#hillary tuck

[imstuckin1999]

Camp Nowhere {1994}

#camp nowhere #andrew keegan #jonathan jackson #marnette patterson #hillary tuck #christopher lloyd #90s movie #90s kid #90s nostalgia #90s #the 90s

[losfacedevil]

Carnival Kisses // JMK

a/n~ The ever so lovely Hillary requested this a few weeks back and I couldn’t say no, the idea was just too cute! First dates at a Halloween theme carnival is the way to go for this shy boy.

“You look gorgeous, and I’m under dressed.” Josh chuckled as he watched you twirl under the orange glow from the lights of the carnival rides surrounding you both. The black skirt of your dress floated along on the breeze and you reached up, holding the thin wing printed fabric out to catch on the breeze.

Josh stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his khaki colored jeans, his eyes never leaving your face as you gripped the hem of your skirt and curtsied in his direction. A nerve filled smile kissed his lips and you threw your head back in laughter, almost losing your balance as you tried to right your legs. You stumbled slightly to the right and your eyes grew wide as your foot slipped, causing you to almost take a knee. Josh scrambled slightly, yanking his hands out of his pockets as he lunged forward towards you and cupped a hand around each of your elbows to steady your now wobbling body.

Giggles escaped you as you took full advantage of his soft and cold hands gently holding your elbows to plant your feet shoulder width apart and steady yourself firmly. He was quick to pull his hands back, stuffing one back into his pants pocket as he brought the other one up to cup the back of his neck. You watched on as he began to rub the back of his neck gently and a pale pink blush began to bloom across his cheeks.

You pulled a deep breath in through your nose, trying to quell the giggles that continued to bubble up in your chest. Josh averted his gaze, suddenly finding the gravel that graced the ground more interesting than your previous blunder. The sounds and smells of the carnival engulfed your senses. There was carousel music drifting through the air as the screams of those riding the zipper drowned it out ever so slightly. Josh snapped his head up and let his gaze dance around the area; trying to find the cause for every single noise that attacked his senses.

“Let’s walk?” The soft spoken suggestion rolled off your tongue as you brought his attention back to you. Your head was cocked slightly to the side as his wild gaze found yours and softened slightly as he was brought back down to Earth. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he bowed towards you and held his arms out in an ‘after you’ gesture.

The ground felt foreign under foot, a plot of land you hadn’t walked on in many years. The once smooth ground now riddled with holes from rodents and deep tire tracks from years of vehicles finding the short cut to be more convenient than riding the main road. You could feel Josh’s eyes on you, his gaze boring a hole into the side of your head as you kept your eyes downcast and studied the path you two now walked.

The gentle movements of his hands caught your attention, shaking you out of your thoughts and bringing your focus back to him and the loud, greasy smelling carnival you were walking through. Both of his hands having been pulled from his pockets and he wrung them out at his waist, unsure of what to do with them or where to place them. You raked your gaze from his hands to his face and a warm sensation of fondness spread through your chest.

Josh’s eyes danced around the different booths housing different games; the balloon pop, hunt a duck, tin can alley and plinko - games that you never had any luck winning and the sprinkling of food vendors. He had his bottom lip tucked safely between his teeth as his fingers fiddled around each other, the cracking of his knuckles and soft sounds of his hands rubbing together causing a soft smile to spread across your face.

You stepped closer to him, finally falling into step with each other as you analyzed the look on his face. The once confident, full of himself man had vanished and in his wake sat that of an anxious, awkward ball of nerves. The warmth in your chest grew as you watched his eyes settle on a game booth not far off - a halloween themed game of corn hole - something he thought he would be good at. His eyes found yours and he nodded gently in the direction of the booth.

He reached out and placed a hand on your lower back, acting purely out of instinct before he fully processed his movements and his eyes grew wide as he retraced his hand from you. Soft giggles erupted from your chest as a deeper crimson blush erupted across his cheeks. You fell a step behind him and let him lead the way to the booth that had caught his attention.

His eyes danced over the ghost themed booth; with paper ghosts hanging from the banner, to a styrofoam shaped tree with lollipop ghosts stuck into it by the sticks and right down to the ghostly decorated corn hole boards. The carnie behind the booth nodded towards Josh as he flashed two unlimited play wrist bands you weren’t even aware he had acquired. The guy behind the booth placed eight bean bags up onto the counter and nodded towards the boards.

“Land the bean bag on the board for one point or sink it in the hole for three points. First to twenty one wins a prize.” You eyed the carnie and stepped up next to your board as Josh made his way over to the other.

It was just a friendly game of corn hole you had thought, until a wicked grin spread across Josh’s face and he had sank all four of his bean bags before you even thought to toss your first one. Your jaw dropped and your crossed your arms over your chest as you watched him step forward and retrieve his bean bags from under his board. He cocked his head to the side as he took his position back next to his board.

“What? You’re not even going to try?” He chuckled, tossing another bean bag and sliding it straight into the hole at the top of the board. With a shrug of your shoulders to sung your arm underhanded and let all four bean bags go at once - watching and they all landed on your respective board.

“Sink two more and you win, it’s not even a fair game at this point.” You said, raising your eyebrows in a challenging manner. Josh nodded softly and without even a semblance of trying, landed his last three bean bags into the corn hole board.

The carnie rolled his eyes as he turned in his seat and plucked a small stuffed ghost off of the shelf behind him. Josh couldn’t help the triumphant giggle that slipped past his lips as he took the small stuffed ghost from the carnie and turned to you.

“For you? Look! You can clip him right into your claw clip - he can live there!” Josh giggled, slipping the tag of the stuffed ghost in between his teeth as he slowly unclasped your claw clip and made sure to secure your mess of hair in his hand as he slipped the clip through the thin plastic tie of the stuffed ghost before returning the clip to your hair. He nodded gently and flicked the small ghost to spin the face the right way.

You took in his side profile, how the corners of his lips just kissed the corners of his eyes as he watched the little ghost spin at the back of your head. How he scrunched up his nose as a breathy chuckle escaped him and he placed his hand under the ghost to stop it from spinning. His tiny bottom teeth on full display as he turned his attention to you. You couldn’t help yourself as you reached up and poked the tip of your finger into the shallow dimple that formed on his left cheek causing his nose to scrunch even more and his eyes to screw shut with nerves. You admired his full smile, the small gap between this two top teeth being one of your favorite features he possessed.

“I think we’re going to have to find a game I’m good at now, that was the most unfair game I’ve ever played.” You said. Giggles erupted from your chest as his jaw dropped and he crossed his arms protectively over his chest.

“Well I never! You could have been good at that, but you didn’t even try.” He averted his gaze elsewhere, all of the colorfully lit booths and fried food smells attacking his senses all at once. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart that was now hammering in his chest.

“You didn’t even give me a chance Mr. Sunk all four bean bags in under a minute. I didn’t even get a chance to throw my first one and you had all yours sunk. Boom, done!” A soft blush bloomed across his cheeks and his jaw dropped slightly - as if he were about to say something but stopped himself. Your heart swelled in your chest with every sentence you elicited from him as you began to break through the shy and bashful demeanor he carried.

“Go on, unleash the thoughts. I’m waiting!” You singsonged, rolling your hand along with the words which earned you and even more silly look from him.

“It’s not my fault I’m faster than you, I won fair and square.” He mumbled, sticking his tongue out in your direction. Your eyes grew wide and your dropped as you processed his actions.

He couldn’t help the soft, nervous giggles that floated up out of his chest as you stepped forward and linked your arm through his, placing your hand on his bicep and quickly turning him in the direction of the little face painting booth that had caught your attention. He took a deep, steadying breath as his eyes fluttered shut momentarily, reveling in the way your weight felt pressed up against him. You glanced up at him through your lashes, the soft smile kissing your lips expanding to a full on grin as you realized his eyes were closed, and the adoration you had for the boy grew in your chest.

Josh could feel your gaze on him as you slowed to a stop and gave his arm a gentle and reassuring squeeze. He shook himself out of his thoughts as his eyes slowly opened and he took in the list of different designs perched on an easel in front of him. A confused but enthusiastic expression kissed his features as he turned his attention to you and nodded his head in the direction of the easel.

“Face paint?” He chuckled, watching as your face lit up like that of a child and you nodded your head excitedly.

“Wouldn’t be Halloween without a little bit of pizazz, would it? Besides you said you felt underdressed.” You giggled, motioning down to the butterfly print dress you wore. Josh shot you a sidelong glance, cocking his eyebrow slightly and pursing his lips as he let his gaze rake down your figure for the first time all night.

“But face paint? Okay, okay. You have to get this though, or it’s a no go from me.” He chuckled, turning his attention back to the list of designs and reached up, pointing to a butterfly design. You nodded lightly, having already had the exact design picked out and turned your attention to his face as he silently made his decision.

“That was my first choice, it was only fitting with the dress. What were you thinking?”

A soft smirk spread across his face as he untangled his arm from yours and stepped up to the older lady working the booth. He flashed his wrist band in her direction and earned a nod from her as he took a seat on her little bar stool. Reaching up he shielded his face so you couldn’t read his lips as he told the woman his request.

You watched on as she slowly outlined the sockets of his eyes with a black paint crayon - careful not to get any in his eye brows, and quickly went in with a paint soaked sponge, effectively blacking out around his eyes. She continued down to his nose, drawing two tear drop shapes and filled them in with black as well. She pulled a floss pick from her bag, darkening the floss that was pulled between the plastic and used it to create the straight line of teeth across his lips.

A toothy grin spread across Josh’s face as he rose to his feet and stepped away from the stool he had been sat on. You giggled at the grin he wore, both the one painted along his lips as well as his own. You held your hand out in his direction as he approached you, a silent request for your wristband he still possessed. He shook his head gently, turning to flash the pink wristband in the woman’s direction before bowing to you and moving out of your way.

~*~*~

You followed closely behind Josh, tucking your free hand securely into the back pocket of his jeans, your other hand wrapped gently around a stuffed owl Josh had won from the ring toss game. Reaching back he tucked his hand around yours, making sure you stayed with him as he maneuvered through the crowds around the food booths.

“You said the Ferris wheel?” He called, turning his head slightly as he found a break in the crowed and ducked into it. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt his anxiety dissipate a bit being out in a more open area. You nodded your head, a soft smile spreading across your face as your gaze found his.

“Yeah! I thought seeing a Birds Eye view of the carnival would be cool and then we can jet if you wanna.” You knew by the way his adams Apple bobbed that he was having second thoughts about the Ferris wheel. You wrapped your arm gently through his once more and pressed your cheek up against him. His breath caught slightly at the sudden contact and he shot a sidelong glance at you. Your eyes were shut, taking in the sounds all around you and the scent of him wafting gently through your senses.

“A Birds Eye view, because being in the heart of it isn’t enough?” He mumbled, eyes fully trained on the Ferris wheel. He watched as the carts swayed gently with each pass of the wheel, some swaying harder every time it came to a stop to let passengers off and on. You could hear the underlying fear in his tone and fought the urge to tease him about it that bubbled up in your chest. A soft smile caressed your lips as you tugged on his arm and took off in the direction of the Ferris wheel.

It wasn’t long before you were both tucked up into the Ferris wheel cart. Josh tucked himself into the corner of the cart, his eyes a little wider than normal as he tried to calm his nerves. His hands were wrapped tightly around the bar in front of you, knuckles near white as the Ferris wheel came to life and began to move upwards. Pulling his hands back he stuffed them under his thighs, scooting himself out of the corner he had tucked into.

Your gaze was locked on the scene around you, all of the lights from the rides and booths filling your vision and a soft smile spread across your lips as you watched the zipper throw its carts around. A soft sigh slipped past Josh’s lips and he pressed his knee up against yours, the contact enough to quiet his buzzing nerves a little bit. He took a deep breath, letting his eyes flutter shut as the Ferris wheel came to a stop at the top.

You turned your attention towards him, the soft green coloring of his skin quite prominent against the now fading black face paint he wore. Reaching towards him you looped your arm through his, your go to move of the night and felt his body stiffen. His eyes sprang open and he took another deep breath before pulling his arm from yours and wrapped it gingerly around your shoulders.

“Okay?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, a soft smile tugging on the corner of your lips as you watched him take in everything around him.

“Yeah uh, just.. just a little chilly.” He forced a chuckle and a soft nod of his head as if he was trying to convince himself of his feelings more than you. Your eyes danced to the horizon in front of you, the sun almost fully set as night fell around you and you tucked your bottom lip gently between your teeth. You reveled in the feeling of his hand on your shoulder, the soft weight of it keeping you grounded.

“It’s okay, yknow, if you’re afraid of being up here. It’s endearing that you’re not all big tough guy.” A sigh slipped past Josh’s nose as he processed what you said and let his eyes flutter shut as he leaned forward slightly and pressed his forehead to yours. Your name slipped past his lips on the gentlest whisper - the first time he had uttered it all night.

Your heart hammered in your chest, both from the fear of being stopped at the top of the Ferris wheel and the anxiety of being so close to Josh. His warm breath fanned across your face and he gently ran his nose along the side of yours.

You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his thigh as he reached up and cupped your cheek in his hand. Without a second thought he closed the distance and captured your lips with his in a soft kiss. He pulled back quickly, eyes wide and jaw slightly agape as he realized what he had done.

Giggles erupted from your chest at the look on his face - one of sheer embarrassment, eyes as wide as they could be and his bottom lip tucked safely between his teeth. You shook your head gently as you reached up and tugged on his chin, causing his bottom lip to come loose from his teeth. Cupping your hand around his chin you used your thumb and index finger to press gently against his cheeks and pucker his lips.

“That was cute, wanna try it again?” His eyes grew even wider as you giggled at him and leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, a soft smile tugging on the corners of your lips as you felt him reciprocate the kiss.

TAGLIST: @joshsindigostreak @vanfleeter @wideminded-dreamer @tommie-gvf @stardustvanfleet @ascendingtostardust @rhythm-of-space

#josh kiszka #josh kiszka x reader #josh kiszka fluff #josh kiszka fic #josh kiszka fanfiction

[universitypenguin]

Chapter 19

The Princess & the Lawyer

Summary: Princess tries to make things right with Lloyd. An arrest is made in the case and fur flies when Detective Roth meets Lloyd for the first time.

Word Count: 4,643

Masterlist

Warnings: References to stalking, murder, serial killings, criminal investigations into violent crimes

Author’s Note: The winds from the outer bands of Hurricane Hillary are just starting to blow up to my area and it knocked out my electricity for a few hours (thanks, Spectrum Internet! 😤) Fortunately, it’s back on now and I can finally post this chapter!

Chapter XIX

Sunlight gleamed off the slow-moving Shenandoah River and reflected across the valley. Lloyd’s cabin was perched overlooking the basin where the river wound around a bend and slowed to a crawl. From your current position on the front porch, the river looked more like a sheet of glass than a body of water. Lloyd had brought you here after you’d been released from the hospital. Landon arrived the next day with a suitcase of your clothes and took up quarters in the basement. His presence had been a welcome relief from the thick fog of tension hanging over the cabin.

“Are you going to talk to him soon?” Landon asked.

You tucked your knees under your chin, wrapped your arms around them, and stared at the ex-SEAL without really seeing him. The idea of apologizing had been circulating on a loop in your head for the past seventy-two hours.

“I don’t know what to say. It’s like there’s a wall of ice between us.”

“Yeah. I didn’t realize a person could get frostbite in the middle of August until I spent a few hours with you two. Is this how you normally fight?”

“No. Lloyd usually blows up. The only person I’ve seen act like this is Zach. And we know how that usually goes.”

Landon winced. There was no softening the burnt of Zach’s temper. Reason and appeasement had no effect on it - once he turned into Jack Frost all you could do was wait until he de-thawed. Landon leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“Finding out the way he did was hard on him.”

You shut your eyes as if doing so would block out the truth of his statement.

“I know. Not telling him was wrong, but the risk of him losing control and doing something reckless was too much. I was trying to protect him.”

Landon’s eyes softened. “Everyone knows how much you try to shield Lloyd, but you can’t always stand between him and the rest of the world.”

“I’ve seen him spiral before. I don’t want to do anything that would send him down that path again… but here we are. He’s barely looked at me for more than three seconds in the last few days and he’s treating me like a barely tolerable houseguest.”

“You have to talk to him. It’s been three days and quite frankly, I’m sick of walking on eggshells around you two. He’s not angry. He’s hurt. That’s why you’re not seeing an explosion of temper.”

“He’s never been like this before and I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trying to figure it out for days.”

Landon shot you a sardonic look. “Princess, get it through your thick skull: Lloyd isn’t angry, he’s hurt. You’ve never seen him like this before because you’re the only one who could make him feel like this.”

“Trust me, underneath that hurt, he’s angry. Lloyd is always angry.”

“Fear lies at the center of anger. He’s afraid your relationship is broken and that’s why he can’t look at you. Come on, take one for the team - and by team I mean myself. Go talk to him.”

“How do I face him after what I did?”

“He won’t bite,” Landon said.

“No, but his razor blade tongue should be registered as a weapon.”

