just that we, The Beatles, weren’t gay."

“It was always obvious Brian was gay and we could talk to him about gay things, but he would never come out with, ‘Hello, Paul, you’re looking nice today.’ I was quite obviously un-gay, due to my hunting of the female hordes. I think we all gave that impression."

Q:  You must be very secure with yourself.

Paul: I think it is that. I'm OK with gay people, too, because I'm essentially comfortable with my sexuality. I can goof around with gay people. I sort of know who I am by now.  And it's about time.

"I imagine he heard it [Dear Friend]. I think he listened to my records, but he never responded directly. That wasn't his way. We were guys; it wasn't like a boy and a girl. In those days you didn't release much emotion with each other."

"One thing he told us was that one in every four men is homosexual. So we looked at the group! One in every four! It literally meant one of us is gay. Oh, fucking hell, it’s not me, is it? We had a lot of soul-searching to do over that little one."

"There's a song I do called Here Today which is specifically written for John. That sometimes catches me out. I realise I'm telling this man that I love him and it's like I'm publicly declaring this in front of all these people I don't know. I sometimes wonder what I'm doing.

Q: In “Here Today”, you talk about your love for John. Did you ever say that to him, in those days?" Paul: No. I'm sure we both felt it. But that is not something two boys use to say to each other. If they were gay, maybe. Otherwise it is rare that that happens."

"My view is that these things are there whether you want them or not, in your interior. You don't call up dreams, they happen, often the exact opposite of what you want. You can be heterosexual and be having a homosexual dream and wake up, and think, 'Shit, am I gay?' I like that you don't have control over it. But there is some control -- it is you dreaming, it is your mind it's all happening in."

"We were in New York before he [George] went to Los Angeles to die, and they were silly but important to me. And, I think, important to him. We were sitting there, and I was holding his hand, and it occurred to me — I’ve never told this — I don’t want to hold George’s hand. You don’t hold your mate’s hands. I mean, we didn’t anyway. "

"Yeah, I think he [John] did [love me], yeah. It wasn’t actually a spiky relationship at all. It was, uh, very warm, very close and very loving, I think. All The Beatles. We used to say, I think we were amongst the first sort of men to come out openly – and you remember, it was quite sort of strange in those days, we’re talking about a long time ago now when homosexuality was still sort of largely illegal."

"Because he [Robert Faser] was gay, it raised a few small-minded eyebrows, and funnily enough, one or two of them were from within the Beatles: ‘Hey, man, he’s gay, what you going off to Paris with him for? They’re gonna talk, you know. Tongues are going to wag.’ I said, ‘I know tongues are going to wag, but tough shit.’ I was secure about my sexuality. I always felt this is is fine. I can hang with whoever I want and it didn’t worry me. I mean, we didn’t share a room or anything."

"With Robert’s thing of course there would be gayness. But there was no open gayness. If there was to be gayness it would be a quiet phone call that Robert would go and take in the bedroom or something. That was one of the good things, actually, because I knew he was gay and he knew I wasn’t gay so we were quite safe in our own | sexuality. We could talk to each other. "

Lastly, there is this odd anecdote that may or may not mean anything, but here it is:

One of the strangest of these incidents came at the end of 1992 when Mark Featherstone-Witty attended the MPL Christmas lunch. Mark took an accountant friend to the meal, a McCartney fan he'd known for years, which led to a strange and unpleasant row. By Mark's recollection, Paul's manager Richard Ogden summoned him into the MPL office the next day where he read him the riot act for bringing an unwelcome guest to Paul's party. 'What do you mean by bringing someone who was so obviously gay to Paul's Christmas party? Have you any idea about the responsibility you carry in this project?' he allegedly asked. 'What are you talking about?' replied Featherstone-Witty, explaining who his friend was. 'But he was gay, you stupid fucker!' 'No, he isn't.' 'You've got to be careful. You can't do anything that would embarrass Paul...'"

Fab : An intimate Life of Paul McCartney by Howard Sounes

[senka-mesecine]

What if Reader is jealous cause a couple of playboy bunnies had been flown in, performing for the troops on a Friday night. All the boys are infatuated by them, so she thinks, why should Barnes be any different? She worries Barnes has eyes for them, yet tries to hide her blatant jealousy from him due to embarrassment (assuming he even saw the girls performing in the first place). Shutting up when she feels his presence or even painfully faking a smile.

How would he handle this? How would he set her straight? Or would he pry and prod to see if he could pull the jealousy out of her, finding it endearing / entertaining / a turn on.

Thank youuu, you’re a genius 😌

The USO Show.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

ANN-MARGRET'S COMING TO CAM RAHN!

The world of that travels fast, at whirlwind speed, spreading like wildfire.

And instantaneously, the atmosphere at base camp changes, something holiday-like, almost jubilant overtaking everyone, washing over the general disposition and the morale of the platoon like a warm wave; whispers, plan-making and generally subdued excitement filling barracks, foxholes, bunkers and tents along with the occasional poster of the handmade variety as well as official print dotting bulletin boards; it's what you wake up to that morning, carrying provisional crates containing bandages and gauze. Bunny and Junior nailing a large centerfold a vulturous, redhaired woman on a huge notice sign starkly in the middle of base camp with a hammer. Starring, Ann-Margret, Nancy Sinatra, Playboy Bunnies and the Lonnie B. and Vicky G. Show with special host, Bob Hope! The poster says, the smiling auburn-headed woman taking center stage in knee-length shining boots and a mini-dress caught glamorous amidst a dance move grazing your eyesight and leaving behind a burning sensation. She was beautiful.-"You know what I wanna do to her?"- Bunny points with deliberation and you avert your gaze passing the pair, speeding up your pace, trying not to overhear but overhearing anyway, for better or for worse. -"I wanna suck her through a straw sticking out of her ginger Swedish poontang, man."- Typical Bunny being Bunny. You nod at the two as a way of hello; luckily, they don't notice. Too immersed in the task of ogling and leering over the centerfold they just put up next to a makeshift road sign of various distances, anywhere from Kansas, to LA to New York; erected for nostalgia's sake. A little reminder of home.

-"Bunny, you fucking gross, man! Put me off my lunch!"-

You hear Junior whine from behind you, truly aggrieved.

-"Yeah, that's cause'youse don't like pussy. You like carrot."-

Bunny retorts with a jab, but by then, you're long out of sight, biting down on your lip.

---

You were crestfallen.

Yes, crestfallen.

Now, you understood there was something contrarian and maybe even a tad bit selfish in feeling so blue when everyone else was ecstatic, right along the fact that it was downright delusional to ponder and consider the possibility of how the Sergeants would behave at this show if mere infantry and soldiery was behaving the way they were already, case and point, Bunny and Junior, but your mind still guided you unwittingly, where it shouldn't have been guiding you; Sergeant Barnes was a private fascination, sure. You had a right to those, you tell yourself. Man owed you nothing. Knew nothing of your feelings and it would stay that way too. If you liked him, you liked him privately, for yourself. by yourself. He, just as you had the right to have unrequited feelings for him, had the right to go and feast his eyes on something pretty after months and months spent in the bush --- you really couldn't even blame him or anyone else as for that matter, your pain genuine, but still having no righteous reason or basis to exist, you thought. Quietly suffering over a man who wasn't even yours, going to enjoy a spectacle put on by professionals who did this for a living. My goodness, you're really hellbent on hurting yourself, you tell yourself, shrugging off intrusive thoughts of Barnes's focused, intense eyes staring out at the busy stage, following all those legs, velvet clad derrières, immaculate, synched waistlines, winking cat eyes, puckered roughed lips and haridos sprayed to perfection. And here you were, grimy nails, hair tucked away beneath a hair scarf tied at the nape of your neck, sweaty, chronically exhausted and in a state of constant work, staying behind on washing duty, scrubbing the blood stained sheets of deceased patients with white soap.

