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new-sandrafilter · 5 years

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True Romance: Saoirse Ronan and Timothée Chalamet on reuniting for Little Women

They may be posing in an airy lower Manhattan studio, but Timothée Chalamet and Saoirse Ronan have a way of making you feel right at home. “I made a little playlist this morning,” Chalamet announces to the room. He syncs up his cell phone to the sound system, his boyish grin widening as Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” starts blaring. He returns to the camera, which snaps him and Ronan at a furious pace.

It’s their first joint cover shoot. He’s wearing a shimmery striped shirt with high-waist trousers; she’s rocking a shirtdress, fishnet stockings, and clear stilettos. He keeps cracking her up; she musses his hair with doting affection. During a break that follows, he wanders, gripping a paper bag stuffed with assorted bagels — from Tompkins Square Bagels, which Chalamet, a lifelong New Yorker, insists are the best in the city — and offering one to anyone in his path. He sings and dances — very Elio-in-the-town-square-like — to Bob Dylan’s “Tombstone Blues.” He creeps behind a distracted Ronan before spooking her with a yelp. “I didn’t even know you were there!” she exclaims, reddening from the fright but with a smile so lovingly at ease, you sense she’s used to the prank.

They’ve known each other, after all, for some time. About three years ago, Ronan, now 25, and Chalamet, 23, met filming Lady Bird, Greta Gerwig’s solo directorial debut, in which Ronan’s irrepressible heroine (briefly) romances Chalamet’s douchey amateur musician. They reunited with Gerwig last year, on the heels of Lady Bird’s Oscar-nominated success, for a bigger undertaking: a remake of the oft-remade Little Women (Dec. 25). Ronan and Chalamet slipped into the roles of tomboyish Jo March and buoyant Theodore “Laurie” Laurence, best friends who ultimately break each other’s hearts. Their courtship ranks among American culture’s oldest tales of unrequited love — made indelible by Katharine Hepburn and Douglass Montgomery, Winona Ryder and Christian Bale, and so many others — yet finds, in the hands of two of the most compelling actors of their generation, galvanizing new life.

That goes, in fact, for the whole of Gerwig’s Little Women. Her version certainly contains the snow-globe coziness of treasured adaptations past, but also carries a fizzy emotional authenticity and attention to detail. The film is remarkably lived-in, too: This take on Louisa May Alcott’s 1868 novel, which follows Jo and her three sisters pre– and post–American Civil War, feels plucked straight from the text in the best way, with siblings fighting like siblings, love and loss and hope and pain vividly experienced on screen.

Ronan and Chalamet’s charming big sister–little brother dynamic is not unlike the one that Jo and Laurie share in Little Women. Watch the actors play off one another, and the film’s tender realism clarifies itself: Their on-camera intimacy is just as palpable behind the scenes. Indeed, after shooting Lady Bird for a few weeks, the pair hung out regularly over the next year, making the awards-circuit rounds and scoring lead-acting Oscar nominations — Ronan for Lady Bird, Chalamet for Call Me by Your Name — before swiftly signing on to Little Women. In advance of filming in Concord, Mass. (the actual setting of the book), Gerwig and producer Amy Pascal gathered the large production’s cast and crew for rehearsals at a house just outside the town. For Ronan and Chalamet, the contrast between this and their early Lady Bird days was immense. “I felt very prideful… about how big it had gotten, how many people were there,” Chalamet recounts. “On Lady Bird it was, like, 25 people hanging out in a house!”

They fell back into each other’s rhythms instantly. “He keeps me on my toes — I’m never quite sure what he’s going to do next,” Ronan says. “That only progressed more and grew more. It helped that we do have a very natural rapport with each other…. These two characters physically need to be very comfortable with one another. They’re literally intertwined for half the film.” Chalamet adds: “In the least clichéd way possible, it really doesn’t feel like [I’m] acting sometimes [with her].”

Chalamet credits Gerwig, too, for establishing a playful, comfortable atmosphere. He thinks back to his first day of rehearsal: He reunited with Ronan. He introduced himself to Emma Watson (who plays the eldest March sister, Meg). He was guided into a third-floor conference room of a “random building” where, “all of a sudden, there was a full dance class going on.” He recalls fondly: “Everyone breaks down and becomes a little kid. This job is so trippy in that regard — you want to be serious, you want to be professional, and then it’s almost best when you’re able to be 12 years old. When it’s someone you’re actually friends with, it makes it easier.”

Ronan smirks, gearing up for a jab: “We’re not friends!” Delighted, Chalamet keeps the bit going. “We’re not friends,” he says, solemnly. For once, they’re not very convincing.

Greta Gerwig doesn’t remember a time before she knew Jo March. “[Little Women] was very much part of who I always was,” the writer-director, 36, says. “It was something my mother read to me when I was growing up. It’s been with me for a very long time.”