Landon’s phone buzzed on the unfinished porch railing. He checked the message.

“If you’re going to apologize anytime soon, do it now. Zach is on his way up with Bishop. They just stopped in town for gas and they’ll be here in thirty minutes or so.”

You glanced through the window into the living room where Lloyd sat on the couch, laptop in front of him, scowling. Your stomach pitched at the prospect of the conversation you needed to have.

Landon stood up, his chair scraping against the unfinished planks of the porch floor. “I’ll take a walk down to the river and give you guys some privacy.”

“You’re leaving me alone with him?!”

“You made this mess, you clean it up.”

“If you hear screaming, come rescue me,” you muttered.

Landon crossed the yard to the trail leading down to the river basin and disappeared into the thick wilderness.

You were suddenly alone. Your hands clenched until your fingernails dug into your palms. There wouldn’t be a good time to do this. You’d never feel ready for it, and Landon was right - walking on eggshells was exhausting. You pushed to your feet, pulse thrumming in double time and turned the knob on the cabin door with trembling fingers, steeling yourself for the ugly confrontation.

Lloyd didn’t look up when you shut the door. He was too engrossed in his laptop. You paused and took in his furrowed brow as he tapped the down arrow to scroll through a page. Finally, when it became clear he wasn’t going to acknowledge your presence until you demanded it, you stepped forward.

“Lloyd? I need to talk to you.”

His finger paused on the keyboard and even though he didn’t look up, you pressed forward.

“I didn’t tell you about the stalker because I thought Aiden was behind the messages and I didn’t want you to react impulsively. I figured he was upset about losing his job and had decided to take his frustration out on me. That’s why I got in touch with his father. It seemed like the most efficient way to handle things.”

Before you could continue, Lloyd’s scowl deepened, and he resumed tapping the keyboard.

“Where’s the transcript of my interviews with Dr. Nguyen? I thought I saved them to my files.”

“The interviews? Um… there should be a copy in your email.”

He grunted and began typing. A few clicks later, his chin tilted up.

“Found it.”

You pressed a hand to your hot cheek, took a deep breath, and marshaled your courage.

“Lloyd, I’m trying to talk to you. I want to explain-”

He wasn’t listening. His fingers were dancing over the keyboard and he was blatantly ignoring you. Peaking over his shoulder you saw the website of the local news station pulled up on the laptop.

“I need to catch this broadcast,” Lloyd said tersely.

Your shoulders slumped. Repressing a sigh, you sat down and decided to wait him out.

The anchor’s voice filled the small living room, announcing their lead story - a thunderstorm warning and flood watch. You settled in as they turned to their human interest story about Harmony High School students giving back to the community with a fundraiser for the local food bank. Then the ‘Breaking News’ banner appeared on screen and you sat up straighter as you read it.

“Now, to the latest developments in a breaking news story. The arrest of a suspected serial killer has stunned the community of Harmony, Virginia. Leo McKenzie, an evidence clerk with the State Police, has been taken into custody and charged with twelve counts of murder.”

You gasped.

“Hush, I’m trying to listen,” Lloyd said.

“The case drags up ghosts of the past. In 2003, Dr. Shun Nguyen attracted international attention to the town of Harmony when he was arrested and charged with the murder of his girlfriend. Nguyen was widely considered to be responsible for the rash of disappearances of several local women between 1999 and 2001, culminating in the murder of his girlfriend in 2002. However, his conviction for that crime was overturned in 2013…”

The reporter droned on as you watched, growing confused as the cameras showed the Fairfax County Sheriff arresting a man in his mid-sixties with graying blond hair. He was stocky and dressed in a rumpled green button down and khaki slacks. His expression was slack with shock as he was escorted to a Sheriff’s cruiser.

“McKenzie’s arrest has cast a fresh spotlight on these unsolved cases, igniting painful memories for the families affected. We’ll keep you updated on this developing story throughout the night. Stay tuned for more right here on-”

Lloyd muted the video. You turned to him and for the first time in days he met your gaze.

“Leo McKenzie? The guy who leaked information for the Rolling Stone article?”

“He’s not a bad suspect,” Lloyd said. “Zach found evidence that he’s tampered with evidence before. Plus, he went out of his way to de-stabilize our relationship with the Roth when he contacted Peter Shaw and framed us for leaking confidential information.”

“You think he’s the killer?”

“No. There’s a few holes in the logic, but I’m waiting to see if those can be resolved. The fact that he leaked information to journalists and tried to manipulate the narrative around the case is significant.”

You tried not to be surprised at how quickly Lloyd had gotten up to speed in a few days.

“This was a calculated move,” Lloyd said, his gaze returning to the muted news cast. “There’s enough agencies gunning for the credit on this case that it wouldn’t have taken much more than a well-timed tip-off to persuade the Fairfax Sheriff to make an arrest.”

You nodded. “Right.”

“It’s impressive, really,” Lloyd mused. “Zach is quite the strategist. I hadn’t planned on making a maneuver this bold, but if it gets McKenzie off the street…”

Your mouth fell open. “Zach is behind the arrest?”

“He didn’t run it by me, but I suspect this is what he’s coming up here to discuss. Leo McKenzie crossed him with that journalist and even though it probably wasn’t intended as a personal slight, Zach’s not the forgiving kind.”

“And I thought I was pissed off by Roth’s decision,” you murmured.

“Zach didn’t blame Roth. He went for the root cause of the problem: McKenzie.”

Put like that, the connection between Zach’s interference and Leo’s arrest was undoubtable. You glanced at the clock and saw that he’d be arriving soon. The deadline refocused you on your goal.

“Lloyd, as I was saying, I want to explain why I didn’t tell you what was going on. When I thought Aiden was responsible, I didn’t want to put you in a situation where you’d react before we’d gathered all the facts. I thought what I was doing was appropriate, but in retrospect…”

He stood up and paced to the window and stood there, staring at the driveway. You heard the crunch of wheels over gravel and understood what he was watching for. Zach had arrived. Your eyes closed on a wave of regret.

Great. Lloyd wasn’t listening to a word you had just said.

“Zach brought company.”

*****

Bishop and Detective Roth arrived with Zach.

They shuffled into the living room with the rugged-faced detective trailing behind. He was dressed exactly the same as he’d been the last two times you’d seen him. A white collared shirt, striped red tie, and his holstered weapon prominently displayed on his right hip. His nod of greeting to you was barely perceptible. In response, you crossed your arms over your chest.

Childish, perhaps, but you were still irritated with him and he was interrupting your conversation with Lloyd. Bishop made introductions and Lloyd and Roth immediately began sizing each other up like boxers dancing around a ring.

“I looked into your previous work, Mr. Hansen. You’re quite the character. It seems your investigative techniques involve more theatrics than actual evidence gathering.”

“And your speciality seems to be old cases and old gossip. Slow and methodical hasn’t paid off in the Nguyen case, now, has it?”

“Slow and methodical is standard procedure and I’m a standard procedure kind of guy. It helps me maintain my credibility, which reminds me, your kidnapping conviction got you disbarred, didn’t it?”

Lloyd smirked. “So, you’ve been through my international portfolio as well.”

Roth studied him with an inscrutable expression, then the corner of his lip twitched. “What did you have to do with Leo McKenzie’s arrest? The Sheriff wasn’t supposed to take him into custody until next week.”

“I’d love to take credit but it wasn’t me. However, McKenzie is at the top of my suspect list.”

“What position?” Roth asked.

“Second place.”

Bishop lips pursed. “I can’t believe Sheriff Cerano swept in and arrested him so quickly, considering the history of this case.”

“He’s got enough evidence to hold him, thanks to my team,” Detective Roth said.

“What are the charges?” Zach asked.

“Tampering with evidence, improper release of classified information, and other charges related to his conduct as an evidence clerk. I’d like to apologize for jumping to conclusions and accusing the two of you.”

You uncrossed your arms.

“Are we good?” Roth asked you.

You tilted your head. “Consider yourself on probationary forgiveness. I’ll let you know in a few days if it becomes permanent.”

Roth looked at Lloyd. “Is she always so hardheaded?”

“Sometimes. Usually it’s directed at me, so this is a nice change of pace. Let’s sit down and compare notes.”

Despite the earlier verbal sparring, or perhaps because of it, Lloyd and Roth put aside their differences and shifted into professional mode as everyone assembled in the living room.

“I consider Leo McKenzie our prime suspect,” Detective Roth said.

Bishop scowled. “Why?”

“There’s long term storage of the surveillance camera footage in the evidence lockers. We were able to confirm that McKenzie wasn’t at work on the night of April 18th.”

“Was he scheduled to work?” Zach asked.

“Yes, swing shift, but he swapped with a co-worker. The co-worker reports McKenzie told them he was going to a concert,’” Roth said.

Lloyd crossed his legs. “A concert in the middle of the week? That’s ridiculous. Is there any other evidence against him?”

“He owns a .22 caliber rifle and matches the description of the person Mr. Corbin saw at Shun’s house on that same night, April 18th. He’s been known to smoke occasionally and frequented the same coffee shop where Julia’s book club met.”

“What about access to the chemicals to dissolve her corpse?” Lloyd asked.

“His work as an evidence clerk might explain that,” Bishop said.

“Technically speaking, all the ingredients he needed are available over the counter,” Roth said.

Lloyd grunted. “What about knowledge of the area where the bodies were dumped?”

“He kayaks up there every summer and his uncle used to work in the concrete industry,” Roth said. “At the moment he’s our top suspect. The Sheriff was preparing to arrest him on charges of improperly handling evidence and obstruction of justice. That’s sufficient to hold him for a long while. Virginia law enforcement jointly decided that everyone would be safer if he was off the streets.”

“So, if you have your man, why are you here?” Lloyd said.

“Because knowing he had the opportunity, means, and access to commit a crime isn’t the same thing as being able to prove he did it. That’s why I need your help. We have a window of opportunity to prove a solid case against him, but it won’t be easy. Bishop and I have discussed it with my superiors and we’re inviting you down to Harmony on a full-time basis to assist with the investigation. You’ll even get your own shared office.”

“It’s the conference room, isn’t it?” Zach asked.

“A windowless conference room,” Roth said, his lips twitching into a smirk.

The Detective’s gaze shifted to you and he tilted his head. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’m very interested in seeing the database you were working on for the case.”

*****

The guests stayed for dinner but left quickly afterwards to get back before the storm made landfall. Lloyd took a walk down to the river and you retreated to the living room where Landon was relaxing with his feet up.

“I take it apologizing didn’t go well?”

You sighed. “It didn’t go at all.”

“How come?”

“He wouldn’t hear me out. I managed three half apologies but he wouldn’t let me finish.”

“Are you going to try again, or call it a night?” Landon asked.

Your shoulders straightened. Where was your spine? Sure, all things considered, you weren’t at the top of your game this week, but the ability to make Lloyd listen was a skill you’d mastered a long time ago. If you couldn’t get through to him, then you had lost more of your self-confidence than you’d realized.

“I’m going down to the river.”

“Have fun…”

Lloyd was easy to find. He was on a bench by the water with a legal pad on his knee, reading a handful of loose leaf pages. As he read, he paused every now and then to consult his legal pad and twirl a pen around his fingers. You paused at the bottom of the concrete stairs that led down to the river basin and watched him from a distance.

His alabaster complexion was darker than usual from a summer of golfing and the week spent on the ranch. His thick hair ruffled a little in the wind because he hadn’t worn as much hair gel at the cabin, choosing to smooth his hair back instead of plastering it into place like usual.

You liked the more relaxed look on him. You wished the image matched his mood but the rigidity in his shoulders proved he was just as tense as he’d been since Tuesday.

When you approached he tucked the pages into his legal pad and clipped the pen to the pad. You sat down on the far end of the bench, leaving an arm’s length between you. The wind carried the scent of pine trees and the smell of rain hung in the air as storm clouds amassed in the southeast. The atmosphere between you held a quiet tension, an undercurrent of repressed anger. The gusting winds that rustled the leaves seemed to echo the mood. You shivered as a gust of wind cut through your blouse.

Lloyd leaned back. “You didn’t need to come all the way down here. It’s getting cold.”

“I’m fine,” you said, wrapping your arms around your torso. “I wanted to apologize. I guess my timing this afternoon wasn’t great. I was only halfway through when Zach arrived.”

“I was still too pissed at you to listen.”

“I gathered as much. I’m sorry for not telling you about the stalking. It was wrong of me to cover it up, especially for as long as I did.”

He sighed, eyes drifting to fixate on the water. “What was it? You thought I’d over react?”

Your hands twisted in your lap. “Yes. Your temper is a force of nature and you don’t have a great sense of self-preservation under the best conditions. You dive headfirst into danger without considering the consequences or your odds of survival.”

“Princess, I’ve faced much worse threats than a vertically challenged lunatic with sharp elbows. I can handle myself. Don’t worry about me.”

“But I do worry about you! I know you can take care of yourself, but as your friend it’s my job to protect you, too - including from yourself! When I decided not to tell you what was going on, that’s what I thought I was doing. After what happened on Tuesday, I know how wrong that was. I’m sorry for hurting you by holding back something I should’ve shared with you as soon as I was aware of it.”

“What was the other half of your apology? I think we got to about this point before I cut you off.”

“I’m sorry for not trusting you to respond with restraint and assuming you’d fly off the handle. Overall, you’ve taken this a lot more calmly than I thought you would.”

His left eyebrow arched. “Calmly? If you hadn’t willingly gotten in the car on Tuesday afternoon, I’d have thrown you in the trunk.”

“And compared to what I thought you might do, that was a very restrained reaction.”

Lloyd snorted. “Don’t be so sure. If Aiden had been your stalker I’d gladly have taken him apart with my bare hands. That’s part of what pissed me off. Your reasons for not telling me were valid. As much as I wanted to tear into you for it, I can’t deny that point. I guess I feel more disappointed than anything. I’ve always struggled with honesty, but with you, it was easy. I didn’t realize that trust was a one-way street.”

You groaned. “If this is you ‘not tearing into me’ I’d hate to have seen what you had in mind earlier.”

He shifted closer and a thick arm curled around your shoulders. You snuggled into his chest as another gust of wind kicked up.

“I really am sorry,” you said. “I’ll say it as many times as you want.”

“Since I’ve been giving you the cold shoulder for the past three days, I think we can call it even.”

You squeezed his waist and burrowed into his arms. “I promise to be more honest with you, even when I’m worried about your reaction.”

His lips brushed your temple. “I’ll try not to sulk so long next time you decide to bottle things up.”

“Is that a whiff of skepticism I’m sensing? You don’t think I’ll be honest?”

“You protect others, Princess. It’s in your nature. But your takeaway from this experience needs to be that lies of omission aren’t how you protect me, or yourself. I need you and I…”

Love you.

Your heart leapt as you filled in the next words, holding your breath to hear him say them for the first time.

“Was that a drop of rain?” Lloyd said.

*****

You and Lloyd made it back to the front porch of the cabin just as the clouds opened up and poured rain down in buckets. Both of you had escaped the worst of the onslaught, but droplets went flying when Lloyd shook out his hair. You squealed when the water hit your face.

“Sorry, honey,” he said, and held open the door for you.

There was no sight of Landon in the living room, so you assumed he’d retreated to the basement.

Lloyd led you upstairs to the loft which housed the master bedroom. He tossed his legal pad on the bed and went to retrieve towels from the bathroom. You stripped off your wet clothes in the closet and found a clean t-shirt of Lloyd's to slip on. When he came out of the bathroom with the towels, you were sitting on the bed leafing through his legal pad.

“Who’s Tate Corbin?”

“You remember Nguyen’s across the street neighbor? Mr. Corbin?”

“Yes. These notes are about him?”

Lloyd rubbed the towel across his damp hair.

“Yeah. Corbin doesn’t have a file, officially at least, so I’ve spent the past couple days putting one together.”

“Why?”

“Because after l reviewed everything Zach has collected on McKenzie, there was one glaring problem. Leo McKenzie isn’t good at chemistry. He failed the class in high school and took the easiest science credit he could in college: Biology 101 for general studies. He passed with a C minus.”

“Not everyone can be a scientific genius.”

“I doubt our killer is a scientific genius, but they know the basics of chemicals, either by trade or education. The brittle bones that were observed in Julia’s remains and the lack of bodies from the remains from the other nine victims points to a chemical dissolution process of some kind. Leo McKenzie doesn’t have the knowledge to perform that kind of a reaction.”

You made a face of disgust at the imagery his words brought to mind and scanned through the file.

“It says he wasn’t named as a person of interest in 2002. Why wasn’t he a suspect?”

“Actually, the first responding officer did raise suspicions about Mr. Corbin. When he answered the door the next evening - this wasn’t long after Shun was taken in for his first round of questioning - he appeared sweaty and pale. Mr. Corbin attributed it to being on a new blood pressure medication.”

“Did he work with chemicals?” you asked.

“He was a merchant marine in the 50s and 60s, working for companies like Odfjell and Stolt-Nielsen.”

“What does that have to do with the case?”