Maybe if I was freshly flown in on some glitzy plane, you think.

Maybe If was freshly powered up, perfumed, dressed and clean ---

Maybe I could make him turn his eyes on me too.

Same as those dancing dolls.

An empty, childish fantasy, you conclude bitterly as the trucks next to the main barracks were filling up with eager men practically jumping into the back of the vehicle with a roaring cacophony of running motor engines, privates already singing, shouting, laughing and slapping each other the back, far away from the outhouse on the outskirts of the base where you did the platoon's basic wash up --- you decided to isolate yourself today of all days. That was the general idea, yes. Make yourself busy. Useful. Sink yourself into your duties. Try and tune out the world. Not show how upset you were, but try and stay out of everyone's sight long enough to prevent yourself from spoiling everyone else's fun. Not be present when he boards the truck with the rest of them. With Bunny filling his ears about whether the carpets match the drapes and O'Neill no doubt egging him on to stay after hours, in bars and clubs dotting the beach front of Cam Rahn, causing you to envision him inebriated and high on life, one girl seated on one knee and one on the other as they silently moved upstairs sometime after midnight, to some tucked away room somewhere, at the end of some red hallway enveloped in cigarette smoke. Why do you do this to yourself, your subconsciousness asks, once the fatigues, uniforms, towels and sheets were all washed and drying, having done a full week's work within one afternoon on purpose, the basecamp enveloped in the shroud of dusk by the time you emerge out of the small building, deciding to check on the barracks; maybe give whatever needed cleaning a good clean. Tire yourself out so much you'll merely plop down on your own bed like someone just hit by a train, drifting off to a dreamless sleep and not think. Not think for at least six hours minimum.

-"Oh!"-

You exhale, finding the lights at the main hall starkly bright.

Overhead. Attracting flies and mosquitos.

A long row of immaculate empty beds lining the hall and a singular form sitting on a nearby ammo crate; causing you to halt in your steps.

He ---

-"You haven't gone with the others, Sarge? The last truck has just headed out."-

You stutter, addressing Barnes, head downcast, seemingly making busy with the task of carving something with a push knife. He stayed behind? Why did he stay behind!? He looks up at you, like he knew you were there long before he ever acknowledged it with a physical cue. In response, all you get is a shrug. -"Eh."- He tilts his head, nonchalant, barely interested, causing you to feel like an intruder; like you weren't supposed to be here. You genuinely thought there was nobody here but you and the night watch. The night watch that would take its turn to be chauffeured out to Cam Rahn tomorrow for their break when someone else takes their shift. You shift from one leg to another, about to back out of the building, making small talk to fill the discomfort of surprise. -"Aren't you sad you missed them?"- You ask, dropping the formal tone and instantly regretting it; your chuckle awkward and small, realizing you were so startled you forgot proper form. He says nothing, his blade grazing the edge of something flat that sounded like wood. -"Bob Hope's gonna be entertaining."- You try again, fidgeting, hoping to be excused and simultaneously wanting to falling into the floor. -"And Ann-Margaret's coming too! Landing in a private plane!"- You add, unsure why; maybe by accident. Maybe because you expected some sort of positive reaction out of him that would only serve as a dagger to hurt yourself further with and enjoy it too; enjoy the weird, bizarre, exquisite, self-reinforcing pain of being unwanted. He looks up at you again, this time holding his stare for longer. -"If I'm keen on hearin' some Californian of dubious background shootin' the breeze off of a stage I can just listen to 'Lias playin' wise guy without movin' an inch."- You retorts and it takes you a couple of seconds to register a joke at the Sergeants expense; your smile tiny, embarrassed, covered up with your hand, unsure if, by accord, you were allowed to laugh at that, snorting against your palm, now standing on the threshold to the eerily empty barracks, one step away from scurrying out on some newly invented excuse of a task. -"But, the bunnies!"- You shoot in. -"Everyone's been really excited about them."- Yeah. Everyone. So, why ain't you among them, something from deep inside you asks him. -"Eyup."- Is all Barnes remarks, confirming, clipped and a man of few words as ever.

-"A broad preformin' for ten thousand sad sacks of shit is preformin' for none of 'em."-

He mutters and you need to stop breathing to ensure you were hearing that right.

-"Certainly ain' for me."-

He clicks his tongue, something about the notion seeming to displease him.

-"It ain' real."-

He builds in on his statement, leaving it as large as a house; looming over you, practically engulfing. You...didn't know what to say to that frankly. He must've been the only man in the 25th Bravo Division who thought that way and truth of the matter, probably the only man in the whole wide world, deepening the night time quietude even further, causing you to realize you were just effectively stunned into silence and that the scraping of his blade was practically echoing throughout the barracks, matching the thumping, beating staccato of your heart, your guts coiling into a painful knot. Maybe this didn't mean anything. Sergeant Barnes was always known to be so duty bound and piqued on the task at hand that he'd often neglect rest, breaks, R&R, and even sleep purely so he'd maintain that extra hour on guard, that extra hour on the ground, on terrain, out on the field, on the ready. That was simply his manner. In fact, this was the most you've ever heard him speak to anyone off the record, you included.

Maybe why you were so caught out of left field about it.

-"Why ain'chu goin'?"-

He inquires, and a shiver runs through you once you stir back to attention.

Now, that was a question you didn't expect.

Having the tables turned around on you.

You never expected anyone to care or even notice why you stayed behind. Not when all the other nurses have gone and boarded the trucks too right alongside the men, and just as eager as they were.

-"Your eyes ain' waterin' to catch a glimpse of Heston in them tight bell bottoms? Makin' good use of tax payin' dollars."-

He jabs, head cocked to one side; a trace of humor clearly laced through his words, albeit faintly as he throw one leg over his knee where he sat, twiddling the knife between his fingers, the light of the bulbs overhead reflection off the polished steel like a camera flash. -"Bobby Rydell with cookin' oil in his hair swingin' and swoonin'?"- He adds, clearly meaning to paint a vivid picture. No, all I want is to catch a glimpse of you, your innermost voice whispers. I am more than content with that. In fact, just standing here with you fills me with all the joy and agony in the world. Nobody they could fly in from all the lands and countries imaginable would make me so happy. -"Oh, no, sir."- You clear your throat instead, keeping your thoughts at bay, mustering a tiny smile; cordial, for politeness's sake, crossing your hands behind your back, fingers squeezing each other for comfort and so you would avoid twiddling them quite as much. -"Not for me."- You manage, shaking your head. -"Why not? You're a healthy, full-blooded woman."- He interjects almost immediately, standing up from the crate leisurely, blade and his half carved little piece of wood still in each hand. Somehow, that description of you as healthy and full-blooded sounded both as a complement and a fair bit of chiding; like he didn't quite understand what had to be wrong with you to miss the opportunity to see some of Hollywood's leading men live. Funnily enough, you could say the same about him. Some of the most dead drop gorgeous smokeshows would be at Cam Rahn and he was just indifferent to being there? -"A woman likes seein' her eyecandy."- Those words practically dance in his mouth, matching the odd leisurely pace of his footsteps, like he borderline intended to tease you for simply being here with him, embolden something dormant in you that nearly capsized inside of you with how fiercely you guarded it; your courage. -"Same as a man."- You counter. Not unkindly. But, a counter was still a counter. A counter you halfway regret dishing out once you find his eyes burning, unmoving and fierce. Crosshairs that could shoot you dead where you stood. You brace yourself, coming up with tactical, politically correct excuses ever a talent you practiced like a finely toned muscle.