She joined Sony Pictures’ new Little Women adaptation when she was hired to write the script in 2016. Once Lady Bird bowed the next year, she emerged as a candidate to direct the film. “Greta had a very specific, energized, kind of punk-rock, Shakespearean take on this story,” Pascal says. “She came in and had a meeting with all of us and said, ‘I know this has been done before, but nobody can do it but me.’” She got the gig.

In her approach, Gerwig drew on her lifelong relationship with Little Women; beyond childhood, she discovered new, complex layers to the novel, and in turn to Alcott’s legacy. “As a girl, my heroine was Jo March, and as a grown lady, my heroine is Louisa May Alcott,” she says. It’s perhaps why Gerwig’s Little Women feels like the most adult — and modern — version of the story that’s reached the screen to date. The movie begins with the March sisters in adulthood — typically where the narrative’s second half begins — and unfolds like a memory play, shifting back and forth between that present-day frame and extended flashbacks to the childhood scenes etched in the American literary canon.

In that, Gerwig finds fascinating, fresh areas of exploration regarding women’s lives: the choices society forces them to make, the beauty and struggles of artistic pursuit, the consequences of rebellion. Jo’s journey as a writer anchors Gerwig’s direction; tempestuous Amy (Florence Pugh) gets more of a spotlight as she matures as a painter (and Laurie’s eventual wife); and Meg is realized with newfound nuance: “We felt it was important to show Meg juggling all her roles — a mother, a wife, a sister — whilst also celebrating her dreams, despite them being different to those of her sisters,” says Watson. But Gerwig doesn’t see herself as reinventing the wheel. “A lot of the lines in the film are taken right from the book,” she explains. “When Amy says, ‘I want to be great or nothing’ — she says that in the book! I don’t think we remember that, but she does say it.” Gerwig also loves one line spoken by the sisters’ mother, Marmee (Laura Dern), also revived in this version: “I’m angry almost every single day.”

Gerwig compiled a “bible” filled with cultural references: to Whistler tableaux of family life, to David Bowie–Jean Seberg hairdos that inspire the look of Jo’s mid-film cut, to Alcott family letters. “I wanted it to be footnote-able,” Gerwig says. “I wanted to point to it and say, ‘This is where this is from.’” She considers Alcott’s text sacred: “I wanted to treat the text as something that could be made fresh by great acting.”

Beyond those charged but less quoted Little Women lines are its famous ones — throw-pillow staples like Jo’s “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” that no adaptation is complete without. The actors rehearsed these “almost like a song,” pushing to move through them with a rapid musicality. “We [read] the book out loud,” says Dern. Gerwig expected the script’s words to be memorized precisely. “I knew I wanted them to get this cadence that felt sparkly and slightly irreverent,” she says. “I wanted to make them move at the speed of light.”

She poured the same love into iconic scenes, like Jo and Laurie’s ebullient dance that follows their first meeting. Here it goes on longer — and more vibrantly — than in any previous iteration. (Ronan says they filmed it at 3 a.m., to boot, adding, “We must have done it, like, 30 times.”) Then there’s the devastating moment when Laurie asks Jo to marry him and she rejects his proposal. Gerwig tasked the two actors to unleash here. “Emotions just bubble over,” Ronan says. “[Greta] just let us go with it, wherever it went, from take to take. What I loved about that scene is that every take would be different emotionally. It didn’t have the same trajectory.

“The two of us, it’s a relationship I have with no other director,” Ronan continues. “She makes me feel like I can try anything.”

As Ronan and Chalamet emerge from their photo-studio dressing area in impossibly chic new ensembles — she donning a form-fitting knit sweater, he a silky, ruffled top — their creative energy fills the space. They try out different poses, debating concepts and ideas with each other on the fly; at one point he wraps his arms around her waist, and she quips to no one in particular, “We’re expecting our first.” Camera snap.

They’re modeling a new brand of movie stardom — pursuing projects with a point of view, adamantly being themselves in the public eye, subverting gender norms. Their androgynous fashion performance here reflects their wardrobe shake-ups in Little Women: Gerwig and Oscar-winning costumer Jacqueline Durran (Anna Karenina) had the two actors swapping clothes throughout filming, to reinforce the masculine-feminine fluidity between Jo and Laurie. “They are two halves,” as Pascal puts it. “These are really bold characters that are really different than you’ve seen them before.”

And just as Gerwig expressed a need to direct Little Women, Ronan knew in her bones she needed to play Jo. She’d first encountered the story via the 1994 film when she was 11, and later read the book, feeling an immediate kinship with the young woman she’d come to portray. “When Louisa describes Jo, it felt like someone describing me physically: sort of gangly and stubborn and very straightforward, and went for what she wanted.” At an event for Lady Bird, she — in a very Jo kind of way — just “went at it” by approaching Gerwig. “I said, ‘So I want to be in Little Women, but only if I’m playing Jo.’” (Chalamet, for his part, was asked by Gerwig, “Hey, want to do another movie?” He responded: “Yes. Yes, please.”)