Lloyd’s grin widened. “Odfjell and Stolt-Nielsen were chemical tanker companies. left the industry in the late 60s and settled down in Fredericksburg. He got married, had two kids, and in 1975 the family moved to Harmony where Corbin started a contracting business. His specialty was laying foundations. Between the physical nature of his work and a penchant for jogging and hiking, Corbin stayed in excellent shape. He even hiked the Appalachian Trail from start to finish in 2003.”

“This is interesting, but what about the evidence Roth and Zach collected against Leo?”

Lloyd shrugged. “He’s worth investigating. I’m open to the possibility that he’s the killer, if evidence comes to light that he knew enough chemistry to dissolve a body. But the way Shun reacted when you questioned him about who the killer might be has stuck in my head. He was clearly afraid of someone, so I’ve been trying to figure out who.”

“Right, I noticed that too. He was visibly shaken when I told him about the second body.”

“Shun’s social circle wasn’t extensive, which narrows the potential suspects to his coworkers and a handful of other associates. When I couldn’t establish a connection between Shun and Leo, I kept searching, which led me to Tate Corbin. The guy is a towering ex-sailor with a linebacker’s shoulders. If he posed a threat to Shun, it could explain why Shun didn’t fight the charges harder or point the finger at another suspect.”

You flipped to Corbin’s demographics page and checked the data. “But Tate is eighty-three years old now. Why wouldn’t Shun just take his story to the media?”

“Remember his reaction to hearing about the second body? Someone - probably the killer - put the fear of God in him. Besides, to Corbin, age is just a number. He’s still running half marathons and 10ks.”

“Holy smoke. Do you have his times? Like, is he any good?”

“He’s placing ahead of runners who are a third of his age. The cincher for me is that there’s only one person whose presence at the house on the evening of April 18th can be verified. By his own admission, Tate was at the crime scene and reported seeing a ‘very large man’ lurking around. Conveniently, Tate Corbin is a very large man.”

“You think he lied to the police?”

Lloyd chuckled. “I don’t think he anticipated the interrogation. When he was caught off guard, his brain couldn’t compose an entirely fictional story, so instead of lying outright, he just bent the truth.”

“Should we bring Roth into the loop?”

“Let’s continue piecing things together over the weekend. We’ll let the news about Leo circulate and make sure Tate has a chance to see it. And since we’re relocating to Roth’s conference room on Monday, we can present our findings to him then. I want to have a clearer picture of the case against Tate to make sure he merits our attention before we discuss it with Roth.”

You looked down, pretending to read, and hid a smile at Lloyd’s final comment. Evidently, Roth’s barb about theatrics had stuck its target.

“That sounds like a plan. I think working together will be good for you two.”

Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. He’s such an asshole.”

“Mmmhhh. A real piece of work.”

Irrespective of the investigation, Monday promised to be an exciting day. The anticipation of the clash between Lloyd and Roth brought a real smile to your face for the first time in days. And as fiery as their reaction to each other might be, you had a suspicion that they might turn out to be an excellent team - if they didn’t kill each other first.

*****

Next - Chapter XX

*****

Masterlist

*****

Taglist:

@denisemarieangelina

@before-we-get-started

@buckysteveloki-me

@patzammit

@badassbaker

@meetmeatyourworst

@whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@thiskindahotkindamusic

@jesgisborne

@charmingprincess

@amiets2

@seitmai

@elle14-blog1

@chaoticsteverogers

@kaleidoscopepov

@fangirl-and-doctor-help

@jesevans

@openup-yourmind

@kandierteveilchen

@adoreyouusugar

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@pono-pura-vida

@mysweetlittledesire

@liecastillo

@marantha

@literaturelove

@babyevansblog

@lizzzaaaaaaaaaaa

@thegirlnextdoorssister

@ladygrey03

@cynic-spirit

@rosedpetal

@jeremyrennermakesmesmile

@bambamwolf87

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@calwitch

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@texmexdarling

@here4thefanfics

@rogersbarber

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@dear-fifi

@crayongirl-linz

@bigcreatorwombatdreamer

#the princess and the lawyer #the princess & the lawyer #Lloyd Hansen x princess #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd x princess #lloyd hansen fic #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen au #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen fanfiction #chris evans characters x reader #chris evans charaters #chris evans characters fanfic #no minors #minors dni

[brandwhorestarscream]

Fragging loved the first part of TFP Jazz EQ Event.

Do the bitlets want to eat Raf, Jack, & Miko too? Or are they (for some reason) immune from the bitlets feast? Also, it'd be really funny if the bitlets refused to return to Starscream. Or, like, they had some minor traits from their carriers (like color schemes or optic colors). That would be hillarious. Imagine SS reaction when he finds them tho. Like...

"WHAT DID YOU AUTOBOTS DO TO THEM???"

"What did WE do? YOU'RE THE ONE WHO LEFT THEM ALONE. HOW WERE WE TO KNOW THATS WHAT SEEKER SPARKLINGS LOOK LIKE???"

"What. HOW COULD YOU NOT?"

"YOU VOSIANS NEVER LEFT VOS!!! NO ONE HAD ANY CLUE YOU WERE LIKE THIS???"

That'd be soooooo funny.

I'll answer these point for point! I'm glad you enjoyed it ^-^

1. The human kids aren't on the menu because they never meet the bitties. They aren't on base while the three incubators are unconscious because no one has time to watch them, and having them around a gaggle of sparklings is a bad idea regardless of parentage. Sparklings have no control of their strength, and weigh several hundred pounds at birth. They could very easily break a human and cause irreparable damage

2. They don't refuse their mother, not to worry. The screaming and wailing they were doing were to call him. They know their carrier isn't here and are desperately hoping he'll come rescue them. He produced this clutch asexually (not at all planned), that's why they all look so much like him. They're not perfectly identical, as seekers have such a deep gene pool, but they are very similar

3. Saying he left them alone isn't really fair. He was nesting, completely alone, and was trying to prepare for their arrival (gathering materials and energon), all while having to dodge both the aggressive autobots and decepticons and evade being captured. It's not like he willingly abandoned them--they were tucked away in the safest warmest depths of his base, and Smokescreen intentionally broke in with the intent to steal, and accidentally kidnapped his unhatched childre. He didn't just leave them

4. As of now I'm not planning for him to actually interact with the bots, but if he did heads would roll. They dare kidnap his precious brood and then badmouth them to his face?? Death

#Cryptid Seekers au

[acquariusgb]

Billary fic drabble advent calendar. Day 7

Day 7: Love Confession

“Hey,” Bill whispered to Hillary in her ear so that she could hear him over the loud music. “Why don’t we head inside for a moment?”

“Sure.” She nodded. They went inside in the kitchen where it was a bit quieter. 

Bill took a diet coke can from the fridge for himself and a bottle of water for Hillary. “That’s better.” He said after taking a sip.  

Hillary sat on the kitchen counter and Bill stepped between her legs and laid his hands on the counter next to her hips. He leaned down and stole a kiss from her. 

“Is this why you wanted to come inside?” She asked mischievously as she laced her arms around his neck.

“No” He chuckled, running his hands up her hips. “If that was all I wanted I would have taken you up to my room.”

“There’s still time.” This time she was the one who initiated the kiss. “I’ll miss this.” she suddenly said.

Bill was a bit taken aback from her statement. “Miss it? Why? Are you breaking up with me?” He joked, but he was getting worried about her answer.

“Of course not,” She chuckled. “What gave you that idea? I meant with me going to California this summer and you in Florida, there won’t be a lot of time for us but I think we could manage a long distance relationship, don’t you?”

“About that…” Bill was nervous about his next words. “I’m thinking about not going to Florida.”

Hillary looked at him surprised. “Why not? You were so excited about going there and organizing the McGovern campaign. It’s a great opportunity considering your desire to enter into public office.”

“Well… what would you say if I told you I would like to come to California with you?”

Hillary stared at him with her mouth open, loss of words. She stepped down from the counter and walked away from him, giving him her back.

“Hilz..”

“Why?” She was incredulous. She quickly turned around to face him. “Why do you want to give up the opportunity to do something you love to follow me to California?”

“for someone I love, that's why.”

Hillary was still in shock. Bill took a small step towards her and gathered her hands in his. “I love you” he said with a smitten smile as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I… I…” she was very articulate but at that moment she had completely forgotten all the words of the English language.

“I know it's soon,” Bill tried to reassure her “and you don't have to say it back if you're not there yet…”

“We've only been together for a few months,” she interrupted him, “do you really want to risk it all for something you don't even know it's going to work?”

“Yes. I think we're destined to be together. And I don't want to risk losing you this summer now that I've just found you.”

His words slightly placated her shock. He really looked sincere.

“I don't know what to say… I know I've never felt this way before with anybody else like I do for you.”

For Bill that was encouraging. “Why don't you think about it? You don't have to give me an answer right away. Just know that it's on the table.”

“Don't think that my hesitation it's because I don't care about you… because I do, a lot. Or that I don't believe in us. It's just that…”

“It's a lot to take in right now” he finished knowing exactly how she felt. He had been there a few days before when he realized he was completely in love with her and he was afraid to lose her for just being far away from each other for a few months. What if she met someone better she loved more?

“Yeah…”

“I totally understand. Let's not let it ruin the rest of our evening. Why don't we go for a walk on the beach? We can talk about anything else.”

She smiled, grateful that he wasn't pressuring her. “I'd love that.”

And they walked out hand in hand. 

#the clintons #hillary clinton #bill clinton #billary #bill and hillary #advent calendar fic drabble

[kai-anderson-whore]

He's a cult leader (part 4) (kai Anderson x fem reader series)

Summary:y/n moved back to Michigan after her college degree in music where she reunites with an old lover kai Anderson

Chapter warnings: jerk personal trainer, mentions of dismemberment, election night

(Previous chapter)

•¤❅¤•.•°˚˚°•..•°˚˚°•.•¤❅¤•.•¤❅¤•.•°˚˚°•. .•°˚˚

November 2016

Election night finally arrived something kai never shutted up about, driving you crazy, didn't want to vote for trump but kai convinced you to, you sat with winter watching the results, kai downstairs doing the same.

Your heart dropped when trump actually won, you wanted Hillary to win really if you didn't vote for him, maybe just maybe she would have won, you heard kai screaming "fuck you world USA, USA, U, S, A" you and winter shared a look of cringe, knowing her brother, your boyfriend will be running up those stairs to gloat.

And you were right, kai came sprinting up those stairs, entering winters bedroom a face full of cheetos black eyeliner over his eyes and a Donald trump hair style, you couldn't help bit laugh as winter kept a serious face, kai plopping on his sisters bed with a smile.

"Did come on here to rub it in" winter growled shoving him telling kai to get out, kai just sat there unphased, raising his pinky, winter interlocking hers with his.

"I'm just scared" she sighed kai leaned closer a little "everyone is" he replied you stood there observing, you were scared to, you didn't know what will happen, as for the cult we already have three members, ivy, Gary and Jack, tomorrow kai is recruiting another member Harrison a personal trainer.

You stood from the bed, tiredly striding to bed, "where you going" kai asked you shook your head, "bed kai wash that muck off your face before you have a bad breakout" you sighed leaving the siblings to talk.

Entering yours and kai's bedroom, fishing out an oversized t-shirt that belongs to kai, finding his old flannel he wore when you had first met, smiling recalling the memory.

Stripping from your clothes and throwing the flannel on having a cigarette out the window calming your nerves, "you okay?" Kai asked entering the bedroom now clean and showered not smelling of cheetos, "I'm fine kai" you sighed taking another long drag of your cigarette.

Kai was only in his boxers his big arms wrapped around your waist "you know I always thought you were so hot when you smoked and wearing my clothes" he mumbled against your shoulder, you smiled at his compliment.

"I know you tell me all the time" you chuckled taking another drag of your cigarette, kai hummed against your neck leaving a trail of kisses along your skin, sending you shivers down your spine, "what time you got your PT at?" You asked flicking the last of your cigarette away.

"Near closing time" he shrugged "wanna come with?" He smirked as you turned to face him, "why so you can watch me do squats" you teased, kai instantly got hard at the thought of you in the gym, "well yeah" he shrugged laying your body on the bed.

"I'll think about it" you giggled as kai kissed along your neck "right mister not tonight I need to be up early I have to teach some kid the guitar" you Said before anything went further not that you didn't want it to, of course you wanted to but if your late the kid kicks up a fuss.

"Mind if I tag along" kai asked knowing how much you disliked the kid since he thinks your not 'Eric Clapton good' which wasn't hard to say "Sure I need someone to restrain me from hitting a kid" you chuckled pecking his lips before getting tucked into bed.

Kai wrapped an arm around you pulling you closer to him, "goodnight" you hummed your eyes closed, legs tangled together, "goodnight y/n" he mumbled into your hair.

The next morning you were woken up by your alarm, kai was already up and getting dressed, "morning" he smiled as you lifed your tired body off the bed.

"I really can't be bothered with this kid today" you groaned flicking through your phone picking out a song to start your day, finally settling on 'dani california' by red hot chilli peppers.

Fishing out your clothes picking a pair of ripped mom jeans and one of kai's shirts, applying light makeup and throwing a beanie on along with your docs.

"Ready to go?" You ask kai who nodded holding your guitar case, as you unlock your car, kai placed your guitar in the back seat of your car before slipping into the passenger side.

You turned your heater on and the radio, singing along to 'space oddity' by david bowie "this is ground control to major tom" you belted out driving to the kid you had to teach house.

"Remember at that halloween party in college you dressed as ziggy stardust and genuinely thought you were bowie" kai chucked, you cringed at the memory.

"Don't remind me what was I thinking then the next party we went to we dressed as bowie and jagger in the dancing in the street video" you laughed, "that's right" kai recalled.

Soon enough you made it to the house of your student, kai got your guitar handing it over to you, making it to the front door giving it a knock "y/n hello, Bradley is in his room come in I'll tell him you have arrived" the mother Julia said allowing you and kai inside.

"I hope you don't mind I brought my boyfriend over with me" you smiled Julia was fine with it, you liked Julia just not her son who thought he was better than everyone for a 14 year old boy.

Julia excused herself to alert her son you had arrived, you and kai sat on the sofa waiting on Bradley, "hi y/n" Bradley entered the room with his acoustic guitar in hand.

"Hey Bradley so have you been practicing the song we been working on?" You asked he wanted to learn an easy song once he had learnt the easy chords off by heart then once he had felt comfortable with a few songs move to harder things.

"Yeah but I kind of want to learn a new song" he said "Alright how about we play love me do first then move on" you suggested Bradley nodded his head getting ready to play the song same as you

After the session you and kai had about two hours to spare till his pt session or in other words (his recruitment for world domination) making your way back home changing into some appropriate gym attire, but kai wanted to 'warm up' before you both went anywhere making you both a little bit late.

Finally making it to the gym kai wore a green sweatshirt with a grey gym top underneath along with black joggers, you wore your black gym leggings with a peach colour vest and a black sports bra underneath with a zipper.

"Kai?" The personal trainer said walking up to us "hey" kai said extending his hand out to the man "Hey Harrison wilton they assigned me to be your trainer" shaking your boyfriends hand, "I requested you" kai said, you stood there awkwardly as the men conversed.

"Really?" Harrison asked. "Yes".

"Wow that's awesome did someone recommend me" Harrison went on to ask, you really wanted to start this session now bored of the conversation.

"No no i-i saw you out on the gym floor you look strong" kai said shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Oh cool, but I mean there are bigger guys here, if that's the kind of workout your looking for" Harrison said, making you roll your eyes, "no no I mean you could move a dead body if you had too" you almost hid your face at kai's choice of words, knowing his plans for the future.

"I just meant you look... strong" kai said Harrison flashed a smile saying "okay well thank you".

"Oh I brought someone over if she could get a pt aswell" kai asked placing an arm over your shoulder "Yeah erm I think one of my colleagues are free right now" Harrison said walking off to find his colleague.

"I swear of I get one of those jerks who keeps looking at my ass or boobs I'll kill him" you groaned looking around the place noticing there are barely any woman workers.

Harrison came back with this buff guy who was already eyeing you up "this will be your trainer today" Harrison said to you, saying hi to the guy and telling him your name you both went off to do your own thing.

"So what your goals we'll start with that" the guy who's name you forgot eyeing you up like dinner on a plate,

"World domination" you joked shaking your head "I don't know my boyfriend invited me here last minute so haven't really thought of goals" you shrugged.

"How about a leg workout first?" The guy suggested to you, agreeing getting on the leg press machine working your legs as hard as you can.

You did notice your trainer staring at your ass, you let out a small smirk but not saying anything, "so your boyfriend the guy who Harrison is working with" he asked you nodded, "Yeah he's hot ain't he" you smiled looking at kai who was doing weights with Harrison talking away.

Kai eyes were on you, already sending a smirk your way but a glare to your trainers, "are you gay?" Harrison asked further along in the conversation they were having pulling kai's eye's away from yours.