-"Well, in either case, guess it's us two, sir. I'll fix you up more coffee, if you like. A chance to tidy up the place with everyone being away too."-

You practically stutter, in an artificial, make belief hurry, taking a couple of steps back, not turning your back to him until he'd, as you hoped, got sufficiently bored of this exchange to dismiss you. What did you know of his troubles, after all? Maybe solitude was what he craved. Maybe you were disturbing him in that without intending to. He wouldn't have stayed behind if solitude wasn't what he wanted. Still, his voice halts you. You whip back, semi expecting him to call you a wall flower and a special snowflake incapable of running with the tides, something within your guts telling you, however fantastical of a notion it was, that he stayed behind for you as much as you stayed behind for him. A healthy, full-blooded person could dream.

-"Cherry?"-

-"Sir?"-

-"Who'd they have to fly in for you to go and take a break with erry'one else? With them other nurses?"-

He leans one shoulder at one of the supporting pillars that held up the roof of the barracks, fingers newly engrossed in the old task of carving; his trust in his knife so complete that he could drag the shiv across the wood without even looking, eyes entirely on you. Who...would have to be starring at a USO show for you to be tempted to go with the other women? Was that what he was asking? Nobody? Somebody? Anybody? Everybody? Made no difference to you. You weren't the going type.

-"Haven't really thought about it, sir."-

You answer in honest, finding yourself unable to lie to him so blatantly.

If he expected a specific name or face, he'd have to consider this inquiry a letdown.

What was this conversation anyway?

Not that you didn't enjoy every second spent with him.

It was just...well...a surprise.

You sure as heck didn't expect to spend the end of today's day standing around chatting with Sergeant Barnes on the topic of which male celebrity was your favorite, rendering everything around you with a fever dream like quality; liminal and strange, the added weight of everything emphasized by the fact you were alone out here and the whole great wide world was out there, miles and miles away from your current position. In fact, if you listened carefully enough, you could swear you could hear the faintest signs of stage music all the way out here, on the edges of the jungle perimeter, in this lone building where you both stood, now merely a couple of steps between you. God strike me dead. He stood right in front of you in his green fatigues, his button up shirt rolled up at the sleeves, the veins lining his arms moving and flexing as he reach over to hand you whatever he was clenching in his fist, blade tucked back into place, somewhere in his safety belt. -"Yeah, haven't thought 'bout it myself none much. No point in gettin' up and ridin' all the way to Cam Rahn."- He concludes with a drawl; dry and distant --- disinterest oozing out of every pore he had, staring out the barrack's main entrance and the orange light spilling over the threshold and into the darkness on the horizon, gazing past your form and then landing back on you once your hand opens to feel a carved shape close around it, receiving what he gave you, before his free hand grabbed a hold of the reigns of the weapon hanging from a nearby shelf, slinging it over one shoulder, always on the ready. You open the palm of your hand tentatively, mouth agape. A face. A woman's face was what you were holding. It vaguely looked like ---

-"The views' to my likin' right here too."-

Barnes observes, giving you a lingering look, walking past you, obscured by the night.

You. It was you, it hits you like lightning. He was carving you.

By then, he was gone, blending with the abyss outside.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 19

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

AO3

Word Count: 3.5k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58 @justheretoreadthxxs @blakelysco-pilot

A/N: I'm sooo sorry this chapter took so long!! things have been super busy lately and my motivation to write was so low it was literally in hell. But! we got there eventually - please enjoy!! <3

December 1945

Morning sunlight flooded the room, the hustle and bustle of New York sounding through open windows as Frankie pried open a new paint can with a grunt, leaving a smudge of blue in her wake as she raised a paint-stained hand to wipe across her forehead. With each brush stroke, the room grew more alive with colour as everything steadily seemed to come together.

She'd been up since before dawn. Sleep didn't come easily these days.

Hair pulled messily out of her face, Frankie dressed in a pair of Rosie's old pyjamas, the shirt only half-buttoned, left open where it became too small to reach across her swelling stomach. A bassinet remained unassembled in the hall, waiting for its spot to be ready, and the smell of coffee wafted up from downstairs, a surefire sign that Rosie had awoken too, undoubtedly readying for work.

Within a few minutes, he came to her, hovering in the doorway in his suit - the one that was tailored the best, the one that made her melt a little no matter how many times he wore it. "Morning," She called with a smile, adjusting a piece of masking tape along the window frame. The sun caught her at just the right angle, illuminating her silhouette as she straightened.

"You're beautiful," Rosie beamed, crossing the room towards her. Lifting a hand to cup her cheek, he brought his lips to hers, delivering a gentle kiss.

"Ah-ah," Frankie chided, ducking backwards as she lifted her hands in surrender. "Paint hands." He chuckled as she scampered from the room, scurrying to the bathroom to wash away the streaks of wet paint that stained her hands to preserve that excellent suit of his.

He was waiting when she returned, a pleased smile creasing his cheek as she returned the first kiss, one of his palms pressed against her stomach. As she finally pulled away, he raised a hand, stifling a chuckle as the pad of his thumb rubbed at the paint staining her face.

"Don't work yourself too hard, honey," He urged, entirely unable to meet her eye without a smile creeping across his expression.

"Oh, you know me," She teased, straightening his tie.

Scoffing, Rosie shook his head slightly. "That's the problem."

Frankie shrugged. "Eh. Bucky's coming over in a bit, might sit down for a whole ten minutes. I'll drop by the garage for a bit just to check in."

"Have him drive you," He nodded, turning to head for the door.

"I can drive!" She protested. Rosie let out a bark of laughter, swinging back on his heel.

"No, you cannot - for the safety of New York, I beg."

Frankie guffawed, batting a hand in his direction. "Get outta here!"

"Yes ma'am," Rosie grinned, tipping an imaginary cap before disappearing down the hall.

Once again alone in the nursery, she smiled to herself, chuckling as her fingers drummed against her stomach. "Your dad thinks I'm a terrible driver," She whispered as if confiding a secret to the child within her. "Although, your uncle Bucky says it too, so they might be onto something. Either way, it looks like I won't be doing the school run."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A little over an hour later, the doorbell sounded, startling Frankie enough to make her jump, a splatter of paint falling from her brush and staining her sock as she cursed beneath her breath. Waddling slightly as she made her way downstairs, she seized a sweater from the back of a nearby chair, tugging it up over her head to cover her stomach. As she wrenched the door open, gaze settling on the figure standing on the front step, she fought the urge to grin.

"I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"Shut up," Bucky chuckled, stepping inside as he wrapped her in a hug. "You look huge."

"You smell bad," Frankie grimaced.

"Late night."

"Oh yeah?" She raised a brow, a smirk curling her lip as he shrugged nonchalantly, a faint splash of colour tinting his cheeks. "Anything to share with the class?" Bucky frowned, side-stepping his way inside like he owned the place

"Oh come on," Frankie groaned, shutting the front door with a slam. "I haven't been out for a drink in months, I need someone to live vicariously through."

"There... may have been a girl."

"Knew it," She grinned, scurrying into the front room to take a seat in one of the armchairs. "Sit, sit, sit!"

"Jesus, you need to get out more," Bucky muttered, perching on the edge of the couch. "That baby's making you weird."

"Not the point. Start talking."

Throwing his hands up in frustration, he let out a sigh. "I don't know! I got drunk and we danced - she was pretty, I think her name was... Jo? Josephine. But other than that I got nothin', so I'll probably never see her again."

Frankie let out a long, agonised groan as she pushed herself back up out of her seat, waddling towards the kitchen. "God, what's the point of living through you if all you do is make stupid decisions?"

"Where are you going?" Bucky called after her, craning his neck to watch as she disappeared into the kitchen. It was quiet for a while until she reappeared in the doorway, a plate of shortbread in her hand, already chewing a mouthful.