Over months of living in Concord with her castmates, Ronan discovered new depths within herself: “Jo’s ethos is ‘Everything everyone else is doing, I’m going to do the opposite.’ [I had] to try things that I’d never tried before. Be a bit messier with a performance.” Gerwig set up etiquette lessons for the cast; whatever the instructor said (“Don’t shake hands! Don’t gesticulate with your arms!”), Ronan made sure to ignore it. She speaks now of this as freeing, even transformative. “I felt like I had tapped into something I’d never gotten the opportunity to tap into before, or I just didn’t have the guts to tap into myself,” she says. “Finding that was just amazing.”

Shortly after wrapping Little Women, she filmed Wes Anderson’s next film, The French Dispatch — marking her third time costarring with Chalamet, who plays a central role. As for now? Ronan is taking a little break. “I’ll wait for the right thing to come along,” she says. “It’s lovely to be in a position at this moment where I can wait for the absolute right thing.” Same goes for Chalamet — he shot Netflix’s The King (out Oct. 11) right before Little Women and just completed production on Denis Villeneuve’s Dune adaptation. “It’s the first time in almost two years I’ve gotten a breath, so I’m savoring it.”

It’s been a long day. They’re back in comfy clothes; Ronan is taking a late lunch. It feels like both actors — as another whirlwind of acclaim and press and romance-shipping awaits — are at a kind of peace, exhausted but satisfyingly so. Little Women is the biggest movie either has done to date; more attention, as they inhabit such revered characters, is sure to follow. “I just haven’t thought about it that way,” Ronan admits. “Maybe because it’s just Greta — even though it’s on a much bigger scale, she wanted it to feel like Lady Bird.”

Ronan understands the timeless power of Little Women, of course: “It’s as important to tell Little Women right now as it would be at any point in our lifetime.” She points to this pop culture climate of “celebrating female friendships and sisterhood,” and continues, “It’s a story that’s full of love. That will always be relevant.”

She turns toward Chalamet, and you realize the love they brought to Alcott’s classic is what first blossomed between them on Lady Bird. “I love that in Lady Bird, you broke my heart,” she says to him softly. “In Little Women, I got to break your heart.” (Chalamet, ever the goofball, finds an obvious opening: “Yes, that’s true. Then I married your sister. Ha, ha, ha!”)

If this all sounds a little idyllic, well, neither actor — nor Gerwig, nor Pascal, nor the rest of the cast — can do much to convince you otherwise. Shifting back to Little Women’s timelessness, and reflecting on Ronan’s comments about it, Chalamet says, “I don’t know how to add to that.” Instead he turns back to his costar, his expression suddenly sincere, filled with gratitude. “But if I can add one little dose of information,” he says with a nervous laugh. “And not just because she’s sitting next to me.” He credits Ronan with bringing that “timeless energy.” He says “thank God” they were able to make the movie. “It’s so rare with Saoirse — I’m so f—ing grateful to get to work with her,” he says. “Whatever book I write for myself when I’m older, to look back on —” He stops himself. “Well, this is a bigger conversation.”

But Ronan, chuckling, doesn’t let him off the hook. “Will I have, like, a chapter?” And Chalamet laughs — another opening, another chance to act with his greatest scene partner, to see what journey of creation and discovery they’ll go on next. “A chapter of Saoirse,” he says.

At this rate, one chapter won’t suffice.

#timmy #timothee chalamet #saoirse ronan #little women

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bretongirlwrites · 4 years

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16-23 for any that you like :3

16 I have answered for Corinne, Marianne and Julienne in a previous ask

17. What does your oc like to eat? How much food do they eat? Can your oc cook, and can they do it well?

My OCs all Breton or at least part Breton, the art of good cooking is in their blood. That said, Julianne and Marianne are by far the best cooks among them (with a special fondness for baking); Lunette, Corinne and Talvynea don’t care for cooking all that much, but are capable of it; and Julienne is part Nord, and was brought up among Nords, so while she is quite good at cooking, her preferences are often for what a pure-blooded Breton might call insipid.

You can find their favourite foods in this post!

18 and 19 – I don’t have any OCs so far who are werewolves or vampires

20. What does your oc wear in the city/settlements? In the house? When travelling, but not adventuring or expecting combat? Does your oc have a good or bad sense of fashion? How many clothes does your oc have?

I’ll answer this one for Julienne…

She doesn’t really have a massive sense of fashion, but what she does have isn’t bad exactly. Most of the clothes she possesses are handmade, many of them in the Bruma/Nordic style, knitted dresses, fur-lined cloaks, practical everyday robes, generally in fairly demure colours. To Skyrim she took a cloak, two sets of mages’ robes, and a dress. What she had packed, she lost at Helgen, and was left with one set of robes and her cloak; in Whiterun she bought a nice practical dress (think Arcadia’s style), and some fabric for a new set of mages’ robes, which she worked on as best she could whenever she was back in Whiterun, and eventually got enchanted. While she saves dresses for city- and home-clothes, she wears mages’ robes wherever.