"see this is what I'm talking about, labels, diversity starts with d, I, v, which is also the first three letters of divide, gay, bisexual, transgender, these are labels created by the leftist they wanna split us apart create special interest groups that put themselves over the greater good of the community" kai paused in his lecture that Harrison was invested in.

"A man with no lable has an elegance to only what is right" kai finishes "Wow your a lot smarter than most of the other guys that come in here, what kind of work do you do?" Harrison asked as kai picks the weights back up.

"Computers, coding, I guess they're called app developers now I dig it, it let's me work from home, I Don't say moneys ever been my thing, I was kinda a freak when I was a kid" Harrison took the weight off kai again as he continued to speak.

"You know y/n you could have a real man" your trainer said as you did squats with a weight on your shoulders, you rolled your eyes in annoyance with your trainer constantly hitting on you, "I have a real man" you huffed setting the weight down "and this is over for today" you panted..

"And if you look at me like that one more time I'll Gooch your eyes you" you hissed

Now walking over to Harrison and kai your douchbag trainer by your side, "try not to be intimidated" Harrison said as you were in earshot from them

"That's normal" you knew kai was talking about himself to make Harrison feel like kai should be someone to look up to.

"Listen I like pussy" kai then said you were now infront of the men eyes shot open at his bold statement "everything okay" you smiled your trainer talking to someone else "her one especially" kai sent you a wink as you wiped the sweat off your forehead "okay well I'm going to shower I'll see you in a bit" you said leaving the boys to god knows what.

In the car driving home was silent you didn't have the radio on for a change "how was your session" kai asked you let out a sigh "fine apart from the fact the trainer is a complete dick" you said the trainers words bugging you.

"How what did he do" kai asked a hand on your thigh as he drove the car, "he kept looking at my ass and tits and he said something about you" you whispered the last part "like what?" Kai then went on to ask "like I could have a real mean instead of you" you said.

"I told him you are a real man and that if he ever looks at me like that again he won't be seeing anything else" you mumbled laying your head on the headrest further.

"Good" kai said continuing to drive back home. Your mind dreaded the night knowing your legs would be in pain from exhaustion from the workout.

A few weeks later you did return to the gym with Harrison as your new trainer when kai didnt go to the gym, you had a phone call from kai to pick him up from the gym a bit past closing time, odd you thought but went anyway to see the horror of your future unfold.

Now in a motel room bathroom, sitting on the sink as kai instructed Harrison how to dismember your old trainer, your mind was foggy, kai was acting like this was normal, you heard the front door open then the bathroom you frozen seeing a woman enter.

"Harrison who's that" she asked pointing to the body half cut up in the bath "my old boss" he gulped she then turned around to you and kai "and who are they".

"Someone to believe in" he stated.

#american horror story #evan peters #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson #evan peters x reader #ahs asylum #kit walker #tate langdon #jimmy darling #james patrick march #kyle spencer x reader #kyle spencer #austin sommers #evan peters x y/n #evan peters fanfic #evan peters smut #ahs coven #ahs murder house #ahs cult #ahs hotel #ahs fandom #ahs 1984 #ahs apocalypse #ahs double feature #ahs fanfic #ahs #ahs smut #ahs nyc #ahs x reader #evan peters fanfiction

[laurfilijames]

Home

Pairing: George Lowe x female reader

Words: 1,166

Warnings: Unprotected intercourse (not described), nudity.

Summary: George is home after being away for weeks in India, and the weight of missing him carries on even after your reunion, especially knowing he will be leaving again to try to conquer Everest.

A/N: I was away from home for 10 days and it physically hurt how much I missed my man, so this was written with some very fresh, first-hand feelings.

The series Hillary takes place in the 50's and I realize that pre-martial sex was frowned upon but it's me so we're going with it.

Prompts used for @deanobingo were Aftercare, "Don't move", and George Lowe

Photos courtesy of @blairsanne (I couldn't choose just one because LOOK AT HIM so there's another photo at the bottom of that beautiful face)

---

“I missed you,” he breathed, his quiet words reverberating softly enough it seemed like only your incomplete heart could hear them; cradled in your chest where his lips rested now, his beard scratching against the surface as if attempting to uncover it. 

You held George closer - as if possible - still feeling that ache deep within you even though you had no reason to miss him anymore; the time apart proving almost too much for you to bear. 

“I missed you too.” 

You spoke into the mess of soft curls atop his head, carding your arms around him as though you would melt into him if you did, the need to be as close to him as possible for as long as you could overwhelming. 

His breathing slowed beneath your palms as they smoothed over his warm back, the pattern evening out to contrast from how laboured it was only moments ago, and as he looked up at you it was hard to tell if his cheeks were tinted a reddish hue from his earlier efforts or from the sun reflecting on the blinding snow to cast a burn that lingered on his weathered skin. You traced your finger over the bridge of his nose, taking in the face you missed staring back at you so much it physically hurt, earning a smile that warmed you through despite feeling like an inferno already. 

His beard had thickened since he had left, but not enough to hide his dimples when he grinned like that, the colour a rich auburn compared to his hair that had been bleached by the elements which gave him a warm, sunkissed glow that matched the sheen that coated him from your lovemaking.  

The scent of him hung in the air around you, so potent now you'd been without it for too long, yet so familiar there was no way you could ever forget it. To indulge in it more, you tucked your face into the crook of his neck, prompting him to wrap his arms around you to keep you flush against his body. George took his turn in running his rough hands up and down your back, caressing you as much as he had throughout your entire reunion so far, his lips moving to press gentle kisses on your neck and collarbone. 

As he began to soften within you, you shifted your hips on his lap, moaning faintly at the sensation of his spend leaking out of your over-sensitive sex. George locked his arms around you tighter, preventing you from moving, shushing quietly in your ear. 

"Don't move," he whispered, knowing he needed to stay near you as much as you needed the same, the weeks-long trip to Nepal weighing on him more than he had let on. 

“Can we stay like this forever?” he murmured, his voice muffled as he kissed along your jawline, his beard tickling you each time his lips moved. 

“Please,” you answered, still feeling so desperate for him you could cry, relishing in the way he engulfed you in his strong arms. “I'll go out of my mind when you go to Everest.” 

Your admission came out strangled, dreading another stint that would be longer and more dangerous than this last one. 

He sighed heavily, applying a gentle squeeze with his arms around your middle. 

“Just one more, I promise,” he assured you, kissing your cheek while bringing his hand up to cup the other side, turning your head to face him again. “I have to do this.” 

His look was pleading, searching your eyes with his flaming blue ones, and burying your selfish desires for him to stay home, you nodded, knowing you loved him too much to get in the way of fulfilling his dreams. 

“I know.” 

"Until then," he smiled gently, his eyes bright in knowing he had your support, "I intend to make up every moment I've been robbed of you." 

You smiled against his lips as he kissed you, his chuckle vibrating through his chest onto yours, and you wished that not even the everyday tasks like eating and drinking would interrupt you from hiding away together until he had to leave again. 

The movement of his lips slowed, gradually fading out to brush ever so lightly on your moistened, swollen flesh, and parted from you to look at you seriously. 

"I hope you know how much I love you," he spoke, his voice hoarse and holding a heavier tone than it usually did. 

"Of course I do, George."

Your fingers found their way into his long waves again, smoothing them back out of his face as they threatened to fall in his eyes, and with a kiss on his forehead, his features cracked into an easy smile. 

"I love you, too," you vowed, holding his face in your hands so his soft beard tickled your palms, bringing him into a meaningful kiss. 

When your kiss broke, George cleared his throat, almost nervously, and not making eye contact with you, he spoke quickly.

"Marry me?"

"What?" you blurted, convinced you misheard.

"Will you marry me?" he repeated, finally looking at you, his blue eyes slightly wet. "I-I mean, I don't have a ring to give you, or money to buy one but-" he stammered, his eyebrows rising with the pitch of his voice, his head shaking quickly from side to side like he was dismissing the idea as absolute ludicrousy. 

"All I have is this," he continued, blinking at you as he leaned over to the bedside table and plucked a small, circular piece of material from it. 

He held it up between your bodies, revealing a strand of what appeared to be from the shoelace of his boot that had been tied at both ends to form a ring, and smiled weakly with a shrug. 

"I made it one night on the mountain when I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"It's perfect," you exclaimed, feeling your heart pummel the inside of your chest wildly. 

"Is that a yes, then?" he asked, waiting with bated breath for your answer, his hopeful pools of blue dancing frantically in the lamplight. 

"Yes!"

He laughed heartily and gave an excited shout, wrapping his arms around you tightly to squeeze you like a vice, his joy unmatched. 

Still chuckling as he sighed out, George took your left hand and carefully slipped the worn string around your fourth finger, his cheeks red and round as he beamed at you. 

You rubbed your fingers together to shift the material, amazed at how it felt wrapped securely around your ring finger and even more in awe at how such an ordinary piece of nothing symbolized so much. 

"Maybe there'll be diamonds at the top of Everest," he chuckled again, his cheeks twitching as the disappointing reality of that hope set in. 

"I don't need diamonds, George," you assured, thinking it impossible for a woman to value gems above the unconditional love of a wonderful man. "I just need you." 

---

Taglist:

Everything: @guardianofrivendell @midearthwritings @cassiabaggins @lilith15000 @trishthedishofreis @linasofia @unbeatablecurlgirl @the-poldarkian @lathalea @enchantzz @blairsanne @legolaslovely @middleearthpixie @i-did-not-mean-to @sketch-and-write-lover @jotink78 @medusas-hairband @feeweeeee @missihart23 @fortheloveofdurin @i-am-still-bb @roobear68 @ichoosechoasandbeingqueer @legolasbadass @spngingerbread21

#deanobingo2023 #deanobingo #deano bingo #george lowe #hillary (2016) #george lowe x female reader #george lowe x reader #dean o'gorman

[cinewhore]

To the Ends of the Earth (2)

Pairing: Lara Croft & Marcus Pike (Tomb Raider AU)

Rating: Mature

warnings: mentions of missing parents, guns. angst. fluff. 

Summary: After obtaining a seemingly normal piece of art from a flea market, Marcus Pike enlists the help of an old friend in tracking down its origins. They both get more than they bargain for.

A/N: an repost. I really have some bangers stored in my google docs. I obviously love putting Marcus Pike into situations. Credit to the gif maker. Divider by @/saradika​

“No.”

Marcus deflates, eyes boring into Ginny’s back as she washes out Ava’s baby bottles. The clank of the plastic as it drops into the left side of the sink waiting to be rinsed out drums through Marcus’s chest as he tries to find a way to sway his wife.

“Baby, this could be huge. More than anything I’ve ever done my entire career-”

“-which is why it’s more dangerous! Can’t you see that?”

Another bottle gets tossed.

“I can take care of myself and you know that.” Ginny laughs at this.

“I know very well what you’re capable of, Marcus. I know that while you were in the field you had to undergo certain training processes and that you could sniff out danger from a mile away. It is not you I am worried about.”

Marcus swallows. He knows where this is going. “Is this-is this about Lara?”

Lara had egged him on to ask Ginny out, sure. However, they were both...cautious of each other. So much so that Marcus had to set up a fake dinner with each of them just to get them in the same room. They had the same goal: keeping Marcus safe. While he appreciated it, there were lines that needed to be drawn in the sand. Lara wasn’t allowed to just pop up at the house in the dead of the night to rant about her new findings and Ginny wasn’t allowed to make snide remarks about their relationship.

Boundaries. There needed to be boundaries.

Ginny rests her hands along the edge of the sink, sighing. “I am worried for her. If what you mention is true, the things about the portal, it could be potentially destructive and lead her down a path she may not be able to recover from.”

Marcus approaches Ginny, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leans back into him, inhaling his cologne. Marcus leaves a few kisses along her shoulder blades, tucking his head on her neck.

“I’m worried about her too, darling.”

Ginny shifts herself, turning so that she could face Marcus. She smiles to herself as she traces his frown lines with her finger. “You retired to be here, with me and the children. I can’t do this thing without you, Pike.”

Marcus nods. Ginny sells houses for a living and while that doesn’t particularly involve any dangerous situations,  Marcus still worries about her each and every time she leaves the house in the morning. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like, being home alone with newborn twins while he was out chasing down the tail of some art thief. Marcus made a promise to her and he wasn’t going to break it.

“Just give me a week. If nothing comes of it, I’ll come right back, straight to you. You will never have to do this alone, my love.”

Comfort floods Ginny and she lurches forward to kiss Marcus, sealing the deal.

“One week.”

Hillary hums a small tune to himself, breaking his stride to dust off a vase. He smooths himself over as he enters the library, where Lara had situated herself since the arrival of the “guests”.

“Miss Croft, would you care for something? Perhaps some water?”

“No, thank you, Hil.” Lara doesn’t bother to look up from her work, the books spilling over themselves.

“You’ve been at this for hours.”

Hillary is met with no response. He meanders over to the globe, pulling the top open to showcase bottles of brown liquor. He pours a gracious glass, topping it off with a single ice cube.

The glass enters Lara’s field of sight as Hillary sets it down right in front of her, clearing his throat. She gives in, dragging her tired body down into her chair. “Thank you.”

“The guest left today with no fuss, may I be bold to assume you played nicely?”

Lara smiles into her glass. “I gave them a warning.”

“Lara Croft! The infamous archeologist, world renowned.” Balashov croons, arms outstretched. His convoy had managed to garner the attention of many of the party goers, Ginny standing in front of them defiantly.

“Balashov Rodionovich, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Lara saunters over to the group of men, all clad in dark suits.

“It has been a while, figured I’d make a visit. Just happened to be in America.” Balashov squares his shoulders, folding his hands.

“I’m busy.” Lara’s curt tone does not sit well with him. He grins a wolfish grin, chuckling along with his henchmen.

“I can tell! Remind me, which one is yours again?” Balashov gestures to the children.

Macus tightens his jaw, shifting a little closer to Lara.

“Would you like some tea?” She offers Balashov.

He laughs again. What the fuck is with this guy? “Never cared for you Brits or your tea.”

“Vodka?”

Balashov clicks his teeth. “Bingo.”

After assuring Marcus that everything was ok, Lara ushers the men into the bar, serving up the drinks herself. One of Balashov’s men stands guard at the door while Marcus stands adjacent to him. Lara couldn’t get rid of him even if she tried.

Balasov takes a sip of the drink Lara hands him, humming in bliss. He points to Marcus. “Is this puny man your lover? Color me hurt, Lara.”

“Watch it,” Marcus sneers.

“Easy,” Lara warns him. “What do you want, Balashov?”

“Ты знаешь, чего я хочу.” you know what I want.

“I don’t have it and if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.” Lara tells him simply.

“Word on the street is that one of the Dutch epitaph pieces was uncovered in Jordan, the same one that is said to possess magical powers, the exact same one your father more or less lost his life over, makes no nevermind to you?”

Marcus really doesn’t like this guy.

“You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear, Bal.”

Balashov finishes his drink, setting down the glass carefully on the bartop. “I have gathered a team to track the rest of the pieces for me. If it happens that my team leads me back here to you, I can not promise you I will put everything back as neatly as I have found it.”

Lara holds up her own glass. “Господа, ваше здоровье.” Gentlemen, cheers.

Hillary grins as Lara recounts the activities from earlier that day. “Where do you think the other two are?”

“Not Jordan, that’s for sure. Rodionovich is trying to catch a scent, if he had something he wouldn’t have come here. I’ve been going through my fathers journals for answers but all he’s left me are riddles.”

Hillary walks around the desk to gaze over Lara’s shoulders, studying the many papers she has laid out across the surface.

“And what of Marcus?”

Lara takes a deep sigh. “I’ll have his piece moved, inspected, and then placed in storage. We can’t take any risks, not with the children being there.”

“Little buggers, they are.” Hillary chides to himself, picking off a piece of lint from his suit.

“Yeah.”

The room goes silent, Lara remembering fondly when her father would chase her around the estate. She barely remembers her mother being present, always scolding the two of them for making such a fuss. Lara misses her mother. She misses everyone. The house was too big, too loud and too quiet at the same time.

“I miss her too.” Hillary pats Lara on the shoulder, delicately wiping away a tear that had fallen and landed on her cheek.

“I need to know where she went, Hil.”

“What difference would it make if you found her?” Hillary asks, titling his head.

“I don’t know-maybe we could be a family? I have so many questions to ask her.”

“Lara,” Hillary reaches over and hands Lara a framed photo. Marcus and Ginny had just brought Ava home and everyone was smushed together for a quick photo opp before things got too hectic. “This is your family. Me and Alex, we care about you too.”

Lara knows this. She knows that she is loved, that they would do anything to bring a smile on her face. There were times when it wasn’t enough. She wanted something of her own and she figured that if she could locate her mother, she could finally get what she wanted.

“So!” Hillary stands to attention, gathering up the empty glass. “What’s the plan?”

“I need guns. Big guns.”

#Marcus pike & Lara croft #Marcus pike #lara croft #tomb raider #fic: to the ends of the earth

[mamgt]

Vertigo

Chapter 1: A Quarter Life Crisis

Table of Contents

"Waiting for you is like waiting for rain in this drought: useless and disappointing."