"You want some?"

He snorted back a laugh, smiling sceptically. "You made those?"

"They're the only thing I'm good at. Three ingredients." She mused, licking some sugar from her fingertip as she returned, putting the plate down on the coffee table. Lowering herself back into her chair, Frankie let out a groan, the feeling of weight being taken from her practically euphoric. "So. What's the plan for tracking down this Jo?"

Bucky threw his hands up in despair. "I dunno. It's impossible."

Her eyes narrowed slowly. "I don't think I've ever heard you say those words," Frankie teased. "Do it again. Slowly."

"Shut up," He frowned, stuffing a piece of shortbread into his mouth to avoid having to speak for at least a little while.

"I just never knew you to be a coward," She shrugged. "You're setting a bad example for the baby."

Bucky scoffed, a few crumbs blowing loose from his moustache. "The baby doesn't know what's going on."

Frankie felt a stretch within her as the baby kicked out with her tiny foot. "Oh, she begs to differ."

"Oh my God."

"Hm?"

"I just realised there's actually gonna be two of you. I dunno if I can cope with that."

"Oh, don't tell me Uncle Bucky's gonna shirk his duties."

"...Uncle Bucky?"

"Mhm."

He began to grin, chuckling to himself, unable to suppress his smile as he leant back into his seat. "Well... alright. I think I can work with that."

Frankie mirrored his smile, the room falling into quiet for a long moment before she snapped her fingers.

"Ok. You're giving me a lift to work."

"Oh, am I?"

"Yep. Rosie says I'm not allowed to drive."

"Oh, yeah, no, good call actually. I'll get my coat," Bucky nodded firmly, fumbling for his keys as he rose to his feet.

"Well, I was thinking I'd go put proper clothes on first," She pointed out. He turned, taking in her appearance, the sleeves of Rosie's sweater dangling past her fingertips, paint-stained socks peeking out beneath the hem of her pyjama bottoms.

"Seems fair."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Bucky's car vanished around the corner as Frankie headed inside through the open garage door, groaning slightly as she craned backwards, stretching her back against the weight it carried. The place was alive with work, her staff bustling away as they tweaked and mended the cars in their custody, a raucous whirr filling the air and bringing her back to the countless hours spent in her father's shop as a girl.

"Mrs Rosenthal," One of the mechanics nodded to her as she waddled past, tipping an imaginary cap in her direction.

"Mornin', Ted," She paused, stepping up beside him as he peered beneath the hood of one of the cars. "How's it lookin'?"

"Think we got a problem with one of the carburettor valves - I'll take it out and have a look, but we'll probably have to order a part."

"Alright," Frankie hummed. "I'm sending out an order later anyway, if you can get it checked today I should be able to get it in fast."

"Thanks, Frank," Ted smiled, the pair exchanging nods as she headed towards the office, which sat tucked away in the far rear of the place, its windowed walls giving her a perfect view of everything that went on.

"Excuse me?" A voice echoed through the garage, barely audible over the roar of machinery, giving Frankie pause as her hand reached for the office door. A woman lingered in the entryway, clutching her purse as she glanced around hoping to be noticed. Her blonde hair was pulled back in neat curls, a pleasant smile curling red lips as she met Frankie's eye.

"Hi!" She grinned, meeting the woman in the middle of the room as they headed towards each other. "What can I do for ya?"

"I'm just here to pick up my car, I brought it in a few days ago."

"Alright, no worries," Frankie nodded, back-tracking towards the office to grab her clipboard "What's the name?"

"Josephine Pitz."

She paused, slowly looking up from her notes, her earlier conversation with Bucky replaying in her head.

"Mhm. Ok. If you could just take a seat, I'll go deal with the paperwork and you'll be good to go," Frankie urged, waddling at full speed back to her office as Josephine found a chair.

Alone in the privacy of her office, she grabbed the papers, fumbling for the phone on her desk as she forcibly dialled the familiar number. Holding the handset between her shoulder and her chin, she scribbled away, deigning not to get too precious about her terrible spelling as she waited for her friend to pick up.

"Hello?" Bucky's voice came down the line.

"I think I've found the answer to your Josephine problem."

She heard him scoff. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Shut up, she's just come in. Josephine Pitz - blonde hair, green eyes... great legs."

"Oh shit."

"That's what I'm saying! Get down here right now - knock on the back door."

"Alright, yeah - On it."

The line beeped as he hung up, and she couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image of Bucky scrambling to get out of the house, scurrying to his car in a frenzied hurry. Frankie pushed herself closer to the desk, the table's edge digging into her stomach as she signed off on the last paper, only half paying attention as she focused on keeping Josephine firmly in her peripheral vision.

After ten minutes of clumsy stalling, the knock of a fist against the back door came as a welcome intrustion, and Bucky was scarcely able to offer greetings before he found Frankie's lunch thrust into his hands.

"Wh-?"

"Go round the front - pretend I forgot this, and Rosie's asked you to bring it."

He looked down at the crumpled paper bag, nodding firmly. "Good plan. Great plan. Ok."

"Right, go."

Flashing her a grin of excitement, Bucky disappeared around the side of the building, appearing mere seconds later at the front entrace, her lunch held aloft as if in victory. Josephine did a double take, eyes widening slightly in recognition, whilst he seemed to be pretending he hadn't noticed her yet. It struck Frankie as an odd decision.

"Here you are," Bucky declared, holding the bag out to her with a smile as he approached. "Can't keep forgetting this. Feedin' two n' all."

"Oh! Yes, thank you," Frankie nodded. Even when unable to see her own face, she could tell her attempt at appearing surprised was not going terribly well.

"... John?" Josephine's voice intruded. He turned to face her. If Frankie's effort at feigning shock had been unsuccessful, his was worse.

"Jo? Huh! Fancy seeing you here!"

Jo's jaw hung slightly slack, gaze darting between them as the gears turned in her head. Bucky and Frankie stood frozen, waiting for her to speak.

"... Oh my god, you're married?!"

Some kind of terrible squawk escaped Frankie's throat, an awkward middle ground between a choke and a guffaw. "Oh, Jesus, no! No, no - see the Rosenthal & Co. sign outside? I'm the Rosenthal. He's Egan, completely unrelated."

Jo's frown faded slightly, brows still pinched as the shock of what she thought she'd realised slowly wore off. Briefly glancing at Bucky, he offered her an awkward thumbs-up.

"So... Who's the 'Co.'?"

"Right here," Frankie patted her stomach, which barely fit beneath the buttons of her coveralls.

"... Huh."

"We're just friends," Bucky assured. "We worked together during the war."

"This whole thing was just a set-up attempt, cuz he was at my house earlier talking about you," Frankie shrugged.

Suddenly the others were both staring at her with expressions of equal alarm. She paused, clicking her tongue awkwardly.

"I am... gonna go get your car. Just... carry on without me."

"Please go away now," Bucky uttered.

"Yep."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

5th January 1946

Christmas lights still bathed the living room in a flickering array of red and green, the tree long since wilted and thrown away, although neither of them had quite found the time to take down any of the other decorations. There always seemed to be another job that needed doing more urgently, and as the days passed, Frankie found herself more and more open to Rosie's pleas that she simply sit down, rest, and let him take care of it all.

He was lounging in one of the armchairs, newspaper unfolded in his lap, a few dry patched of paint still staining his shirt from where he'd helped her to finish painting the nursery. Padding across the room, Frankie's eyes screwed shut as she let out a yawn, only opening them as she felt his hand gently tugging at her wrist. She hadn't even had to look at him to know what he wanted, hearing the rustle of the newspaper being cast aside as she lowered herself to perch in his lap, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck as his hand rubbed circles against her spine.