(She did want to save the party-clothes that she wore to the Thalmor embassy, but her hurried flight led to them being torn almost to shreds.)

As for shoes, she usually goes barefoot (or in stockings, or warm socks) in the house, but as she owns just the one pair of boots – brown leather, sturdy and practical – it is those which she wears everywhere outside.

21. How picky is your oc about their gear? Do they have different equipment for different adventures, or is it the same suit of armor for everything?

I would say Lunette is the one who most adapts her clothing for the situation, so I’ll answer for her.

When she worked at Raven Rock, and later when she arrived in Balmora, she was wearing commoners’ dress, light demure clothes that suited her previous occupation as thief. (They were not however still the same clothes: Falco Galenus noticed that her clothes were tattered, and that her shoes were worth little more than going barefoot, and insisted on buying her replacements.)

When her cover identity ended up a member of the Mages’ Guild, she used some of the money Caius gave her to get some better clothes, that is, a common robe (the sort Edwinna Elbert wears) and boots, in a bid to look the part. In her dealings with the Thieves’ Guild, she reverted to her shirt and trousers, though later, when Caius gave her the black enchanted spy clothes, she rather favoured those, as they were much suited to the profession of a thief.

The various duties required by her role as Nerevarine led her to don numerous other outfits, with all the skill of someone who knows exactly how to dress for the situation. Among the Ashlanders, and on most of her outdoor expeditions, she often donned a chitin cuirass and greaves, sometimes the matching helmet as well: and it was a full set of chitin armour that she wore, when she went in for the final assault on the Red Mountain citadels. When she was persuading the Houses to let her be Hortator, and in other dealings involving the higher classes, she wore a more expensive robe (the sort Masalinie Merian wears), which she didn’t much like, but which she knew rather suited her.

22. How does your oc acquire their clothes, and from where/whom?

Most of my OCs buy their clothes; while Marianne and Lunette sometimes steal clothes, they fence rather than wear them, as they might otherwise make themselves obvious as the thief; Julianne occasionally makes her own clothes, or embroiders existing outfits, and Julienne, as I have mentioned, makes a good deal of her own clothes.

23. Can your oc swim, and how well? Have they ever swam in the ocean, or only lakes/rivers?

Julianne and Corinne both spent a good amount of their childhood swimming in the bay at Anvil, along with all the other children of the city, and some of the adults. Corinne usually did so for athletic purposes; Julianne preferred diving for things, like alchemy ingredients, and testing out water-breathing spells and enchantments. The skill of swimming turned out to be quite valued among the citizens of inland Cyrodiil, even among those who grew up around Lake Rumare, or the Niben Bay, as the waters of the Abecean Sea require a good deal more strength and skill than those of a placid lake.

Marianne and Lunette cannot swim, or not very well, at least, for Kvatch does not even have a river; Julienne equally has never really had the opportunity to learn, as swimming in any body of water in the Jerall Mountains is inadvisable owing to the temperature. Talvynea can swim a little, as she too grew up by the sea, but this was a much colder sea than the Abecean, and her swimming skills extend only to survival rather than to any means of amusement.

#elder scrolls #tes #oc:julianne #oc:julienne #oc:marianne #oc:lunette #oc:talvynea #oc:corinne

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okimargarvez · 5 years

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PRISON BREAK

Original title: Prison break.

Prompt: what if from 9x12. Warning: mention of sex, slight A.U., Penelope OOC.

Genre: angst, comedy, smut.

Characters: Luke Alvez, Penelope Garcia.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 19 in Garvez collection.

Legend: 💏😘😈❗👨‍👩‍👧‍👦🎲🎈👻.

Song mentioned: La paura non esiste, Tiziano Ferro.

GARVEZ STORIES

PRISON BREAK

Another day like the others, another time-card-punching. Sometimes he would like the hours to pass more quickly, but then he stops a second and realizes that he can't do anything, because he doesn't have a goal, an object, he simply proceeds by inertia, because there is no other alternative acceptable, neither from society, nor from his religion. Like when you change house because you are alone, like when you ask around and you never find forgiveness, like when you go everywhere and everywhere there is no light, as always anyone who speaks, a voice, always...

He doesn’t expect to see a change. He learned not to expect anything at all. Maybe that mission has nothing to do with it, maybe it was already like that before but did not have the courage to admit it. Maybe his whole life was just a mistake, and his mother would have done better to keep her legs closed that night. Or maybe not, but now he is no longer able, even if he strives to get a headache, to remember what life was like before. They say the war changes people.

The young man shakes his head trying to drive away those thoughts, only to be able to get right into his role, to show the outside world his beautiful tanned face while smiling greeting colleagues. Until no one notices it, he will at least be left alone to bask in self-pity.

She should have accepted it. A person with sense into her, would have done it. She had the opportunity to save herself, to avoid ending up in this place, and she refused it for a stupid matter of principle. Never on the side of the feds. But not even with Shane. It was to escape him that she had found herself in this mess.