Soo-Young recites this by heart for an audience of three but only Jimin witnesses it as his stepfather and sister are both asleep on either side of mother and son. No one could deny that Sola was Lawrence’s daughter by the way they mirror each other, chins tucked to their chests. A habit of falling asleep in front of the television. 

No one could deny that Soo-Young was Jimin’s son. Both hopeless romantics who’ve consumed not only English romance movies but Korean and Filipino as well. Connoisseurs of love. Their hands clasped together in anticipation as if they haven’t watched Hillary Duff’s version of Cinderella for the hundredth time. Even though it was his night, he had asked his mom to choose their movie and he’s never surprised when she chooses Cinderella Story. For some reason, out of all the media she could possibly choose from, this is what made learning English easy for her. She clung on to these words and used them in the odd jobs she had while Jimin was growing up.

Traces of their past echo in the way she mouths the words at the beginning of the movie but Jimin knows her favorite part is the confrontation. When all the fluff and shimmer of love crashes with reality and someone always has to make a choice. Sometimes it’s running to an airport or walking away. It’s never easy but his mom says that that’s where they write the best lines. 

He watches her in endearment, already missing her. 

This was his last night before he flies off to South Korea to study a masters program for two years. The funny thing is, Park Jimin is Korean, full blooded, born and slight raised. However, he hasn’t stepped foot on the soil of his motherland in seventeen years. He looks Korean, his hanguk-mal is rusty but passes for his mom, and his passport says Republic of Korea, but other than that, nothing about Jimin was Korean. In those seventeen years, him and his mom had built a life in the Philippines and never really had a reason to go back.

Except that Park Jimin was having a quarter life crisis and maybe, maybe this will solve it.

The movie continues and they’re coming to the resolution. This is Jimin’s favorite part. When things fall into place. When things start to make sense. When you���re given closure that ties off in a neat little bow of happily ever after. It’s his turn to recite the lines:

“Sorry I waited for the rain.”

“It’s okay.”

Jimin’s always thought that he was Hillary Duff’s character, the one waiting, the one that they ran after, the one that gets found. But he’s been waiting all his life for a love that has never come and a feeling of belongingness he could never grasp even if he tries. Even if he fakes it. Because Park Jimin is Korean but he doesn’t know what that means anymore. 

The credits roll and he feels rather than sees his mom pull him to her chest. They don’t talk. Not yet. They know there will be time, words to say at the airport like how the movies show it. For now, it’s just him and his mom before the two stir awake like clockwork. They always seem to know when the movie ends because that’s when they wake up. 

Soo-young kisses the top of Jimin’s head like she’s done so many times but he feels like he’s fourteen again, lost and scared. He can’t believe he’s doing this but he has to try. He wants answers and he can’t wait anymore. It’s useless and disappointing because Jimin isn’t the one people run after. He has to be the one. He has to look for answers. He’ll have to find himself. 

꩜꩜꩜

All four of them stand in front of the check-in counters at the airport, three hours before Jimin’s flight. Jimin may not be Filipino but he’s sure on Filipino time. Three hours before your flight is just right. He could already go in and wait at his gate since he already checked in online and his luggages were stickered up and taken away via conveyor belt but they linger outside. If Jimin goes to his gate, he can’t take his family with him. 

“Do you have to go?”

Sola whines the same line she’s been saying for the past weeks since she was told Jimin would be gone for two years. She sounds like a broken record and Jimin would feel endeared that his little sister would miss him but it feels more like a chisel breaking down his already fragile resolve. He’s scared enough as it is and he’s a worrier by nature. He wants to tell her no, he doesn’t have to. He’ll stay. But he’s 27 years old and Sola is 7 years old. One of them has to be the adult. One of them has to take a leap of faith.

“I’ll bring you home lots of pasalubongs. You like the biscuit Binch right? I’ll get you those?”

“You can get that here, too! What’s so special about Korea, huh?”

Jimin can’t help but laugh. No one would know Sola and Jimin were siblings. The age difference doesn’t help either but when Sola gets frustrated, her face never lies and it contorts to sharp lines, which is the only time Jimin can see their resemblance. Jimin can’t hide his emotions too. 

He crouches down and whispers to her ear, “If it sucks, I promise to come back as soon as possible.” He finishes off by tickling her and her face contorts to happiness now, showing the gap in her teeth where her adult tooth hasn’t grown yet. 

“I bet…it’ll…suck!” Sola says out loud in between giggles. Jimin pulls her to a hug and squeezes her. He straightens himself and hugs Lawrence next. 

“Take care of them, okay?” Jimin tells him.

“I will.” He pulls away and holds Jimin by his arms. His eyes a little wet and before Jimin could say something he moves away and pats him on the shoulder. His mom comes to view and they stare at each for awhile. Jimin realizes, just now, that this is the first time in his whole life that he will be separated from her and the swell in his heart turns into tears he can’t stop. 

“Eomma…”

Soo-Young reaches out to him and holds his face, lightly caressing his cheeks, wiping his tears. She must’ve had the same realizations because she’s also spilling out tears after tears. Jimin hasn’t seen her cry in so long and it hurts more to know he’s the cause of it. It’s bittersweet, though, he knows. She’s beaming at him and it looks like rain on a sunny day. 

“When did you grow up, huh?” She asks him in Korean and he laughs. She pulls him towards her and she had to go on her tiptoes to be able to put her chin on his shoulder. 

“I miss you so so so much already.”

“Me too.” Jimin replies in the same language. The simple Korean he knows. The ones he hopes he could get by with. Otherwise, all the words he knows are the ones from romantic comedies he’s watched with his mom.

“I love you.”

“I love you.” His mom says back. 

꩜꩜꩜

Jimin hasn’t done a lot of things.

Besides flying alone for the first time and leaving his mother’s side, there is a wide range of things Jimin hasn’t done. 

Like, he’s never been pissed out drunk. He’s drank alcohol but he was always the designated responsible friend whenever he went out, which was rarely. He’s never had his eyes pierced but he’s daydreamed of where he would place them on his ears and how many (two on each side). He’s never had a tattoo but has always wanted one. He knows where he wants it and what he’s going to put but has never done it. He’s never smoked or tried any drugs. He’s not sure about if he’d like to try. And for a person who believes wholeheartedly in love, he’s never been in love. He’s never been kissed and if he’s never been kissed, he hasn’t done anything of the other things too. He’s never had a partner or even someone to fool around with. 

So Jimin’s quarter life crisis had extended its claws not only to his identity and career, but also on his love life. He knows that he’s to blame. He’s spent most of his growing years trying to follow the rules, getting good grades, running to the invisible finish line only to find that he hates his office job even though he’s good at it. His school awards mean nothing in the long run. And no matter how much he adjusted and adapted to different people, he could never fit in. There was always something wrong.

If it were just one aspect of his life, he wouldn’t be pushed to this extreme but something had to be done. It wasn’t even that crazy of an idea. Almost all of his friends and peers were flying out of the country either working elsewhere or settling down in another country for better opportunity. He, too, was sold on the idea that maybe grass was greener on the other side but he knew, he knew that he wasn’t going to fly off to Canada or Paris. It was the hole in his heart that he refuses to acknowledge that calls to him. The question that he’s been holding back that has grown from an itch to a whole allergic reaction that he can’t seem to resist anymore. 

It’s foolish to think that two years and country would change him, would give him answers, give him the resolution he needs, so he doesn’t expect that. But he does promise himself he’ll step out of his comfort zone. If he makes a fool of himself, he already has pre-planned exit. Two years. Two years of whatever he needs to do to find himself. Two years to make sense of things and then he’ll go home. Whether or not something happens, he goes home. He either misses Korea or he lets it go completely, like he’s always wanted. 

The reality of his decisions doesn’t hit him until he opens the door of the apartment he’s renting and finds the place dark and empty. His plane had landed at night and Jimin was more terrified of getting lost than actually taking into the fact that he was in Korea, actualizing the plans he’s been making for over a year. The spreadsheets of finances, accommodations, different schools that he had color-coded and printed it out over and over again was right here. He didn’t even feel the chill of the February air until he felt the emptiness of the apartment. He turns on the light and closes the door behind him. The only sound that echoes through is the lock clicking into place and a short melody that plays. 

Jimin hasn’t done a lot of thing. Jimin’s never been alone. He may never had had a partner but he’s always lived with someone. He’s always had his mom. Even farther into his past, he had both of his biological parents. But for awhile now he’s had a full house with Lawrence and then Sola. He does have a neighbor, Jung Hoseok. He lives across from Jimin and is his landlord. He is also the owner of the coffee shop below their apartments. It’s too late in the night to make acquaintances. He hopes he can make acquaintances. He was very kind and patient with Jimi when he was coordinating with online, used to having foreign students since his place is near the university. 

Jimin doesn’t want to but he finds himself crying. He doesn’t really like to cry but he lets himself do this. Do things he’s never done. This is a new chapter in his life.

[Next Chapter]

#yoonmin au #vertigo #yoonmin #jimin #park jimin #min yoongi #yoongi #suga #agust d #fanfic #bts fanfic #bts au #namjoon #kim namjoon #rm #taehyung #bts v #jung hoseok #j-hope #jin #kim seokjin #jeon jungkook #jungkook

[baggebythesea]

Catra has a Brat Cat Sister who was born post war and has like all of Catra bratty impulses but none of the trauma so in some ways she's worse because Catra Bratty Brat Cat Younger sister is full brat no trauma.

So better and worse at the same time.

EXACTLY! Or, I'd have her born duiring the war but being tucked away somewhere safe, and then having her teenage years after the war so the age span is not that wide between her and Catra.

Catra goes into over-protection mode and also sees any and all of her own faults in her brat-cat of a sister and takes it out on her.

Scorpia, Adora and Bow sees the brat-cat of a sister as the poor little innocent miow-miow that never got enough hugs, and a second chance to give her enough hugs (to the enormous annoyance of the brat-cat of a sister).

Glimmer finds the whole thing hillarious and does her best to help the brat-cat of a sister in trouble because she knews how annoyed it will make Catra (and because she feels for a bratty teen under the thumb of an overprotective, war-traumatized parent figure). But if the brat-cat of a sister gets in trouble for real, Glimmer will be almost as violently protective of her as Catra herself (not to mention Adora - one would have thought Etherians would have learnt not to mess with a cat under her protection by now).

#spop #catra #catra's brat cat of a sister

[last-tambourine]

I was teary that day, feeling the historical significance of the moment, but also remembering holding her as a newborn as I watched Barack Obama’s inauguration. I voted for Barack Obama while incredibly pregnant with Violet, and she had been in the world for about three weeks when he was sworn in. In January 2009 I felt hope. In November 2016 I felt it, too.

That night I tucked in Violet at her regular bedtime, but I promised I’d wake her up when Hillary Clinton won, so we could celebrate the first Madam President together. Needless to say, I didn’t wake her up. She slept in her bedroom upstairs, unaware of how her country was changing, and I stayed up until almost 3:30 in the morning, willing a different outcome—talk about magical thinking. I sobbed on the couch, then fell asleep there. The next morning I woke to find Violet standing in front of me.

She knew. “The bully won?” she asked, incredulous, almost accusingly. As in: How could this happen? In the books she’d read and the movies she’d watched at that point, the hero or heroine always prevailed. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the possibility that the right, good thing might not happen.

My daughter was shocked because she believed—and I had led her to believe—that people are good. And that there is consensus about what “good” is. That the choice is always clear. But most of the time, “good” and “bad” aren’t so easy to discern. In stories there are good guys and bad guys. In life there are people in pain, people who are broken and making decisions from a place of brokenness, people living with wounds we can’t see—and these people, these fallible human beings, are our mothers and fathers, our husbands and wives, our sisters and brothers, our children, our teachers.

~ The Bully Won? You Could Make this Place Beautiful, Maggie Smith

#maggie smith #bully #elections #2016 election

[mariacallous]

The Republican Party hasn’t adopted a new platform since 2016, so if you want to know what its most influential figures are trying to achieve—what, exactly, they have in mind when they talk about an America finally made great again—you’ll need to look elsewhere for clues. You could listen to Donald Trump, the Party’s de-facto standard-bearer, except that nobody seems to have a handle on what his policy goals are, not even Donald Trump. You could listen to the main aspirants to his throne, such as Governor Ron DeSantis, of Florida, but this would reveal less about what they’re for than about what they’re against: overeducated élites, apart from themselves and their allies; “wokeness,” whatever they’re taking that to mean at the moment; the overzealous wielding of government power, unless their side is doing the wielding. Besides, one person can tell you only so much. A more efficient way to gauge the current mood of the Party is to spend a weekend at the Conservative Political Action Conference, better known as CPAC.

On a Friday in February, I arrived at the Rosen Shingle Creek resort, in Orlando. It was a temperate afternoon, and the Party faithful were spending it indoors, in the air-conditioning. I walked into a rotunda with potted palm trees and chaotically patterned carpeting. Shabbat services were about to begin, and a minyan of young men, give or take, roamed around in MAGA-themed yarmulkes. The CPAC dress code was big-tent: pants suits, sweatsuits, bow ties, bolos—anything, pretty much, except for an N95. A merch kiosk near the entrance sold Nancy Pelosi toilet paper, gold-sequinned purses shaped like handguns, and Trump 2024 T-shirts in every size and color. Even the staircases were sponsored—one by Fox News and another by Gettr, a social-media platform founded by Trump-campaign alumni. If you aligned yourself with it at just the right vantage, you could parse Gettr’s slogan, “Making Social Media Fun Again!” Otherwise, it looked like red-white-and-blue gibberish.

Political rallies are for red-meat applause lines; think-tank conferences are for more measured policy discussions. The American Conservative Union, the group that organizes CPAC, tries to have it both ways. On Saturday, I spent a while in the main ballroom, watching a panel called “Put Him to Bed, Lock Her Up and Send Her to the Border.” “Him” referred to Joe Biden, “the hair-sniffing dementia patient in the White House”; the first “her,” of course, was Hillary Clinton; the second was Kamala Harris, who was lambasted as both an “empty pants suit” and a wily “Cersei Lannister.” That afternoon, Trump arrived, hosted a V.I.P. gathering featuring a spread of Big Macs under heat lamps, and took the stage, giving a ninety-minute stump speech to an ecstatic crowd, all but confirming his intention to run for President again.

The policy discussions were mainly tucked away upstairs, in conference rooms with a tiny fraction of the foot traffic. One panel, on European populism, was called “More Brexits?” The moderator, an American named James Carafano, introduced the first speaker: Miklós Szánthó, the director of a Hungarian think tank called the Center for Fundamental Rights. (According to Átlátszó, an investigative-journalism outlet in Hungary, the Center for Fundamental Rights is secretly funded by the Hungarian government.) “He’s a real European,” Carafano, a foreign-policy analyst at the Heritage Foundation, said. “I know that because I saw him in Europe!”

For decades, at conferences like CPAC, international exchanges were mostly assumed to flow in one direction: Americans exporting their largesse, and their ideology, to the rest of the world. At the first CPAC, in 1974, the keynote speaker, Governor Ronald Reagan, gave a rousing address about soldiers who had shed their “American-melting-pot blood in every corner of the world, usually in defense of someone’s freedom.” In recent years, as the future of the Republican Party has seemed increasingly up for grabs, American conservatives have shown more willingness to look abroad for ideas that they might want to try out back home.

Szánthó, a stout man with a smartly tailored suit and a waxed mustache, began by quibbling with the panel’s title. “There will be no so-called Huxit,” he said, despite his country’s disagreements with “the deep state of Brussels.” Szánthó lives in Hungary, but he spoke fluent Fox News-inflected English. “When it comes to border protection, when it comes to the Jewish-Christian heritage of the Continent and of the European Union, or when it comes to gender ideology,” he continued, the Hungarians, nearly alone among citizens of Western nations, “step up for conservative values.”

Hungary has a population comparable to Michigan’s and a G.D.P. close to that of Arkansas, but, in the imagination of the American right, it punches far above its weight. Viktor Orbán, the Prime Minister since 2010, is now the longest-serving head of state in the European Union, and one of the most fiercely nativist and traditionalist. Starting in 2013, he made a political foil out of George Soros, the Jewish financier who was born in Hungary but hasn’t lived there in decades, exploiting the trope of Soros as a nefarious international puppet master. During the refugee crisis of 2015, Orbán built a militarized fence along Hungary’s southern border, and, in defiance of both E.U. law and the Geneva Conventions, expelled almost all asylum seekers from the country. Relative to other European nations, Hungary hadn’t experienced a big influx of migrants. (Out-migration is actually more common.) But the refugees, most of them from Syria or other parts of the Middle East, were an effective political scapegoat—one that Orbán continues to flog, along with academics, “globalists,” the Roma, and, more recently, queer and trans people. Last year, Hungary passed a law banning sex education involving L.G.B.T.Q. topics in schools. Nine months later, in Florida, DeSantis signed a similar law, known as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill. DeSantis’s press secretary, talking about the inspiration for the law, reportedly said, “We were watching the Hungarians.”