"God, I'm bored of waiting for this baby," Frankie sighed. He hummed, breath warming her skin as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, a bubble of laughter escaping her throat.

"Not much longer now," He said, voice muffled against her as he held her as close as he could, the red and green lights reflecting against the polished metal of her ring.

"... You think it's time for the decorations to come down?" Rosie asked, chin resting against her shoulder as he glanced around the room.

"No," She tutted. "I like the idea of it still being Christmas when she gets here."

"You're so sure it's a girl?"

"Oh, yeah. And I'm always right."

"Of course."

A soft finger against his jaw tilted Rosie's face to look up, his eyes softening without delay the moment they landed upon her. Her hair had been messily scraped back into a ponytail, loose strands sticking out at every angle. But her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were bright, and to him, she'd never been more beautiful. Frankie pressed a quick kiss to his lips, their foreheads resting against one another as they both let their gazes travel to her bulging stomach.

"You're gonna be such a good dad," She hummed, barely more than a whisper. He lifted his head, pressing another, longer kiss to her temple.

"She's gonna love you," He muttered against her skin. Frankie shrugged, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. After a beat of silence, Rosie pulled away, looking her in the face. "You okay, honey?"

"I dunno, I just," She sighed. "I don't remember my mum. I don't really remember how they're supposed to... be."

Sucking in a long, deep breath, he wrapped his arms tighter around her, a frown creasing his brow.

"You're not supposed to be anything. You're already the kindest, funniest, smartest person I know. And you've got your dad - if you're anything like him at all, our kid's gonna be just great."

Rosie chuckled as she wrapped her arms around his head, squeezing it in a vice grip. She kissed his scalp firmly before resting her cheek against his hair. "I love you."

"I love you so much," He said, muffled against her sweater. But she could hear the smile in his voice.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

10th January 1946

Frankie's face was still drenched with sweat, hair clinging to her temples as she cradled the tiny infant in her arms, unable to wipe the grin from her cheeks even for a second. Even as exhaustion willed her eyes to close, she couldn't bring herself to look away. "Oh, there you are," She whispered as a gurgle escaped the girl's throat, her hand so small it could do nothing but wrap around her mother's pinky finger.

Rosie wiped away the sweat from Frankie's brow, hand ceaselessly gentle. "You feeling okay?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," She nodded. He looked down at the baby in her arms, eyes welling with immediate tears. A tired laugh escaped Frankie's throat. "Oh, honey. You wanna hold her?"

Beaming at the prospect, he reached out to softly pry the child from her mother's grip, his hands so big against her tiny frame that it seemed almost impossible that something so small could even exist. "Hi there Maggie," He sang, sniffing loudly as he tried to blink away the tears before they could roll down his cheeks. Frankie reached out a hand, wiping them away with the pad of her thumb.

A soft knock sounded at the door, cautious and restrained as whoever stood outside waited patiently, hesitant to intrude.

"Come in!" Frankie called, voice mellow to avoid stirring the baby.

Creaking slowly open, George's head poked inside, a wide-eyed smile crumbling as she processed the scene in front of her. "God, I said I wasn't gonna cry," She tutted, wiping her eyes as she hovered in the doorway, as if hesitant to make her entrance before she'd fully composed herself.

"Oh, who cares, c'mere," Frankie laughed, holding out her arms as her best friend hurried forward. Passing the baby with barely more than a glance, she enveloped her in a fierce hug, perching on the edge of the bed beside her.

"I'm so proud of you," George choked back a sob, raising a hand to stroke Frankie's hair out of her face. "You smell terrible."

"Just like the old days, huh?" She laughed. "Although I did just have a bloody baby, do you actually want to see her?"

"Oh, shit, yeah," George sniffed, wiping her tears as she pulled out of the hug. Rosie was still standing in the corner with Maggie, a smitten smile creasing his cheeks, seemingly unaware of anything else around him.

"Rosie," Frankie prompted gently, snapping him out of his trance.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," He looked up, edging towards George so that she could get a peek at the child beneath her bundle of blankets.

"Hiya," She whispered, grinning as she leaned closer, lifting her hand so that the baby could wrap a chubby hand around her finger. "What's her name?"

"Margaret. Well, Maggie," Rosie smiled.

"Margaret Georgina Rosenthal," Frankie pointed out, George's eyes widening as she turned to look back at her.

"Shut the fuck up," She blurted, hand raised almost immediately to cover her mouth, glancing nervously back at the baby as if she somehow understood. Rosie began to laugh, the vibration of his chest making Maggie gurgle happily. "You didn't."

He shrugged. "Well, we thought that you-"

"I don't even like that name!"

Frankie snorted. "I know!"

George groaned. "Fine, well, I think she suits it better anyway." She nodded to Rosie, wordlessly asking his permission, and he gently placed Maggie into her arms. "Yeah. She's a cool baby."

"Bucky's coming to see her later," Frankie said. "He'll be mad I didn't somehow find a way to name her after him."

"He's gonna cry," "He's gonna cry," George and Rosie stated simultaneously, lifting their gazes from the baby to look at each other, snorts of laughter escaping them both.

"Alright, that's enough, give me my baby," She grunted, shifting forward on the bed and holding out her arms. Maggie let out a series of gargling sounds as George lowered her into Frankie's arms, tiny eyes staring up at her mother as she held her close. She let out a faint chuckle, stroking her thumb across her cheek.

"Yeah... She is gonna be pretty great."

[dvchvnde]

NEW YORK CITY, 1976—

A pack of Marlboro's are thrown carelessly onto her lap with a shallow grunt, a mocking help yourself, sweetheart tumbling out after the dull thud.

It reeks of smoke, nicotine, in the van already. A clogging, choking stench settling like oil against the backdrop of cheap cologne and stale, unwashed man.

Sickening, really.

But she thanks them with a small, stiff nod, and peels back the flap with trembling, numb fingers. They haven't stopped shaking since that night—

She should have told him that she isn't a smoker.

Her mother is. Father—whoever he might be—is probably one, too. A familial affliction. Maybe that's why she stays away from it. Never bothered to even try. Addiction. Vices. Another dead-eyed girl wandering around town, nicotine staining her nails. I'll be better tomorrow, baby. Tomorrow I'll quit. We'll leave this place forever, baby, I promise. Just you and me. You and me.

Swallowing down the unease that brims at the thought of them, an uncomfortable itch in the back of her head she can't get rid of (a persistent sickness), she thumbs one out. Thin and long. Lighter than she thought it would be. A feather in her hand. Anchoring. Dangerous.

She should tell him no. No thank you. That she doesn't smoke. That the thought of being like her mother in a real, tangible way makes her want to peel her skin off until it lays in a heap at her feet. Something she can kick under the bed. Forgotten. Gone.

But she doesn't. Can't. Just leans in obediently when the man closest to her—the one who smells like sweat and leather, whiskey—moves, offering her a light with a shallow quirk of his thick, full brow.

He's handsome enough, she thinks as she peers up at him. Mapping the rugged symmetry of his face, his motions, as he moves around the tight confines of the idling van, chasing the shivering tip of her cigarette with an ease that makes her wonder just how often it is that he lights cigarettes for girls who can't stop shaking. Trembling. Vibrating out of their skin from nerves, fear, the crash of adrenaline.

Must be routine, she notes as he pursues her with ease. Catching up on a sharp exhale. The soft snick of his lighter a victorious cheer amongst the low buzz of a conversation in the background when he pins her down. Nonchalant. Almost lazy. Effortless.

The win barely changing the impassive expression on his face.

A handsome face, she adds as the cigarette dips down, heavier now that it's burning. Attractive in that soft, rugged way. Unassuming, mostly. A face that could blend in with the crowd. Masculine, though—in a way that makes her think of Robert Redford. Parental. A full jaw beneath a thick, umber beard. Soft peach poking out between the tangles fur along his upper lip. Hawkish nose. A leonine list to his flat, slate coloured eyes.