Of course, she couldn't imagine that they would propose a job to her. The great boss wanted her skills at his service. But she had been adamant and so here she is, waiting to enter what will become her home for who knows how long, perhaps for life. After all, she had committed a serious crime and therefore had to pay her debt to society.

The best thing she can do is screwing up, since she was born. This thing was even less serious than the last, the girl thinks, scratching her wrist, just where the clearest sign of what looks like a scratch or a cut is still partially visible. And you need... you need to be sad... you want it… However, mistake doesn't exist, it exists only when it's evening, only who wanted to be wrong, does it…

They call her name. She stands up. She feels the glances of the other prisoners on her. She tries to ignore everything, because, in the end, she is not at all sorry to have hacked those companies and would do it again, even if the conclusion was the same. If you do not even have the right to fight and believe in your ideals, what are you living for?

Yet, this time there is something different.

It is that shortly before arriving at his workplace, he received a call from Rossi, the only one who had stood by him on that occasion, who had defended him so much that when they finally decided to not to degrade him, but to send him to a more humble and more "adapted to his temperament and his ability" work; that time, the Italian American had left the Bureau for the umpteenth time, to return to his first passion: writing. He had been like a second father for him.

Doing him a favor was not at all a nuisance, on the contrary. To succeed at least once to repay the debt that he felt to have towards him, was only a pleasure, an owe.

The guy enters the room with a folder in his hands. Certainly, he doesn't expect that the matter that he has to deal with, it's a young person, like that girl. He remains on the threshold to look at her for a moment, while she seems not to pay much attention to him. She has brown hair, neither light nor dark, with reddish reflections, just a little longer than the shoulders. She is dressed entirely in black: the black jacket is particularly bizarre and she wears a black skirt that just covers at least the legs and black shoes; the only thing of another color, a strange metallic gray, is a kind of corset that highlights, as if it were needed, further the prosperous breasts, exposed to the sight by a showy neckline. She also wears mesh gloves, as well as a bracelet on her wrist... handcuffs. No other accessories. The make-up is the last piece to understand who he is dealing with. A goth.

After what seems like an hour, he finally decides to get closer. He must remember that he is the law and that she is a potential criminal. A hacker, according to what he read. But the reason she's here gets a smile from him: boycotting multinationals who tested their products on innocent animals. He strives to be professional, he owes it to Dave. -Mrs.Garcia?- another surprise was to find that she it is not a Latin chica at all. Her skin is too pale, and definitely it brings out more because of those dark clothes. And her traits are certainly not Hispanic. In fact, on her file there is written that she was adopted.

She looks at him in an apparently indifferent way, just because she is forced. The first thing she thinks as soon as her eyes rest on him, is "that is the most beautiful man I have ever seen", actually. She can't avoid starting a comparison with Shane, without wanting it and without realizing it. He is definitely higher; more muscular, his skin is darker, tanned... his eyes more intense. She doesn't know and doesn't want to know why such an adjective came to her mind, but she finds it particularly apt. Yes, intense. He must not be more than thirty years old, certainly they are almost the same age, but his gaze seems more mature, as if he had seen terrible things, since he came on Earth, and maybe he really is.

They remain staring at each other without neither opening their mouth, for at least two minutes. Then he forces himself to do something, as not to remain stuck in that limbo forever. -You know why you're here?- he suddenly decides to give up the formal ways.

She glances at him as if to ask him if he believes her stupid. -Sure. I hacked a few web sites and ended up on the black list of the CIA.- she pronounces the whole sentence as if she really doesn't give matter to the situation, but he is not so naive, indeed. He soon had to learn to read the traits of who is lying or is not telling the whole truth. She can pretend with all her might, but it is clear that what she is feeling right now is simply fear.

And wherever I go, wherever I go, that fear will come back tomorrow, tomorrow...

-Good.- if she wants to play this game, he certainly doesn't back down. -I have to enter your data in the database, before deciding in which area to send you. Do you understand?- the girl still doesn't replicate anything, just looking at him. ...and wherever it go, wherever it go, be sure enough, and tighten yours reasons... It is at that moment that he decides to change his approach again. -Ok, Penelope- immediately notice how her shoulders stiffen and her lips stretch out, hearing him say her name -we try to make it as painless as possible.- he pauses, gets up and approaches her. She backs away the little she can with the handcuffs hooked to the table. He scrutinizes her from above. -My name is Luke and I will take care of your case, of you, as long as you stay in this jail.- she jumps as he approaches her. -So it would be better if you get used to my presence.- she closes her eyes and swallows. The young man waits, resting a hand on the table, not far from the female arm. From that position he has a good view of his breasts, but he is not here for this and he has to repeat it at himself a few times.

-Tell me what you want from me and let's get it over.- the girl finally says. The tone of voice wanted to play hard and tough, but after a few words it falters and finally breaks like a glass dropped to the ground. Even the eyes seem to fill with tears, some of them escape and a black strip is now painted on her face. He has to kept himself from stretching the hand and cleaning her face. She closes her eyelids again but begins to shake.