Experts have described Orbán as a new-school despot, a soft autocrat, an anocrat, and a reactionary populist. Kim Lane Scheppele, a professor of international affairs at Princeton, has referred to him as “the ultimate twenty-first-century dictator.” Some prominent American conservatives want nothing to do with him; but more have taken his side, pointing to Hungary as a potential model for America’s future. That afternoon, on the CPAC main stage, Dan Schneider, the executive director of the American Conservative Union, singled out Orbán for praise: “If you cannot protect your own borders, if you cannot protect your own sovereignty, none of the other rights can be protected. That’s what the Prime Minister of Hungary understands.” The house lights dimmed and a sort of political trailer played, set to melodramatic music. “For over a millennium, to be Hungarian meant to sail the rough seas of history,” a narrator intoned over a horror-movie-style montage: Mongol invaders, migrant caravans, a glowering George Soros, drag-queen story time.

The lights came up, and Szánthó walked to the lectern, waving stiffly. “Hungary has fought wars, suffered unthinkable oppression, to gain and regain our liberty,” he said. In the current war, he went on, the enemy was “woke totalitarianism,” personified by George Soros (he paused for boos); the hero was “one of the true champions of liberty, a man you know well, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán” (a generous round of applause). He praised “President Trump” and tried to initiate a cheer of “Let’s go Brandon,” a substitute for “Fuck Joe Biden” used by right-wing culture warriors who spend too much time on the Internet. He quoted the old chestnut “Hard times create strong men,” although, the way he said it, it sounded like “strongmen.” And he invited the audience to join him at the next CPAC conference, the first to be hosted on European soil: CPAC Hungary.

“You do not have to have emergency powers or a military coup for democracy to wither,” Aziz Huq, a constitutional-law professor at the University of Chicago, told me. “Most recent cases of backsliding, Hungary being a classic example, have occurred through legal means.” Orbán runs for reëlection every four years. In theory, there is a chance that he could lose. In practice, he has so thoroughly rigged the system that his grip on power is virtually assured. The political-science term for this is “competitive authoritarianism.” Most scholarly books about democratic backsliding (“The New Despotism,” “Democracy Rules,” “How Democracies Die”) cite Hungary, along with Brazil and Turkey, as countries that were consolidated democracies, for a while, before they started turning back the clock.

Szánthó mentioned “Jewish-Christian heritage,” but there aren’t many practicing Jews left in Hungary. Orbán, in his speeches, often uses the phrase “Christian democracy,” which he portrays as under continual existential threat. Given that the vast majority of Hungarians, apparently including Orbán, do not attend church regularly, it seems plausible that his audience hears the word “Christian,” at least in part, as code for something else. “If we manage to uphold our country’s ethnic homogeneity and its cultural uniformity,” he said in 2017, “Hungary will be the kind of place that will be able to show other, more developed countries what they lost.” His constant theme is that only he can preserve Hungary for the (non-Muslim, ethnically Magyar) Hungarians—about as close as any European head of state will come to an explicit rejection of ethnic pluralism in favor of state-sanctioned white nationalism. For many of his American admirers, this seems to be a core element of his appeal. Lauren Stokes, a professor of European history at Northwestern University, told me, “The offer Orbán is making to global conservatives is: I alone can save you from the ravages of Islamization and totalitarian progressivism—and, in the face of all that, who has time for checks and balances and rules?”

In recent years, Orbán or institutions affiliated with his government have hosted, among others, Mike Pence, the former Vice-President; new-media agitators including Steve Bannon, Dennis Prager, and Milo Yiannopoulos; and Jeff Sessions, the former Attorney General, who told a Hungarian newspaper that, in the struggle to “return to our Christian roots based on reason and law, which have made Western civilization great . . . the Hungarians have a solid stand.” In his hilltop office with an imposing two-story library, Orbán has met with conservative figures including Patrick Deneen and Jordan Peterson. “If these people think the extreme left is hijacking American society in dangerous ways, then, yes, I agree,” the conservative writer Andrew Sullivan told me. “But to go from that to ‘Let’s embrace this authoritarian leader in this backwater European country, and maybe try out a version of that model with our own charismatic leader back home’—I mean, that leap is just weird, and frankly stupid.”

In Orlando, I followed the energy of the crowd to media row, where Sebastian Gorka, a bellicose conspiracy barker with a Vandyke beard, was doing a live broadcast of his radio show, “America First.” In the nineties and early two-thousands, Gorka was a Hungarian politician and government adviser; in 2017, he served as a counterterrorism adviser in the Trump Administration, focussing on “radical Islamist ideology.” (He did not have the credentials that most comparable appointees have held; he had, however, worn a medal from the Order of Vitéz, a Hungarian military society historically associated with the Nazis.) “What would you like to hear from tomorrow’s speech by the President?” he asked Representatives Matt Gaetz and Marjorie Taylor Greene. (He meant, of course, Trump, whom he generally referred to as “my former boss.”) Greene replied, “I want to hear him say that his entire policy, his entire agenda, is for our country, our country only, and the rest of the world can frankly go to hell.” Gorka, who was born in London to Hungarian parents, said, “I like that menu.” He dismissed Gaetz and Greene and introduced his next “big-ticket guest”: Kyle Rittenhouse. Later, I ran into Gorka, who was now wearing a tuxedo, and asked him for an interview. He declined. (To be specific, he shouted, “Go to hell, scumbag,” and “You’re smoking crack.”)

I saw him the next day in the V.I.P. lounge, near a spread that was both lavish and pedestrian: silver, scalloped carafes of coffee with Starbucks to-go cups; a tureen of lukewarm fettuccine Alfredo. (My press pass did not technically allow me access to the V.I.P. lounge, but CPAC, as it turned out, did not have very tight border security.) A graffiti-style portrait of Trump hugging and kissing an American flag, just auctioned off for more than twelve thousand dollars, was propped against a cardboard box and a pile of plastic wrap, waiting to be shipped to the lucky winner. J. D. Vance, a former anti-Trump venture capitalist who had rebranded himself as a pro-Trump salt-of-the-earth Senate candidate, chatted with Eric Bolling, a news anchor who left Fox News amid allegations of sexual harassment, which he denied, and was later hired by Newsmax. The pro-Brexit politician Nigel Farage waited in the buffet line next to Devin Nunes, a former member of Congress who now runs Trump’s struggling media company. Father Frank Pavone, a Catholic priest wearing his clerical collar, chatted with Todd Starnes, a pundit whose Fox News contract wasn’t renewed after he appeared to endorse the view that Democrats may worship Moloch, the Canaanite god associated with child sacrifice. “The networking here is amazing!” Pavone said.

In the hallway, I shook hands with Szánthó and Schneider, the two lead organizers of CPAC Hungary, and told them that I planned to fly to Budapest to cover it. “You will be welcome,” Szánthó said. “Please just send an e-mail.” One of the speakers on the European-populism panel had been Raymond Ibrahim, an independent scholar from California who contributes to a variety of right-wing outlets, usually to argue that Islam is a global scourge. “The word ‘multiculturalism,’ it sounds nice, but what is exactly the culture?” he said during the panel. “Things like polygamy . . . or killing the apostate . . . these are the culture of Islam.” Ibrahim exchanged phone numbers with Gorka, and they later started texting, as Ibrahim told me, “mostly about Islam, and about how Hungary’s fighting back.” A few days after the conference, Gorka, on his show, interviewed the chairman of the A.C.U., who plugged CPAC Hungary. “It’s no longer about policies,” Gorka said, paraphrasing something another conservative leader had told him at CPAC. “Now, as a movement, we have to take back the Republic, and we have to take back our civilization.”

Igot to Budapest on May 16th, the day Viktor Orbán was sworn in for his fourth consecutive term as Prime Minister. “Congratulations to him,” a Hungarian journalist named Gábor Miklósi said. “What an achievement.” This was sarcasm—a dark, dense form of sarcasm, polished from years of use.

We were having a beer at a “ruin bar” in what is still known as the Jewish district, a neighborhood that the Nazis turned into a ghetto in 1944. (In the course of two months, with the collaboration of the Hungarian government, the Nazis deported nearly half a million Jews from this ghetto to Auschwitz; others were later lined up on the banks of the Danube and shot.) Miklósi—slightly stooped, perennially tired—is an editor at 444, one of the few independent news outlets left in Hungary. “He controls most of the national papers, most of the radio and TV stations, all the local papers in the countryside,” Miklósi said. “He doesn’t do it in obvious ways—he does it slowly, by putting his cronies in charge, or by subtly making life difficult for his critics. But eventually he gets what he wants.” The “he,” of course, was Orbán, who is, like all despots, his country’s default antecedent, the implied subject of virtually every sentence.

From the nineteen-fifties through the nineteen-eighties, during the period when Hungary was within the Soviet sphere of influence, Moscow allowed it a bit more latitude than other Eastern Bloc countries, a unique mixture of subjection and relative exemption that came to be known as Goulash Communism. As the Iron Curtain began to lift, Orbán emerged as a leader of the youth resistance, giving impassioned speeches against totalitarianism; in 1989, he went to Oxford to study political philosophy, on George Soros’s dime. During his first term as Prime Minister, starting in 1998, Orbán, who still identified as a liberal democrat, vowed to build up the country’s civic infrastructure. President Bill Clinton hosted him at the White House, extolling Orbán’s “youthful and vigorous and progressive leadership.” Then, in 2002, Orbán lost a reëlection campaign to a Socialist coalition and, according to the biographer József Debreczeni, resolved to return to power and change “the rules of the game” so that he would never lose again.

He enlisted Arthur Finkelstein, a political consultant from Brooklyn who had worked to elect Jesse Helms, Strom Thurmond, and Ronald Reagan, among others. “Try to polarize the election around that issue which cuts best in your direction, i.e., drugs, crime, race,” Finkelstein wrote in a 1970 memo to the Nixon White House. In 1996, Finkelstein put this principle to work on behalf of Benjamin Netanyahu, a candidate for Prime Minister of Israel who was then about twenty points down in the polls, and who started alleging that his opponent, Shimon Peres, planned to divide Jerusalem. This was a lie, but it stuck, and Netanyahu won. In 2008, Netanyahu introduced Finkelstein to his friend Orbán; Finkelstein became so indispensable that Orbán reportedly came to refer to him, dotingly, as Finkie. One of Finkelstein’s protégés later told the Swiss journalist Hannes Grassegger, “Arthur always said that you did not fight against the Nazis but against Adolf Hitler.” Orbán had been running against globalism, multiculturalism, bureaucracy in Brussels. These were abstractions. By 2013, Finkelstein had an epiphany: the face of the enemy should be George Soros.

After Orbán returned to power, his rhetoric grew more sharply nativist, laden with Islamophobic and anti-Semitic dog whistles: “We are fighting an enemy that is different from us. Not open but hiding; not straightforward but crafty; not honest but base; not national but international; does not believe in working but speculates with money.” In 2018, several parties to the left of Orbán’s, and even a couple of neo-Fascist parties to his right, ran separate candidates for Prime Minister, splitting the opposition vote. “After that, the common narrative was that next time all we had to do was unite behind one opposition candidate, and we would definitely win,” Szilárd Pap, a left-wing writer, told me. “Well, we did unite the next time, and we lost even worse.” In Budapest, I met plenty of Hungarians who openly railed against their government. One was Péter Márki-Zay, the opposition candidate in the most recent election. Márki-Zay continues to accuse Orbán of corruption and mendacity, and he doesn’t seem worried that his sushi will be poisoned with polonium. The regime’s defenders see this relative freedom as evidence that all the talk of autocracy is reckless alarmism. Its critics see it as evidence of a cost-benefit decision: certain egregious breaches are not worth the trouble, at least for now.

“Orbán has managed to preserve the appearance of formal democracy, as long as you don’t look too closely,” Anna Grzymala-Busse, the director of the Europe Center at Stanford, told me. Since 2010, most of Hungary’s civic institutions—the courts, the universities, the systems for administering elections—have come to occupy a gray area. They haven’t been eradicated; instead, they’ve been patiently debilitated, delegitimatized, hollowed out. There are still judges who wear robes, but if Orbán finds their decisions too onerous he can appeal to friendlier courts. There are still a few independent universities, but the most prestigious one—Central European University, which was founded by Soros—has been pushed out of the country, and many of the public universities have been put under the control of oligarchs and other loyalists. There are still elections, yet international observers consider them “free but not fair”: radically gerrymandered, flush with undisclosed infusions of dark money. The system that Orbán has built during the past twelve years, a combination of freedom and subjugation not exactly like that of any other government in the world, could be called Goulash Authoritarianism. Scheppele contends that Orbán has pulled this off not by breaking laws but by ingeniously manipulating them, in what she calls a “constitutional coup.” She added, “He’s very smart and methodical. First, he changes the laws to give himself permission to do what he wants, and then he does it.”

On the day I arrived, Orbán delivered a forty-five-minute speech in a gilded neo-Gothic chamber of the Hungarian Parliament Building, warning that Europe was entering “an age of danger,” and that Hungary, “the last Christian conservative bastion of the Western world,” was one of the only nations prepared to weather it. He predicted that, given the pandemic, the war in Ukraine, and an incipient energy crisis, “migration toward rich countries will intensify with tectonic force.” If other Western nations continued to implement “waves of suicidal policy,” such as lax border control, the result would be “the great European population-replacement program, which seeks to replace the missing European Christian children with migrants, with adults arriving from other civilizations”—a clear reference to the racist talking point known as the great replacement theory. A few years ago, this idea was propounded most visibly by white-power extremists such as the Norwegian mass murderer Anders Breivik (or, more recently, the shooter in Buffalo). It’s now routinely parroted by the Fox News host Tucker Carlson, many leading Republican politicians, and, in Hungary, the head of state.

In 2010, Fidesz, Orbán’s party, won more than two-thirds of the seats in Parliament, above the threshold required to amend the constitution. Within a year, it had made a dozen amendments; when these didn’t provide enough latitude, it threw out that constitution and wrote another one. In 2022, Fidesz won a supermajority once again. I asked Miklósi whether the next four years of Orbán’s reign would be different from the last. “It always gets worse,” he said. This time, he wasn’t being sarcastic.

Of all the Anglophone Orbán apologists, surely the most genial, and arguably the most influential, is a British journalist named John O’Sullivan, who turned eighty in April. When William F. Buckley retired as the editor of National Review, in the eighties, O’Sullivan took over. During Margaret Thatcher’s third term as Prime Minister, he was one of her top advisers; after she left office, he helped her write her memoirs. “Mrs. T. would take us on these lovely trips to various places—a manor in the South of England, a villa in the Bahamas—and we would talk over breakfast about some episode in her life, and then we’d each go off and write,” he recalled. “It was great fun.”

O’Sullivan had invited me to lunch at an Italian bistro near his apartment in Budapest. (He still fancies himself a classical liberal, at least insofar as “I’m always up for a good chat, even one that may involve disagreement.”) He is known for knowing everyone, and he drops names with an equanimous smile, describing people on a spectrum from “a good friend” to “a friend” to “an ex-friend.” He wore a pin-striped suit and a tie from Liberty, the London clothier once favored by Oscar Wilde. Even in this, O’Sullivan can’t help but out-conservative the conservatives: “I prefer the older patterns, I confess, most of which they’ve now discontinued.”

In 2008, O’Sullivan moved to Prague to help run Radio Free Europe; in 2013, two Hungarian friends, a “well-known modernist poet” and a “former teacher of Orbán’s,” hired him to start a conservative think tank. O’Sullivan and his wife, Melissa, have lived in Budapest ever since. “You really must meet Melissa,” he told me. “She’s an American—a proper American, from Alabama.” A friend of the couple’s told me, “Melissa is much more naturally Trumpy, in terms of her sympathies. John gets the Trump phenomenon intellectually, but he finds Trump too fickle and sort of gross.” Orbán—a family man and an articulate lawyer who purports to set aside one workday a week exclusively for reading—is more to O’Sullivan’s taste.

His think tank is called the Danube Institute. It is funded entirely by a foundation that is funded entirely by the Hungarian government. This foundation sponsors international conferences and three handsomely designed periodicals, all in English: European Conservative, Hungarian Review, and Hungarian Conservative. In 2015, O’Sullivan, dismayed by the anti-Orbán consensus among Western journalists and academics (“They all seem to be making the case for the prosecution, don’t they?”), put together an essay collection of his own in which he wrote that “the death of liberal democracy in Hungary has been greatly exaggerated.” After all, O’Sullivan and other apologists often argue, Orbán has a popular mandate. Rather than delegating gay rights, the handling of asylum claims, and other matters of domestic policy to international bodies—with their adherence to such abstractions as “the rule of law”—isn’t it arguably more democratic to simply put them to a vote?