He cups his big, tanned hands around the flame, watching her impassively as she inhales deep—too deep—and calmly reaches for a bottle of water on the bench beside him when it feels like her lungs are burning. Her throat full of flames. Shivering, heaving. Hacking through soot-stained lungs as he offers the bottle to her without a word. Just cold plastic against her arm. Silent and steady. Cool as she hunches over and chokes, coughing into space between her knees, gasping for air that can't get through the smoke.

"Easy now, sweetheart," he drawls, an airiness to his low, brassy tenor that prickles along her nape. Makes her huff against the denim covering her shaking knees. Bell bottoms from a thrift store. The faded tag said LEVI'S 646. "Just breathe, alright? Ain't supposed to inhale—"

Ain't supposed to witness a murder, either, she wants to snap, churlish and mean, hiding her embarrassment through a dense fog of blame; shifting the conversation from her follie to the elephant huffing in the corner. And she almost does, but the bile clawing up her throat renders her mute. Immobile. Docile as he watches her through lidded, heavy eyes. Scrutinizing. Calculative.

The look in sun marled umbre reminds her, vividly (viciously) of that night. The one she tried to use a weapon. Double-edged sword. She has no one to blame but herself when her palms split, blood gushing out like the phantom in the back of her head. A man strung up on a hook. Arms overhead. His back to her, but his insides pooling on the floor in an ugly red and purple heap. The screams. The scent of blood and—

Meat.

Sharp, dark eyes on her. Face hidden beneath a black surgical mask. Broad shoulders unfurling into an impressive, terrifying height. Well—a voice like chiselled stone; metal on granite. Hellish. Looks like we got ourselves a lil' stray.

She's plucked from this nightmare when the man takes the burning cigarette from between her numb fingers, drawing it up to his mouth, and sinks his teeth into the filter as he gazes down at her. Assessing. Cold. Like he knows what she was thinking of. Which labyrinthine nightmare she was lost inside.

And he nods to himself, then; a shallow dip. Something she can't see, can't understand, confirmed.

"Saw the butcher," he mumbles around it, smoke pouring from the tip when he breathes. Speaking the words she tries to run from and weaponise out loud as she unscrews the cap on the bottle she'd forgotten about, hands shaking so hard, she can feel the water spill over her knuckles. "And we got some questions about that."

His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. The gold badge glints when it's catches the waning sun pouring through the windshield. F.B.I.

She swallows again, tastes soot and blood. Feels hands around her neck, sticky and blood-warmed; squeezing tight. Not a word, kitten, or I'll hang you up next. "I don't—I didn't see anything—"

He shifts in his seat, scoffing. That dark, calculative gleam is back, and she knows there's no more running. No hiding under the covers and convincing herself it was all just a bad dream. The pendulum swings. A choice must be made:

the hook or the cage.

"Come on, now. We both know that isn't true."

[mariacallous]

Dr. Phil filming a ride-along with ICE agents, interviewing apparent migrants, and making it look like an episode of Cops feels like something I’d dream up after taking a little too much melatonin and scrolling TikTok before bed.

But instead, the “contentification” of President Donald Trump’s policy is indeed the logical next step for a team that won the election with the help of influencers and content creators. Following suit, Trump’s cabinet has basically created the White House’s own cinematic universe.

Only a few days after her confirmation, Kristi Noem, Trump’s Department of Homeland Security secretary, was filmed alongside Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents conducting an operation. “I’m here in New York City,” Noem told the camera in a vertical video, wearing a bulletproof vest and with a fresh blowout. “We’re getting these dirtbags off these streets.”

Back in December, I wrote that we should not only expect the government to continue its work with influencers but also to become influencers themselves. This week it became clear that this is what the Trump administration has been planning to do with its cabinet leaders all along. They’re not just leading the government, they’re making content while doing it.

Look at who Trump nominated for cabinet positions. Nearly across the board, these nominees have experience playing it up for the camera. Noem is a MAGA media veteran, often appearing on networks like Newsmax to discuss topics of the day. Linda McMahon, wife to former WWE CEO Vince McMahon, has gotten in the wrestling ring a time or two herself. Over the course of his presidential campaign, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. couldn’t get enough of the media, appearing on Joe Rogan’s podcast and anywhere else that would have him. And of course, Pete Hegseth is a former Fox News host. On Tuesday, CNN chief media analyst Brian Stelter wrote that these ICE raids were crafted with television and the internet in mind.

Before his first week in office, Trump had played casting director. Now, we’re getting the pilot episodes.

Still, it’s not like all that much has changed in terms of digital infrastructure at these agencies. It might just be that the GOP is doing it better—and giving their audience what it wants. Even under the Biden administration, DHS and ICE organized ride-alongs with the media, especially with MAGA-friendly broadcasters like Fox News. The agencies would often post photos of enforcement officers cuffing alleged migrants on platforms like X as well. Most of the multimedia staffers are career employees with few slots for political appointees, according to a source familiar with DHS’s public affairs office.

But as Stelter wrote yesterday, the tone of the content is different. And that’s likely a result of the onscreen talent. You’re going to get an entirely different product when working with media veterans like Dr. Phil and Noem. The only Biden cabinet secretary that could rival those two was Pete Buttigieg.

While all of this is happening, the Democrats are waiting to elect a new director before they can even think about casting. On Saturday, Democrats will be voting on their next party chair. There are nearly a dozen people running to fill the spot, but the election is mainly seen as a two-man race between Wisconsin party chair Ben Wikler and Ken Martin, a DNC vice chair.

Wikler, Martin, and many other candidates appeared on a virtual forum Tuesday night specifically focused on the DNC’s future in tech and media. For about an hour, they were asked how they would revamp the party’s data infrastructure and tackle new media. Many of them appeared anxious to take it on.

When I first started covering this beat, Wikler was constantly pitched to me as an example of a Democratic party official who was doing digital the right way. I spoke with him in December, where he reinforced that Democrats needed to respond to the changing media environment quickly if they planned to win elections in the near future. On Tuesday night, Wikler went on to suggest that the DNC create its own innovation lab focused on keeping up with their opposition.

“You need to build a culture of curiosity, innovation, experimentation, and iteration, knowing that many things won’t work,” Wikler said Tuesday night. “So you need to try even more things.”

Martin wants to do something similar by building an “Information War Room” more focused on fighting misinformation.

“That Information War Room will become the hub for better, ongoing, constant digital communications with real-time analytics and also with social listening, so we understand where the misinformation and disinformation is being pumped out, and as part of that, we need to recruit trusted messengers, influencers, creators, and their networks to communicate over the long haul,” Martin said.

That war room already exists on the right. The Trump campaign hosted influencers for special debate war rooms, and the same person who ran the Trump campaign’s war room has now been appointed “war room director” for the White House.

Faiz Shakir, a former Bernie Sanders adviser and the executive director of More Perfect Union, is also running for DNC chair, and he sees things differently. Instead of simply partnering with creators, he envisions a DNC that acts as its own media network. “You don't just sprinkle fairy dust on a Mobilize link or YouTube link,” he said. “We should be raising money right now for the national Meals on Wheels Association, Head Start for America, just raise money for them and build engagement. Do actions on the ground with people, send videographers. This is what I'm doing right now at More Perfect Union.”

On Saturday, Democrats will choose who they want leading the party and taking on what will likely be a massive digital rebrand. During Tuesday’s forum, many of the candidates promised to move past the “boom-and-bust” periods of investing in digital and then stripping programs down to the bones between election cycles.