-Penelope...- he calls her by her name, although he uses a distant and professional tone.

-Don't call me Penelope! We are not friends, you aren't a man I met in a bar and who wants to flirt with me!- with all those jumps she continue to pull the handcuffs, causing red marks on her wrists. Luke, this time without thinking, tries to stop her by blocking her both arms on the table. She desists almost immediately.

-I’m aware that this is a difficult situation. You have no previous. And, but this must stay between us, if it was me, you shouldn’t even be here. Animal experimentation is something... horrible.- for the first time, Penelope opens her eyes wide and looks at him like he is a human being.

-You... are you an animal lover? Do you love animals?- now yes, this is the real Penelope. She tries to wipe away the tears, but it's not possible, so Luke decides to do it for her. Just one of his hands is as big as her face and for a moment the girl enjoys the of caress as if it were only this, and not a pitying gesture.

Luke nods, leaving his hand in that position for a few seconds too long. -Yes, I can’t stand the violence on the weak or those who can’t defend themselves.- suddenly he feels embarrassed to talk about himself. He is not used to exposing himself, it is much more convenient to interrogate others. When he breaks the contact, they both feel an icy chill. He returns to the chair and pulls a computer out of the bag. He notices immediately the way she looks at the device, i.e. with interest. -I have to evaluate your level of danger, to decide where to send you. I'll ask you some standard questions, try to answer honestly, ok?- she nods. He doesn't know her yet, but she wouldn’t be able to lie anyway.

Because mistake doesn’t exist, and the fear doesn’t exist, because whoever hates you can pretend it, just to see you cry... but I will love you...

Penelope is very nervous while awaiting the results of the test. She doesn’t know what to expect. Perhaps she is afraid of discovering that she had always been a psychopath, that her whole life was a train directed towards this ultimate, definitive failure. Maybe she did well not to get into the FBI, maybe it's really better if they lock her up and throw away the key.

Maybe.

Like when, for sadness, you travel around the world...

Luke is definitely much quieter, certainly not at stake his life, but already from the answers of the girl has understood how much more that she is a victim, more than executioner and guilty. She hasn’t had an easy life in the last year. Her parents died in a car accident and even if she didn’t want to tell him explicitly, it is very evident that she considers herself the only responsible person; not the drunk driver of the van with a fake license plate, but she, who had snuck out. Regret was the only thing he read in her eyes. It incorporated everything.

Like when you look at me and I don’t answer...

She had absolutely not wanted to tell him why she hadn’t accepted the advantageous offer of Agent Hotchner. She had remained irremovable until he approached to remove the handcuffs. Now she is still massaging her own wrists, she never looks up, nor does she say a single word. She seems to wait that him leaving, but she should have understood that it is not over yet.

-Penelope.- he says only her name, as if he just liked the sound of it. He approaches her, catching the slight shake of her shoulders. He stops a few centimeters. -I have the results. You're not a danger to society.- he struggles not to laugh as he saying it, as if someone could ever believe something like that. Okay, the appearance can be deceiving, but... -It’s the time to go.- he is almost touching her shoulder, not even knowing if this is a gesture of encouragement or what, but at the last he surrenders and pulls back the hand. She stands up and turns to him. -I'm sorry.- he adds, biting his tongue a second later. He has to get not involved. Who knows why, what is this girl, to be able to penetrate his barrier of protection and indifference towards everything. Is it possible that a prosperous breast is enough?

Like when, as always, you always wait, like when you only look at your faults...

-I'm sorry, Penelope, but I have to search you. It is the procedure.- he tries to show himself as neutral as possible to the prospect of passing his hands on that explosive body. The girl opens her eyes wide, looks at him directly, challenging him to do it seriously.

-But this shouldn’t deal with women agents?- she is right and Luke knows, but what she ignores is that her stay here is not completely regular, so the fewer people know, better is. Only a week, and then he can go back to his gray routine. He can do it. The young man stands in front of her, puts his hands on her shoulders and starts to grope her arms, as they teach him to do. He then moves onto the ribs, inadvertently touching the outer side of the breast. He continues downward, but feels her eyes on him, though she says nothing. Even when he touches the girl's hips, he pretends it's an aseptic gesture, but both feel a shock. He lowers to check even the legs, too uncovered. It is clear to both that there would be no need for it, what can she hide there? But he acts anyway, as if he couldn’t do otherwise, so with a simple glance he makes her understand his next move. Penelope leans on the table, while he gently takes one shoe first and then the other, checking that there is nothing inside. Thus, barefoot, she feels even more vulnerable. Luke helps her to wear them again and without realizing she finds herself against his chest.

And when nothing, when nothing can offend you... it's only then that you really know how to be... only sometimes, certain nights, only when you love yourself...

When man feels the breast of the brunette against his body, every rational thought goes out the window. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to help Rossi. How could he imagine that it would be so difficult? It's been too long since the last time he did...

-I bring you the new uniform.- the words overlap as he runs out of the room, before she could notice the reaction that has caused to him their closeness.