Even as the Hungarian constitution has been dismantled, O’Sullivan, Pangloss of the post-Soviet bloc, has continued to insist that Orbán is still basically a liberal democrat, if you squint. The problem with this sanguine view is that it has been repeatedly refuted, even by Orbán. “The new state that we are building in Hungary is an illiberal state,” he declared in 2014. O’Sullivan told me that, as soon as he heard this, “the first thing I said to myself was ‘I’m sure that isn’t really what he meant.’ A few weeks later, when I saw him for lunch at the Prime Minister’s office, I told him straight out, ‘You’re going to regret saying that.’ And, actually, I don’t know that he has.” At times, Orbán seems to mean “illiberal” in the partisan sense, as in owning the libs; often, he seems to mean it more sweepingly, expressing skepticism about a wide range of individual liberties. It’s true, as the Orbánists like to point out, that Hungary is not the most repressive country in the world. China, Iran, Venezuela, North Korea—all are, by many measures, less free. But then there are no major political factions trying to make the United States more like North Korea.

During his first few years in Budapest, O’Sullivan had trouble generating interest in the Hungarian model of conservatism. “I went wherever I could—the Anglosphere Society, in New York, Grover Norquist’s Wednesday Club, in Washington,” he said. “The usual response was a yawn, basically. Until Brexit, and then Trump—and then, suddenly, people were open to radically different ideas.” In 2020, the Danube Institute started hosting fellows—writers and scholars from abroad who were invited to Budapest for a few weeks or months, given a stipend and a comfortable apartment, and asked to work on articles or books that might help the cause. “We couldn’t predict exactly what would come of it,” O’Sullivan said. “You just put the billiard balls on the table, you know, and wait to see where they end up.”

The most dynamic billiard ball turned out to be Rod Dreher, a prolific American author who became a Danube Institute fellow in 2021. Dreher has long been a conservative and a Christian, but, within those traditions, he has experienced a number of mini-conversions. In a 2006 book, “Crunchy Cons,” Dreher, then a kind of hipster exile from the Deep South, posited that conservatives ought to wear some of their cultural markers more lightly—that Republicans can shop at farmers’ markets, too. In “The Benedict Option,” in 2017, he argued that conservative Christians had already lost so many decisive political battles (same-sex marriage, abortion) that they should arrange a “strategic withdrawal” from the public sphere, building localist communities rather than contesting for national power. After his Danube Institute fellowship, though, he retreated from his retreatism: actually, conservatives could win real power, and Hungary could show the way. “Orbán was so unafraid, so unapologetic about using his political power to push back on the liberal élites in business and media and culture,” Dreher told me. “It was so inspiring: this is what a vigorous conservative government can do if it’s serious about stemming this horrible global tide of wokeness.” By the time Orbán ran for reëlection earlier this year, Dreher had completed his transition from aspiring ascetic to partisan booster. “Mood here at Fidesz HQ is increasingly cheerful,” he tweeted on Election Night. “ ‘Lights out, libs!’ say Hungarian voters.”

One April day in 2021, while Dreher was strolling through Budapest, he texted Tucker Carlson. “We text all the time, whenever I see something he might want to mention on his show, or just something he might find interesting,” Dreher told me. Carlson knew what the Western media said about Orbán, but Dreher encouraged him to ignore it and come see for himself. “If somebody has all the right enemies, if the liberal establishment is obsessed with treating them as a hate object, then it’s natural for a right-populist like me or Tucker to react by going, Huh, maybe there’s something interesting there,” Dreher said. Carlson told Dreher that he had already thought about visiting, but that he’d been encountering some bureaucratic hurdles with the Hungarian Embassy. A few days later, Dreher met Balázs Orbán—not related to Viktor, but one of his closest advisers. (Many Hungarians I spoke to described him as a sort of Karl Rove figure.) “I tried to convince Balázs that Tucker was somebody who could be trusted,” Dreher recalled. He offered personal assurances that, on the big questions, Tucker and Orbán were in alignment. By the summer, the red tape had cleared. (Carlson declined to comment.)

On August 5th, Carlson anchored his show from a rooftop in central Budapest. Behind his left shoulder was an ornate stone façade, bathed in sunlight, and, beyond it, a bank of looming storm clouds. “Good evening and welcome to ‘Tucker Carlson Tonight,’ ” he said. “Of the nearly two hundred different countries on the face of the earth, precisely one of them has an elected leader who publicly identifies as a Western-style conservative. His name is Viktor Orbán.” Carlson was spending the week in Budapest, delivering each day’s American headline news in his selectively apoplectic style. “Representative democracy—it’s been our system for nearly two hundred and fifty years,” he said in one night’s lead segment. “Apparently, it’s now over.” The ostensible cause of the death of American democracy was a temporary eviction moratorium enacted by the Centers for Disease Control. The next night, Carlson aired an obsequious one-on-one interview with Orbán—fifteen minutes without a single challenging question, and certainly no warnings about the potential death of Hungarian democracy.

Carlson’s work vacation got a lot of press. Dreher defended him (“Tucker in Budapest: Blowing People’s Minds”); Andrew Sullivan lambasted him (“The Price of Tucker Carlson’s Soul: Going Cheap for a Corrupt, Fashy Kleptocrat”). Online sleuths followed the money. The Hungarian Embassy in Washington has had contracts with Connie Mack IV, a Republican former representative from Florida, and David Reaboi, a bodybuilder and former Andrew Breitbart protégé who touts his skills in “national security & political warfare.” In 2019, the Embassy paid two hundred and thirteen thousand dollars to Policy Impact Communications, a D.C.-based P.R. firm staffed by well-connected lobbyists. One of its board members is Dick Carlson—the director of the Voice of America under Ronald Reagan, the Ambassador to the Seychelles under George H. W. Bush, and, as it happens, Tucker’s father.

By the standards of sponsored diplomacy, though, a six-figure contract is hardly unusual. (In 2018, the government of Saudi Arabia paid American lobbyists more than thirty-eight million dollars.) Normally, six figures might buy you a full-page ad in the Financial Times, say, or help your ambassador secure a speaking slot at an obscure thought-leader conference; it’s presumably not enough to get your head of state a long softball interview on one of the most popular shows on American TV. The payments surely don’t hurt, but it seems that Carlson, Dreher, and O’Sullivan are true believers, exuding the contrarian thrill of forbidden knowledge. When I was in Budapest, Dreher, seven time zones away and in the midst of a messy divorce, texted me assiduously, including before 5 A.M. his time, trying to steer my story. “I really do care about Hungary, and I want to help you do a good job,” he wrote. “God knows it’s not paradise, but it’s important to understand Hungary as it is.” That’s the sort of P.R. that money can’t buy.

In some ways, Orbán conducts himself like any other strongman. He built a big soccer stadium in his small home town, and he loves to go there to watch the games. In the mid-two-thousands, Lőrinc Mészáros, one of Orbán’s childhood friends, was a pipe fitter receiving welfare checks; shortly after Orbán returned to power, in 2010, Mészáros became the richest person in Hungary. This year, when Márki-Zay ran as the opposition candidate, he was given five minutes on TV to make his case to the voters, and the rest of the allotted time went to Orbán.

But, unlike Putin-style autocrats, Orbán is often keen to maintain plausible deniability. “He’ll use such obscure methods that it might take months to figure out what he’s done,” Scheppele, the Princeton professor, told me. In 2010, Orbán established a relatively small antiterror police unit. Bit by bit, in disparate clauses buried in unrelated laws, he increased its budget and removed checks on its power. “I was reading Article 61 of a bill on public waterworks, literally, and I came across a line that said, Oh, by the way, the antiterror unit now gets to collect personal information on all water-utility customers, which basically means everyone in the country, without notifying them,” Scheppele went on. She contends that the unit now functions, essentially, as Orbán’s secret police. “His claim is always ‘Everything I’m doing is legal’—well, of course it is, because you made it legal,” she said. The goal, as the scholar John Keane puts it in his book “The New Despotism,” is a kind of bureaucratic gaslighting: the ability to insist that what everyone knows is happening is not in fact happening.

I was experiencing a tiny microcosm of this while trying to register for CPAC Hungary. I had sent an e-mail, as instructed—then another, then another. Each time, I encountered a new bureaucratic hurdle: wait a week, call this phone number, try this link. The organizers maintained that the event would be open to the press. “We are fighting for everyone’s right to speak,” Balázs Orbán, who was scheduled to appear at the conference, said in a radio interview. A few days later, I met him at a café where jaunty, self-help-y aphorisms had been written on each table in sidewalk chalk. (“Take others’ opinions lightly—very lightly,” our table read.) I asked him about the government’s suppression of same-sex marriage and gay adoption. “If the state is pushing for the policy where the marriage is only between a man and a woman, and seventy per cent of the people want this, it’s not tyranny of the majority,” he said. The popularity is beside the point, I argued, if the policy is a violation of human rights. “According to my understanding, it’s not,” he said. When our conversation was done, he asked me to pose with him for a photo. I mentioned that I was having trouble getting into CPAC and asked if he would put in a good word with the organizers. His response, which I had to admit was quite clever, was that, as a government official, it would be improper for him to intervene.

Dreher assured me that there must be some innocent mixup. When I met O’Sullivan at his office, he agreed: “I’m sure it’s merely an oversight.” I told him that I had been in touch with journalists from the Guardian, Rolling Stone, Vice, and a range of independent Hungarian publications, none of whom had heard back from the CPAC organizers. A few hours later, all our requests were formally denied, and Vice published a piece titled “CPAC Just Decided to Not Let Any US Journalists Inside.” In the American context, this sort of thing—for example, the Pennsylvania gubernatorial candidate Doug Mastriano banning press from a campaign rally—is still rare enough to raise eyebrows. In Hungary, it has become so commonplace that some reporters didn’t even bother applying to CPAC. “They’ll be very polite, and then at the last minute they’ll tell you, ‘We’re so sorry, space constraints,’ ” another journalist told me. (When I sent an e-mail to the government’s International Communications Office, asking to fact-check the relevant claims in this piece, the official response read, in part, “We appreciate the possibility you offered us, however, we do not wish to participate in the validation process of leftist-liberal propaganda.”)

When I was about to leave O’Sullivan’s office, he asked whether he would see me again that night, at the CPAC welcome reception. At this point, I couldn’t tell whether I was being elaborately trolled. “I didn’t get an invitation, but I’d love to go if I can,” I said. “Where will it be?”

One of his staffers helpfully piped up: “Some hotel near the Elisabeth Bridge. The Paris something or other?”

On my way out, Googling frantically on my phone, I found a five-star hotel fitting this description: the Párizsi Udvar. I went back to my room (in a perfectly nice, decidedly not-five-star hotel) and grabbed a sports coat and a notebook. A few minutes later, I was standing outside the entrance to the Párizsi Udvar, not sure what to do next. “Event?” a white-gloved doorman asked. “Event? Event?” I nodded, and he ushered me inside.

The hotel’s courtyard, a former shopping arcade covered with a vast stained-glass dome, was one of the most opulent interiors I’ve ever seen. There were marble columns, floors of intricate Moorish tilework, and glass display cases stocked with jeroboams of fancy champagne. (In the 2011 film version of “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy,” an M.I.6 agent is double-crossed by a Hungarian general, shot, and captured by Soviet spies. The scene was filmed in the courtyard of the Párizsi Udvar.) About two hundred people were there, holding drinks and sampling Hungarian-American-fusion finger food. I ran into O’Sullivan (“Ah, good, you made it!”) and spotted Rick Santorum, the former Pennsylvania senator, who was due to appear on a panel with Eduardo Bolsonaro, the son of the Brazilian autocrat (and a scheduled speaker at the following American Conservative Union conference, CPAC Brazil). Candace Owens, the YouTube culture warrior and the author of “Blackout: How Black America Can Make Its Second Escape from the Democrat Plantation,” leaned against the bar, visibly pregnant, as a crush of admirers lined up to shake her hand. (Her husband, George Farmer, the C.E.O. of the social network Parler, stood next to her, looking down at his phone.) I’d heard that, while Owens was in town, Viktor Orbán had requested a closed-door meeting with her and a few others in his book-lined office, to discuss culture and politics. Owens later confirmed, in a CPAC promotional video, that she’d met with Orbán for about two hours: “It was really amazing. He’s so on it.”

Miklós Szánthó appeared on a dais, holding a microphone, and quieted the crowd. “Why are we doing this?” he said. “We are doing this to make the liberals’ nightmare true.” He addressed the Americans in the room: “We do hope that you can learn from us the political mind-set how to be a successful conservative, as we also learn from you, and from Ronald Reagan. As he put it so many years ago, ‘We win, they lose.’ That is what the Hungarian right has done.”

Dan Schneider, the executive director of the A.C.U., told me that he was especially excited for CPAC Israel, coming up this July, in Tel Aviv. (I didn’t know it at the time, but another speaker in Budapest would be an old political ally of Orbán’s, Zsolt Bayer, a notorious Hungarian talk-show host who has used racist epithets for Black people, has referred to Roma people as “animals” who must be “stamped out,” and has argued that the widespread anti-Semitism in twentieth-century Hungary was “understandable.”) I also met Mark Krikorian, a severe immigration restrictionist whose American nonprofit, the Center for Immigration Studies, has been classified by the Southern Poverty Law Center as a hate group. “I can’t get a speaking gig at an American CPAC to save my life, but I fly four thousand miles over here and I’m welcomed with open arms,” Krikorian told me. I asked him if he was worried about being, as O’Sullivan had put it, “tarred with the brush of Orbánism.” “What are they gonna do, call me an ultra-hate group?” Krikorian said. “Fuck them!”

After an hour or so, Schneider pulled me aside. “I haven’t eaten dinner yet,” he said. “You wanna get out of here?” We strolled aimlessly, eventually stopping at an upscale bistro in a picturesque square. I ordered the venison goulash; Schneider picked something called the Hungarian Rhapsody. He kept his phone next to his water glass, occasionally tapping out a text. Though he never said so outright, it seemed clear that he had the personal cell numbers of several Republican senators, perhaps a Supreme Court Justice or two, and presumably at least one ex- and potentially future President.

“So what do you make of the Hungary thing, really?” he had asked me earlier. I tried to answer honestly but also diplomatically. “Clearly,” I began, “there are issues with the way Orbán wields state power.”

“Wields state power! ” Schneider said, spitting the words back in my face. “You make it sound so nefarious!” I brought up Hungary’s not entirely independent judiciary. “Oh, so he appoints judges he likes,” Schneider said, rolling his eyes. “Is that so different from what we do?” He meant to normalize Orbán’s behavior, but I couldn’t help interpreting it the other way around: the brazen opportunism of the Republican Party—for example, refusing to give a hearing to the opposition’s judicial nominees, then ramming through its own, in obvious violation of precedent and basic fairness—did seem undeniably Orbánesque. He called himself “a classical liberal,” adding, “You can’t secure individual liberty unless you secure national sovereignty first.” I made the obvious rejoinder that Orbán, for one, clearly does not consider himself a classical liberal. “Well, maybe I just haven’t read enough about it,” Schneider said.

At dinner, he was midsentence when a man approached us and, without a word, grabbed Schneider’s phone from the table and ran off. Before I could process what was happening, Schneider, a former track athlete, was already in pursuit. He slipped and fell, then got up and kept running, following the thief around a corner. By the time I caught up with them, Schneider had tackled the man and recovered his phone. We walked back to our table. “I think I broke a rib,” Schneider said. “And I definitely scuffed my shoes, which were not cheap.” The man followed a few yards behind us, shouting expletives, at one point even brandishing a brick. Eventually, the police came and took him away. “I’m so sorry,” our waiter told us, in English, when we were seated again, catching our breath. “Nothing like that ever happens here. I am sure that this man was not really a Hungarian.”

There was no single moment when the democratic backsliding began in Hungary. There were no shots fired, no tanks in the streets. “Orbán doesn’t need to kill us, he doesn’t need to jail us,” Tibor Dessewffy, a sociology professor at Eötvös Loránd University, told me. “He just keeps narrowing the space of public life. It’s what’s happening in your country, too—the frog isn’t boiling yet, but the water is getting hotter.” He acknowledged that the U.S. has safeguards that Hungary does not: the two-party system, which might forestall a slide into perennial single-party rule; the American Constitution, which is far more difficult to amend. Still, it wasn’t hard for him to imagine Americans a decade hence being, in some respects, roughly where the Hungarians are today. “I’m sorry to tell you, I’m your worst nightmare,” Dessewffy said, with a wry smile. As worst nightmares went, I had to admit, it didn’t seem so bad at first glance. He was sitting in a placid garden, enjoying a lemonade, wearing cargo shorts. “This is maybe the strangest part,” he said. “Even my parents, who lived under Stalin, still drank lemonade, still went swimming in the lake on a hot day, still fell in love. In the nightmare scenario, you still have a life, even if you feel somewhat guilty about it.”