But it’s hard to imagine they’ll be able to keep up. Republicans have invested in this for years, and Trump has clearly brought it all to the White House. Plus, season two has just begun.

[b-skarsgard]

Oscar Isaac may have loved Robert Eggers‘ “Nosferatu,” but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a little jealous over the skills on display in the film. Moderating a Q&A in New York City this past week with cast members Lily-Rose Depp, Willem Dafoe, and Bill Skarsgård, Isaac praised the craft of “Nosferatu,” offering particular appreciation for Depp’s incredibly physical performance and the work Skarsgård did to achieve the haunting voice of the undead Lord Orlok.

‼️‼️mild spoilers under the cut‼️‼️

A taping of the whole Q&A is provided at the link

“That pisses me off,” said Isaac, upon finding out that no effects were added to achieve Orlok’s timbre. He continued of Skarsgård’s performance, “I think what really strikes me is when you say you’re ‘an appetite.’ At one point, Willem’s character says that it’s a force greater than evil cause evil, it’s quite binary, right? This is something even beyond that.”

Skarsgård echoed Isaac’s assessment of Orlok, expressing the difficulty of embracing such a figure, especially at the beginning of the process when he was trying to authentically find the character.

“It’s a very abstract role to undertake, cause you’re sitting in your hotel room or living room working on it, looking like yourself and trying to explore the voice and everything and you’re losing your mind,” Skarsgård said. “You have to be crazy to do what we do, I think, but the pieces with the prosthetics and the costume, all of that makes it feel real when you’re performing it.”

In working to capture the evil Orlok exudes, Skarsgård focused his efforts on becoming as inhuman as possible. As Orlok is often featured in the shadows and can only be defined by how he communicates, Skarsgård focused much of his time on creating a voice that felt otherworldly. To achieve that, Skarsgård established a method to put more bass in his voice, while at the same time adding more resonance.

“The voice was something that I knew that he wanted it inhumanly deep, and I don’t think my normal voice is very deep, so it was, ‘OK, how can I access a depth that I didn’t know I had in me?'” Skarsgård said. “That was a wonderful exploration and working with an opera singer trying to lower the voice as deep as possible and trying to be as relaxed as I could and I explored with it and I worked on it so much that I’ve built out this little routine for myself that I knew that, ‘OK, my voice is great when I’m really relaxed.’ So I used this 20-minute routine that I would do to be in the place where the voice was resonating and coming from me as opposed to feeling like I was putting on the voice.”

[tavolgisvist]

'So there's a story...'

I'll buy you a diamond ring, my friend If it makes you feel alright I'll get you anything, my friend If it makes you feel alright 'Cause I don't care too much for money Money can't buy me love <…> I'll give you all I've got to give If you say you love me, too I may not have a lot to give But what I got, I'll give to you <…> Say you don't need no diamond rings And I'll be satisfied Tell me that you want the kind of things That money just can't buy I don't care too much for money Money can't buy me love

(Can't Buy Me Love, Jan/March 1964, A Hard Day’s Night)

… Baby says she's mine, you know She tells me all the time, you know She said so I'm in love with her and I feel fine I'm so glad that she's my little girl She's so glad, she's telling all the world That her baby buys her things, you know He buys her diamond rings, you know She said so She's in love with me and I feel fine

(I Feel Fine, Oct 1964, single I Feel Fine/She's A Woman)

Asked a girl what she wanted to be She said, "Baby, can't you see? I wanna be famous, a star of the screen But you can do something in between" <…> I told that girl that my prospects were good And she said, "Baby, it's understood Working for peanuts is all very fine But I can show you a better time" "Baby, you can drive my car Yes, I'm gonna be a star Baby, you can drive my car And maybe I'll love you" Beep-beep'm-beep-beep, yeah …

(Drive My Car, Oct 1965, Rubber Soul)

I started working at a coil-winding factory called Massey and Coggins. My dad had told me to go out and get a job. I’d said, ‘I’ve got a job, I’m in a band.’ But after a couple of weeks of doing nothing with the band it was, ‘No, you have got to get a proper job.’ He virtually chucked me out of the house: ‘Get a job or don’t come back.’ So I went to the employment office and said, ‘Can I have a job? Just give me anything.’ I said, ‘I’ll have whatever is on the top of that little pile there.’ And the first job was sweeping the yard at Massey and Coggins. I took it. I went there and the personnel officer said, ‘We can’t have you sweeping the yard, you’re management material.’ And they started to train me from the shop floor up with that in mind. <…> One day John and George showed up in the yard that I should have been sweeping and told me we had a gig at the Cavern. I said, ‘No. I’ve got a steady job here and it pays £7 14s a week. They are training me here. That’s pretty good, I can’t expect more. And I was quite serious about this.

(Paul McCartney, The Beatles Anthology)

But Paul would always give in to his dad. His dad told him to get a job, he dropped the group and started working on the fucking lorries, saying, 'I need a steady career.' We couldn't believe it. Once he rang up and said he'd got this job and couldn't come to the group. So I told him on the phone, 'Either come or you're out.' So he had to make a decision between me and his dad then, and in the end he chose me.

(John Lennon, Yoko Ono, St. Regis Hotel, New York, September 5th, 1971, interview with Peter McCabe and Robert Schonfeld)

I’d brought a version of it [‘Golden Rings’] out to John’s house in Weybridge, and we stalled when we got to the lines ‘You can buy me golden rings / Get me all that kind of thing’. We kept singing that over and over and couldn’t get beyond it because it was so shockingly bad. Part of the problem was that we’d already had ‘a diamond ring’ in ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’. ‘Golden rings’ was unoriginal and uninspiring. We couldn’t get past it. So we left it, went and had a cup of tea. When we came back, we started thinking of the woman as an LA girl. That improved things a bit. Then she wanted a chauffeur. <…> Once you get into creating a narrative and storytelling, it’s so much more entertaining. It draws you forward so much more easily. Now we were dramatising the interviewing of a chauffeur; we got over that dry moment and finished the song. It became one that didn’t get away. And its success had to do with getting rid of ‘golden rings’ and heading to ‘Baby, you can drive my car’. I know there’s a theory that rock and roll couldn’t have existed without the guitars of Leo Fender, but it probably couldn’t have existed without Henry Ford either. I’m thinking of the relationship between the motorcar and what happens in the back seat. We know that people shagged before the motorcar, but the motorcar gave the erotic a whole new lease on life. Think of Chuck Berry ‘riding along in my automobile’. Chuck is one of America’s great poets. ‘Beep beep, beep beep, yeah’. There you go. It was always good to get nonsense lyrics in, and this song lent itself to ‘Beep beep, beep beep, yeah’…

(Paul McCartney, The Lyrics, about 'Drive My Car')

*Paul means Berry's No Particular Place to Go:

Ridin' along in my automobile My baby beside me at the wheel I stole a kiss at the turn of a mile My curiosity runnin' wild Cruisin' and playin' the radio With no particular place to go

etc

for @m1ssunderstanding because

[writers-potion]

said is NOT DEAD. our brains have seen it so much that when reading dialogue, it just glosses over it. if you don't want to detract from the dialogue, USE SAID. other words might ground the reader a little too much and lose a bit of immersion.

--this comes from my old tutor who now has a phd in literature

Said Is Not Dead

Of course not! "Said" should still be your go-to speech tag, the benefit being that it flows best. I find it nice to have a larger working vocabulary when it comes to expressing speech, though, and I think many writers would agree! It's one thing to use "said" because you know it's the best word choice and another to keep using it because you can think of no alternative.