She would have had to bet that she will not to sleep the first night, but as usual she was able to delude herself. Every time she tried to close her eyes she relived the scene of the search, but instead of agent Luke, there was her ex-boyfriend and he didn’t limit himself to brushing the boundaries of her body, he demanded and even a lot. What she had never allowed him to get.

She had tried counting sheep, anything, but sleep hadn’t come, or rather the weariness of all the hours she had been in Virginia had made itself felt, but she hadn’t been able to rest anyway. And wherever I go, wherever I go, that fear will come back tomorrow, tomorrow... Penelope without realizing it starts scratching the red mark on her right wrist, the more the anxieties become strong, tormented her, the more she takes it out on herself, until the blood comes out. When the liquid begins to run along the entire arm, the girl is forced to notice what she has done, but this doesn’t stop her.

The nail penetrates into the flesh, made ever more tender and fragile. Her eyes closed, she sees her mother's lifeless body, covered by a sheet, next to her husband's. They don’t look like real people, but wax statues. She can feel that cold voice asking her Do you recognize them? Are they your parents? It would have been enough to open the mouth and answer affirmatively, yet she hadn’t succeeded. Not even to nod. She had signed all the documents and then went outside. It was not raining, on the contrary, the sun was shining in the sky. She had never felt before so alone in her life.

And wherever I go, wherever I go, that fear will come back tomorrow, tomorrow...

Luke managed to sleep, but his dreams weren't less painful than the young girl's thoughts. He woke up with a stain on his underwear, something that didn’t happen him since he was in high school. He only remembered that he was shouting a name, some orange spots and then...

He needed to run to work. He had to keep an eye on Penelope... Miss Garcia. Six more days before Hotchner comes to claim her. Anything can happen in a prison, even in a woman prison. Especially to someone like her, who doesn’t seem at all prepared to handle such a situation. Women can also be crueler than men. And he is not the only agent. Since he works in this place, he has witnessed things he would rather forget. He knows how it works, he always knew it. Those rumors that flying around are not just rumors, for once. All the girls who end up there must undergo a further test, not marked on any card. The last admission tests.

He can’t imagine what they could do to her. He understands that he can’t allow it to happen, not just because Rossi asked him to. Penelope has something special, forces him to come out of his selfish shell, pushes him to want to try again the feeling of having that soft body against his, maybe to wrap his arms around her hips and what he would be willing to do to listen his name coming out of those lips?

because whoever hates you can pretend it, just to see you cry...

When he arrives in front of her cell, his head full of imaginary moans and his hands that still seem stained with that semi-transparent liquid, he certainly doesn't expect to find her in that position. Penelope has practically fainted on the cot, her brown hair completely covers her face, the orange jumpsuit doesn't hide her forms. But what strikes him the most is the right arm, abandoned, as lifeless, the fingers of the hand that almost touch the floor tiles... and a red spot that is slowly spreading out beneath it.

Not even the time to think about it, he has already put the key in the lock and is going behind the bars. The finger on the neck to feel a pulse, how many times he has done it since he works for the good guys, but never has he felt so apprehensive, never wanted to feel at least a minimum heartbeat, something that indicates that she is still on this earth. And luckily there is.

-Penelope, Penelope, wake up!- how it's possible that no one have noticed it? It is useless for him to wondering this, he knows. She is worth nothing, in here. Her death means less taxpayers' money to spend and work to guarantee her a correct standard of living. While wrapping the handkerchief around the girl's wrist, stopping the blood flow, Luke wonders if the reason for this extreme gesture is to be found in something that she had already inside her, or if they have accelerated the times and she has been already subjected to the infamous test... But he can't even manage to conceive it, so he drives away the thought, focusing only on simply actions. He went at the first aid course, but right now he seems to have forgotten everything.

The girl opens her eyes, blinks several times, trying to focus on him. -Luke...- she whispers. A solitary tear begins its crossing until it lands on his arm. -Why...- it should be him the one who has to ask her such a question, but he can understand what she means. Why didn't you let me die?

He's almost tempted to reveal everything, Hotch's plan to convince her to join the FBI, how he was recruited in this, but he miraculously manages to hold back. -The animals need you, Penelope.- instead, he tells her this, one hand on the wound, the other strokes her hair. -I have to take you to the infirmary.- he warns her, immediately catching the fear in her brown eyes. -Don't worry, I got you. Can you walk?- a stupid question. He doesn't wait for the answer and picks her up, carrying her on the white bed. While he is still talking, he doesn't even know that the sound of his voice is able to calm her down. -Why you did it, Penelope? This wasn't in your profile. You can act as tough as you want, but I understood you're not a goth, you're full of hopes and colors. Do not try to be what you are not, because you will not be able to do it.- he says, applying the bandage and admiring the result. -Why you did it?- he asks her again.