Lee Drutman, a political scientist at Johns Hopkins, tweeted last year, “Anybody serious about commenting on the state of US democracy should start reading more about Hungary.” In other words, not only can it happen here but, if you look at certain metrics, it’s already started happening. Republicans may not be able to rewrite the Constitution, but they can exploit existing loopholes, replace state election officials with Party loyalists, submit alternative slates of electors, and pack federal courts with sympathetic judges. Representation in Hungary has grown less proportional in recent years, thanks to gerrymandering and other tweaks to the electoral rules. In April, Fidesz got fifty-four per cent of the vote but won eighty-three per cent of the districts. “At that level of malapportionment, you’d be hard pressed to find a good-faith political scientist who would call that country a true democracy,” Drutman told me. “The trends in the U.S. are going very quickly in the same direction. It’s completely possible that the Republican Party could control the House, the Senate, and the White House in 2025, despite losing the popular vote in every case. Is that a democracy?”

In 2018, Steve Bannon, after he was fired from the Trump Administration, went on a kind of European tour, giving paid talks and meeting with nationalist allies across the Continent. In May, he stopped in Budapest. One of his hosts there was the XXI Century Institute, a think tank with close ties to the Orbán administration. “I can tell, Viktor Orbán triggers ’em like Trump,” Bannon said onstage, flashing a rare smile. “He was Trump before Trump.” After his speech, he joined his hosts for a dinner cruise on the Danube. (The cruise was captured in unreleased footage from the documentary “The Brink.” Bannon’s spokesperson stopped responding to requests for comment.) On board, Bannon met Miklós Szánthó, sipping a beer and watching the sun set, who mentioned that he ran a “conservative, center-right think tank” that opposed “N.G.O.s financed by the Open Society network.”

“Oh, my God, Soros!” Bannon said. “You guys beat him up badly here.” Szánthó accepted the praise with a stoic grin. Bannon went on, “We love to take lessons from you guys in the U.S.”

In 2018, “Trump before Trump” was the highest compliment that Bannon could think to pay Orbán. In 2022, many on the American right are trying to anticipate what a Trump after Trump might look like. Orbán provides one potential answer. Even Trump’s putative allies will admit, in private, that he was a lazy, feckless leader. They wanted an Augustus; they got a Caligula. In theory, Trump was amenable to dismantling the administrative state, to pushing norms and institutions beyond their breaking points, even to reaping the benefits of a full autocratic breakthrough. But, instead of laying out long-term strategies to wrest control of key levers of power, he tweeted, and watched TV, and whined on the phone about how his tin-pot insurrection schemes weren’t coming to fruition. What would happen if the Republican Party were led by an American Orbán, someone with the patience to envision a semi-authoritarian future and the diligence and the ruthlessness to achieve it?

In 2018, Patrick Deneen’s book “Why Liberalism Failed” was admired by David Brooks and Barack Obama. Last year, Deneen founded a hard-right Substack called the Postliberal Order, on which he argued that right-wing populists had not gone nearly far enough—that American conservatism should abandon its “defensive crouch.” One of his co-authors wrote a post from Budapest, offering an example of how this could work in practice: “It’s clear that Hungarian conservatism is not defensive.” J. D. Vance has voiced admiration for Orbán’s pro-natalist family policies, adding, “Why can’t we do that here?” Rod Dreher told me, “Seeing what Vance is saying, and what Ron DeSantis is actually doing in Florida, the concept of American Orbánism starts to make sense. I don’t want to overstate what they’ll be able to accomplish, given the constitutional impediments and all, but DeSantis is already using the power of the state to push back against woke capitalism, against the crazy gender stuff.” According to Dreher, what the Republican Party needs is “a leader with Orbán’s vision—someone who can build on what Trumpism accomplished, without the egomania and the inattention to policy, and who is not afraid to step on the liberals’ toes.”

In common parlance, the opposite of “liberal” is “conservative.” In political-science terms, illiberalism means something more radical: a challenge to the very rules of the game. There are many valid critiques of liberalism, from the left and the right, but Orbán’s admirers have trouble articulating how they could install a post-liberal American state without breaking a few eggs (civil rights, fair elections, possibly the democratic experiment itself). “The central insight of twentieth-century conservatism is that you work within the liberal order—limited government, free movement of capital, all of that—even when it’s frustrating,” Andrew Sullivan said.“If you just give away the game and try to seize as much power as possible, then what you’re doing is no longer conservative, and, in my view, you’re making a grave, historic mistake.” Lauren Stokes, the Northwestern historian, is a leftist with her own radical critiques of liberalism; nonetheless, she, too, thinks that the right-wing post-liberals are playing with fire. “By hitching themselves to someone who has put himself forward as a post-liberal intellectual, I think American conservatives are starting to give themselves permission to discard liberal norms,” Stokes told me. “When a Hungarian court does something Orbán doesn’t like—something too pro-queer, too pro-immigrant—he can just say, ‘This court is an enemy of the people, I don’t have to listen to it.’ I think Republicans are setting themselves up to adopt a similar logic: if the system gives me a result I don’t like, I don’t have to abide by it.”

On the morning after the reception, I arrived at the building where CPAC Hungary was being held—a glass-covered, humpbacked protuberance known as the Whale. Orbán was due to speak in thirty minutes. I walked up to an outdoor media-registration desk, where a Center for Fundamental Rights employee named Dóra confirmed that I would not be allowed to enter. “I have to get back to work now,” she said, although there was no one else in line. She called over a security guard, who stood in front of me, blocking my view of the entrance, and demanded that I go “outside.” I made the argument that we were already outside. Within five minutes, he was threatening to call the police. (The Center for Fundamental Rights later declined to comment on specific claims in this piece, writing, “Unfortunately there is a lot of fake news in the article.”)

I texted Rod Dreher, who seemed to think that his allies were making a tactical mistake: surely, antagonizing journalists would make the coverage worse. He and Melissa O’Sullivan scrambled to find attendees willing to pop out between sessions and talk to me. I spoke with a friend of Dreher’s, an urbane descendant of Hungarian aristocrats and a study in cultivated neutrality: “I am a businessperson, so I believe in the win-win-win, which means that no one is on the wrong side, ever, you see? No one is the Devil, even the Devil.” Later, I talked to another friend of Dreher’s, who, after chatting for a few minutes, said, “I’ve got one of these badges. Why don’t you put it on, try to walk in, and see what happens?”

It was calmer than I’d expected inside the Whale. CPAC Orlando had been a manic circus of lib-triggering commotion; CPAC Hungary was less flashy, more focussed. Young volunteers wearing business suits passed out policy papers printed on thick stock. “He’s made it in again!” John O’Sullivan said, smiling and clapping me on the shoulder. Schneider, who had spent much of our dinner disclaiming the most wild-eyed, conspiratorial members of his coalition, was now chatting with Jack Posobiec, who has made a career out of promoting election disinformation, child-groomer memes, and other bits of corrosive propaganda.

The speaker onstage was Gavin Wax, the twenty-seven-year-old president of the New York Young Republican Club. (For most of the twentieth century, the club endorsed liberal Republicans, but, after an internal coup in 2019, it endorsed both Trump and Orbán for reëlection.) There were about a hundred people in the audience, most of them listening to Wax through live translation on clunky plastic headsets. “Hungary has frequently become a target because it is a shining example of how easily the globalist agenda can be repelled,” Wax said. “We demand nothing short of an American Orbánism. We accept nothing less than total victory!” From the outside, the Whale had looked vast, airy, translucent. Inside the main hall, there were various camera setups and artificial-lighting rigs but not a crack of sunlight.

Tucker Carlson recorded a message from his home studio in Maine. “I can’t believe you’re in Budapest and I am not,” he said. “You know why you can tell it’s a wonderful country? Because the people who have turned our country into a much less good place are hysterical when you point it out.” Trump also sent a greeting by video: “Viktor Orbán, he’s a great leader, a great gentleman, and he just had a very big election result. I was very honored to have endorsed him. A little unusual endorsement, usually I’m looking at the fifty states, but here we went a little bit astray.” During his keynote address, Orbán said, “President Trump has undeniable merits, but nevertheless he was not reëlected in 2020.” Fidesz, by contrast, “did not resign ourselves to our minority status. We played to win.”

In 2002, when Orbán lost his first reëlection campaign, he left office, but neither he nor his followers ever really accepted the result. “The homeland cannot be in opposition,” he said—in other words, he was still the legitimate representative of the Hungarian people, and no election result could change that. Trump, of course, has been perseverating on a similar theme for the past year and a half, and he, too, has a cultural movement, a media ecosystem, and a political party that will echo it. At CPAC Orlando, most of the speakers ritually invoked the shibboleth that Trump had actually won the 2020 election, despite all evidence. Several attendees told me that, if the Republicans had any backbone, they would win back the House in 2022, amass as much power as possible at the state level, and then do whatever it took to deliver the Presidency back to the Party in 2024. A free but not fair election, captured partisan courts, the institutions of democracy limping along in hollowed-out form—these seemed like telltale signs of early-stage Goulash Authoritarianism. Now here the Americans were, studying at Orbán’s knee.

Trump may run in 2024, and he may win, fairly or unfairly. What worried me most, sitting in the belly of the Whale, was not the person of Donald Trump but a Republican Party that resembled Orbán’s party, Fidesz, more by the month—increasingly comfortable with naked power grabs, with treating all political opposition as fundamentally illegitimate, with assuming that any checks on its dominance were mere inconveniences to be bypassed by any quasi-legalistic means. “There are many things that the Americans here want to learn from the Hungarians,” Balázs Orbán had told me. “We’re going to keep our heritage for ourselves, our Christian heritage, our ethnic heritage . . . that’s what I think they want to say but they can’t say, and so they point to someone who can say it. If they want us to play that role, we are fine with that.” After I got back to the U.S., I spoke to Dreher, who mentioned that he was thinking about moving from Louisiana to Budapest, where he had been offered a job with the Danube Institute. “I really like the Hungarian people, and I think it could be useful to build a network of Christians and intellectuals who are thinking about the future,” he said. “We in the West still have so much to learn.” ♦

[notesfromatherapist]

I was standing there, hands tenderly on my face, like a mother would place her hands on the face of her beloved child. To the parts that were hurting, that had worked hard, had endured, survived, were afraid, I said aloud to all of me, “Well done. You have worked so hard. You have been in so much pain, so vocal about where it hurts. Thank you for speaking up. I am listening: And the doctors are listening too. Thank you for working so hard to protect me after such an awful and scary thing happened to you. You are safe now.” It just tumbled out of me; perhaps it was all the practice no had doing this in the mirror before and after physiotherapy, late at night in bed, on the floor of my office, or every time got in a car after the accidents… I pulled back the curtain, and there stood a nurse, motionless, with tears streaming down her face, hand over her mouth. She said, almost with disbelief, that in thirty years of working in the imaging department of the hospital, never had she heard anyone speak out loud about themselves with such kindness. I took a breath, lingering in that moment with her. We wondered together how much more difficult it is to heal when we are also contributing to our own pain by how we respond to ourselves about it. Her expression lives preciously tucked into my memory, a souvenir of the magic of that moment.

Hillary L. McBride, PhD, The Wisdom Of Your Body

#hillary mcbride #The Wisdom of Your Body #inner nurturer #self talk #IFS #parts work #self compassion #healing

[gymnasticscoaching]

the "Heron" on Floor

Congratulations Panama. Hillary Heron will have a skill in the Code: Heron (F): Double salto backward tucked with 1½ twist on Floor. Click PLAY or watch it on Instagram. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Hillary Heron (@hillyheron)

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[acquariusgb]

Billary fic drabble advent calendar. Day 3

Day 3: First Kiss

Hillary walked inside her dorm room and quickly closed the door as she leaned against it with a dreamy look on her face. 

“Hillary, finally!” her roommate Kwan Kwan greeted her as she stuck her head from behind the bathroom door. “Where have you been? I thought your last lesson finished hours ago. The party will start soon and there’s still so much to do.”

“What?” Hillary shook her head, distracted. “Oh, yeah”

Kwan Kwan soon noticed that her friend was acting strangely. “Hillary…? Something wrong?”

“You won’t believe the day I had.” Hillary sighed. “I met Bill Clinton outside of class.”  

Kwan Kwan soon forgot all about the preparations for the party. “Tell me everything.” She eagerly sat on the sofa and patted the seat next to her encouraging Hillary to do the same. Her roommate had told her everything about their first encounter and she wanted to hear more.

“He was just waiting for me outside the classroom, he walked with me towards the register office saying he had to register too but then when we got there Gloria kind of threw him under the bus by saying he had already registered.” she chuckled, rethinking about the moment.

Her friend laughed. “Oh, poor guy…”

“He was so adorable. He turned bright red.”

“So, then what happened?”

“We just started walking and continued talking.” Hillary said eagerly. “We talked about anything and everything. Then we reached the art museum, but it was closed because of the strike. He managed to convince the custodian to let us in if we cleaned the yard. We had the whole museum for ourselves. It was very romantic.”

“Oh… look at you.”  She teased Hillary. “What happened next?”

“We went to Sally’s for dinner and then he walked me back here.”

“Was there a kiss?” She saw Hillary blushed. “Oh, there was… you’re blushing…”

Hillary’s face was bright red as she thought back at the kiss she and Bill shared just a few minutes before. After he insisted on walking her to her dorm, they stood outside the door, neither of them wanting their date to end.

“Well, I really wasn’t expecting my day to go like this but I’m glad it did.” Hillary said, adjusting her bag strap.

“Me too. I really had a good time. I’d love to do it again.”

“Well, my roommate and I are throwing a party tonight for the end of course, why don’t you come? You can bring your friends too.”

“Sounds great.”

“Okay.”

But they still didn’t make a move to leave. Bill took a step forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, silently asking for her permission.

She slowly nodded, her tongue darted out to wet her lips and she tilted her head up. Their lips met in a brief touch, but it still left them breathless. 

He looked down embarrassed and cleared his throat. “I’ll see you later.” He said and he nervously scratched the back of his head.

“See you later.”

“You seem very smitten.”

Hillary rolled her eyes. “We’re not in high school. He’s an interesting man and we seemed to have a connection and I wouldn’t mind seeing where it goes.”

“What about David?”

“We’ve been drifting apart for a while now and we have an understanding that we’re not exclusive, but yes, before I can move forward with Bill, I should completely break it off with David.” Hillary got up. “So, what still needs to be done?”

“I can’t wait to meet this Bill Clinton, I think we haven’t seen the last of him.”

#the clintons #hillary clinton #bill clinton #billary #love #bill and hillary #advent calendar fic drabble

[sources-across]

Unveiling the Best Eateries in Scarborough, Hillarys, Mandurah, and Forrestfield

Perth, with its stunning landscapes and vibrant communities, is a haven for food enthusiasts. As you embark on a culinary journey through this Australian gem, make sure to explore the diverse flavors offered by Scarborough, Hillarys, Mandurah, and Forrestfield. Each locale boasts its unique charm and a plethora of dining options, making them must-visit destinations for foodies. Let's dive into the gastronomic delights awaiting you in these distinct neighborhoods.

Scarborough Restaurant Extravaganza:

Nestled along the pristine coastline, Scarborough is renowned for its beautiful beaches and an equally impressive culinary scene. One standout gem is "The Local Shack," a culinary haven offering a delightful blend of flavors and a laid-back atmosphere. From delectable seafood dishes to mouthwatering burgers, this Scarborough restaurant caters to every palate. The sun-soaked ambiance adds an extra layer of enjoyment to your dining experience, making it a favorite among locals and visitors alike.

Hillarys Harbour: A Gastronomic Delight:

Hillarys, home to the famous Hillarys Boat Harbour, is a bustling hub where stunning ocean views meet exceptional dining. At "The Local Shack" in Hillarys, you can savor a menu curated to perfection. Indulge in the freshest catches of the day or relish a hearty burger crafted with locally sourced ingredients. The nautical surroundings amplify the charm of your dining experience, making it a memorable stop in your culinary journey through Perth.

Mandurah's Culinary Oasis:

Mandurah, with its picturesque waterways and relaxed vibe, is a treasure trove for food enthusiasts. Make your way to "The Local Shack" in Mandurah, where culinary delights await. Dive into a menu showcasing a fusion of flavors, from tantalizing starters to mouthwatering mains. Whether you're in the mood for a seafood feast or a juicy steak, this Mandurah restaurant has you covered. The laid-back atmosphere and warm hospitality make it a perfect spot for a leisurely meal.

Forrestfield's Hidden Culinary Gem:

Forrestfield, a suburb surrounded by natural beauty, unveils its own culinary gem – "The Local Shack." Tucked away in this charming locale, the restaurant offers a diverse menu that caters to all tastes. Enjoy the fusion of flavors in every bite, with options ranging from hearty salads to gourmet burgers. The cozy ambiance and personalized service make dining at this Forrestfield restaurant a delightful experience.

Perth's culinary scene is a testament to the city's diversity and rich cultural tapestry. As you traverse through Scarborough, Hillarys, Mandurah, and Forrestfield, don't miss the chance to indulge in the gastronomic offerings at "The Local Shack." Each restaurant encapsulates the unique essence of its locale, providing a memorable dining experience that reflects the spirit of Perth. Whether you're a local looking for a new favorite spot or a visitor eager to explore the culinary wonders of the city, these restaurants are sure to leave your taste buds satisfied and your heart wanting more.

#Hillarys restaurant #Mandurah Restaurant #Forrestfield Restaurant