Having said that:

". . . Don't tell me your character 'excaimed,' 'stated,' or 'replied.' When in doubt, just use 'said.' That's all. Maybe they 'answered.' They certainly did not 'retort.' You can use 'said' more often than you think . . . it's one of those words that takes a while before it starts sounding repetitive." -- Ariel Gore, How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead

"The best form of dialogue attribution is 'said,' as in 'he said, she said, Bill said, Monica said." -- Stephen King, On Writing

"Mr. [Robert] Ludlum . . . hates the 'he said' locution and avoids it as much as possible. Characters in The Bourne Ultimatum seldom 'say' anything. Instead, they cry, interject, interrupt, muse, state, counter, conclude, mumble, whisper (Mr. Ludlum is great on whispers), intone, roar, exclaim, fume, explode, mutter. There is one especially unforgettable tautology: '"I repeat," repeated Alex.' The book may sell in the billions, but it's still junk." -- Newgate Callender, in The New York Times Book Review

"Editors and critics often refer to melodramatic dialogue tags as 'said bookisms.' They know that these phrases give our story an amateurish look. Your readers might not know what the darn things are called, but chances are that they'll notice them, too . . . In most cases, the word 'said' would work just fine, and using said bookisms detracts from the dialogue." -- Ann M. Marble, "'Stop Using Those Said Bookisms,' the Editor Shrieked."

"[Say is] just too simple and clear and straightforward for many people. Why say something when you can declare, assert, expostulate, whine, exclaim, groan, peal, breathe, cry, explain, or asseverate it? I'm all for variety and freshness of expression, but let's not go overboard." -- Patricia T. O'Conner, Woe Is I

"In journalism circles, said is a virtue--simple, precise, and unadorned--and alternatives to it are considered frilly and silly. You don't have to agree, but be aware that lots of editors hold this view. Choose your alternatives to said with great care." --June Casagrande, It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences

"We're all in favor of choosing exactly the right verb for the action, but when you're writing speaker attributions the right verb is nearly always 'said.' The reason those well-intentioned attempts at variety don't work is that verbs other than 'said' tend to draw attention away from the dialogue." --Renni Browne and Dave King, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers

Side Note: After a month-long hiatus while this uni writer struggled with exams, internships, interviews and multiple mental breakdowns, I am going to resume answering questions that have piled up in my inbox! Get ready to be bombarded with writing QnA!!!! :)

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[faworsley]

Wait what did Robert Peary do?

Oh hi! Ok so here goes (chronological; skip the Minik tangent bracketed in green if you’d prefer, but I think it’s important). If I get something wrong or miss something let me know!!!

Robert Peary consistently faked his diary entries, lied about his travel speeds in ways that could not possibly be true, claimed pictures were taken elsewhere, and denied outside testimonies so that he could say he was the first man to reach the Pole.

In 1894 on an expedition he became the first Westerner to find the Cape York Meteorite, which was absolutely essential for tools and survival resources to the Inuit who had been harvesting fragments of it. He took it for himself back to America to be displayed in a museum, leaving them without materials for hunting and building tools.

During this same expedition he tricked 6 Inughuaq people into joining him on the return trip to America, saying that he would reward them by sending them back the next year with guns and other resources that they had come to rely on from trade with Westerners. Four of the six of them died of Western illnesses either during the journey or shortly after returning to the United States. While they lived, no arrangements were made to house them fairly, so they were kept in the basement of the American Natural History Museum, where visitors could pay a fee to visit them and shake their hands.

The six individuals he chose were the shaman Atangana and her husband Nuktaq, a renowned hunter; their daughter Aviaq and her fiancé Uisaakassak; and another renowned hunter Qisuk and his son Minik. Peary did allow Uisaakassak to return home that July, but only following the death of his fiancée. This left Minik, then 8, then only surviving Inuit left in the United States of the original group(1). [Minik tangent starts here.]

Minik’s father, Qisuk, died in 1898 of tuberculosis, which all six of them contracted. Upon his death, Minik pleaded for his body to be returned to Greenland so that he could be buried with the proper rites which could only be performed by the Inuk. However, Franz Boas, ethnologist of the American Museum of Natural History, wanted to study his body instead of allowing it to leave his custody. For this reason, Peary faked a burial for Minik before giving Qisuk’s real body over to the museum. William Wallace, the museum’s curator, disassembled his body and put it on display in the museum without informing Minik or asking his permission.

Because Minik’s family was dead and he was on his own in the United States, Wallace unofficially adopted him and raised him alongside his own son Willy. He experienced a good deal of news coverage and propaganda harassment as the public wanted to see his “cultural change from a bewildered savage.” When Minik was 11, Wallace essentially went bankrupt, and still under his care Minik struggled to survive. When he was around 16, he learned that his father’s body was still on display in the museum against his wishes, and would spend the rest of his life fighting to gain custody of his remains or have them transported back to Greenland. He died long before this was managed.

Later in life after continued illness as a result of the initial tuberculosis, as well as several suicide threats and no further success in obtaining his father’s body, Peary finally allowed Minik to go back to Greenland when it was convenient for him, without much more than what he was wearing at the time. By then Minik had forgotten Inuktun, his native language, as well as relevant survival skills he had relied on when he was younger. He stayed in Greenland and became a hunter, but was ultimately unhappy and felt he didn’t belong there either, causing him to return to America in 1916. He died during the flu epidemic two years later. [Minik tangent ends here.]

Throughout the years he spent in and around Inuk camps in the North, Peary fathered several children with a 14 year-old girl named Aleqasina whom he met there, even though his wife accompanied him on some of his expeditions.

In 1899, despite significant evidence against his claim and almost none to prove it, Peary stated that he had discovered Axel Heiberg island before the other explorer Sverdrup had. It was universally found to be false but he received awards for his mapping of Greenland anyway.

During his expedition in 1906, he became separated from other navigators and reliable members of his party by a storm on Ellesmere. It is during this period of separation when Peary, having very little reliable navigational skill of his own, and whose diary was lacking any readings leading up to the claim, says that he reached his Farthest North. This would require that he travel 72 nautical miles on foot between sleeping in one period of 24 hours, taking no detours.

In May of that year he claimed to have discovered a new Farthest North called Crocker Land from the summit of Cape Colgate. The 1914 MacMillan and Green expedition proved Crocker Land did not exist, and his own diary states that the day he claims to have discovered it he saw “no land visible”(2).

During his next expedition, in 1909 Peary separated again from the majority of his party in the North, this time intentionally isolating himself and five others. Of the six of them, the only one with sufficient navigational skill and experience to be able to confirm they were at the Pole would have been his first man Henson. Peary included several contradictory, nonsensical, and irrelevant readings in his journals where he claims to have moved beneath and around the Pole quite extensively. Henson moved on ahead separately at one point and returned to Peary stating that he had been the first man to reach the Pole. Peary spent the rest of his career trying to discredit him (3).

Dr. Frederick Cook who had previously served as a surgeon under Peary has actually reached the pole the year before, but Peary claimed to have sufficient evidence to contest this. For the entirety of Cook’s career, he was ignored and talked over, and Peary was assumed to have found the pole first. In 1988, the first in depth analysis of Peary’s own journals found them “lacking in essential data” to such a degree that his claims have since been pretty much universally rejected.

During this examination of his notes many discrepancies were found between Peary’s claims and the significant lack of realistic evidence in his journals to prove them. Additionally, his history of falsifying his own notes and lying to the press, his team, and his family make it terribly unlikely he truly found Farthest North on his own; it would not be surprising to think he stole the accomplishment from Henson, who gets far less credit than he deserves for his navigational skills and exploring at the Poles.

1. Petrone, Penny (January 1992). Northern Voices: Inuit Writing in English. University of Toronto Press.

2. Herbert, Wally (1989). The Noose of Laurels. Atheneum. pp. 206–207.

3. Peary, Robert (1986). The North Pole: Its Discovery in 1906 Under the Auspices of the Peary Arctic Club.