-I didn't do it knowingly, it happened and... I simply didn't do anything to stop it. To fix things. I thought...- both the voice and the gaze falter. -I thought it was not worth it. That the fate had decided in my place.- once the cap was removed, everything pours out without any brakes. -In the bottom I don't want to live in a world where most people believe that animals are born to be exploited and killed, that an alternative is not even thinkable. In a world where fakes win, where if you stay at home reading a book you're a loser, if you show that you love a person, you're weak. I don't want to be part of it anymore, I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to.- it's an endless chant. The girl even begins to sway, until he stops her, holding her by the shoulders.

Often you would like a pair of wings, often the most trivial things, often you hug your stars or often... the skin limits you...

-That incident wasn't your fault...- Luke understands that what she said is true, but that the real issue is still another. This doesn't concerns him, however, and her expression remembers this to him.

-Just because did you read a few sentences in a file, do you think you know me and can judge me? I'm not just a name or four words, and if I can't be something else, then maybe it's really better to die.- in what she says there is all her love for life that she feels forced to disown by a dark force; only those who have loved immensely can get to hate so much. -There is no only one reason in the world or one person for whom it is worth continuing this torment.- while listening to her, always holding her in a sort of strange hug, he finds himself wishing to become that someone.

What's the point of all this? I've only known her for three days.

He has to bring her back to her special cell, before anyone realizes she's not here and starts asking too many questions. He must also make sure that nobody takes advantage of her, at the risk of saying that... she is his now.

Two more days have passed, yet she hasn't even noticed it. The only contacts she had with other human beings were the moments when they brought her meals. However, she didn't eat anything. Since he found her with a hurt wrist, Luke didn't show up anymore. Surely, he also understood that she wasn't worth the effort even of a look.

She can't understand why they slammed her into a solitary confinement. Of course, she's a dangerous hacker, probably among the worst, but she hasn't killed anyone. She repeatedly meditates on removing the bandage to resume work where she was interrupted, but then renounces. It is too long and painful. She is not able to do it again consciously.

She's a weak all the way. But who chooses to put an end on this, is strong for the courage it takes, or is it more the one who, despite everything, decide to stay and fight?

She needs something to implement her plan.

Luke enters without thinking in the least about what could happen. He is concerned. In the last two days, he did nothing but think of the prisoner 435228, Penelope. Every time he closes his eyes, he visualizes her forms with extreme precision and he seems to be able to concretely touch her. But it's not just this. If it were simply sexual desire, he wouldn't be so much anxious.

The problem is far more serious. The problem is that he imagined things he didn't think capable of. Things that he doesn't even want to repeat in his head. Children. Children with light skin but dark hair and those eyes, those eyes so deep and full of pain. He never wanted to become a father. Why force a poor creature to extricate itself in such a complex world?

But his perfectly rational convictions don't cancel those crazy thoughts or dreams he has made, so absurd and inexplicable.

Yet, he is still here, a few inches from the girl. Stay away from here has been unbearable, but he will have to get used to it, because she will not stay here. The feds will find a way to force her to join them. They have the good means. Or they will take her anyway away from there. So the best thing is that he checks if everything is fine, that the bandage is clean, otherwise he will have to change it and then leave. He still has to resist so little time.

They look into each other's eyes for a few seconds. -How are you, Penelope?- he tries to read the answer from the way she bends her lips. -Do you feel better?- he takes another step in her direction. Of course, he doesn't expect her to do the same and so he feels her scent, her natural smell that shouldn't be so good, not after living in a damn cell, penetrating through his nostrils and confusing his mind even more.

-Luke.- here, she did it. She called him by name. The strange tone, which she had never used before. But the surprises have just begun. Without understanding how, he finds himself against one of the cold walls. The body of the young woman press on his, the breasts... and then her lips. And her tongue. Her moans. Who knows if the room is really soundproof, as they told him? Even if it is not, he can’t her stop or stop himself. His big hands wander from her face, neck, shoulders, even if he would definitely want more. -Do you want me, Luke?- asks Penelope, almost not breaking away from him. The seductive and mischievous voice sends the blood directly in a single point. Or maybe it's because she repeated her name. -If you want me, Luke, you can have me.- she continues to provoke him, caressing his bare skin; her hands feel less problems during the exploration.

He can perfectly visualize her beneath him, while she moans seriously, shouting Luke out loud. But it's wrong. She is still part of a mission. He can’t sympathize with prisoners, less than ever with her. It goes against the one he always believed in, in which his father always believed. Never a single call. Always the best in all the tests. What would he say now of what he has become? Forced to work in prison and infatuated with a "criminal". -Yes, I want you.- he admits bitterly. -But...- she stops him placing a finger on his mouth.

-I want you to be the first one.-

She enters the cell again with one hand behind her back, but she still manages to hear a strange clink. On his face he has a kind of smile. Maybe she should have a little fear, but she asked for it. -Go, 435228, the time has come to make a nice ride.- the arrogant tone annoys her above all because she remembers that even if now he is not serious with her, with her other "colleagues" he could being and... the thought makes her jealous. Stupid.

-What are those?- now he has revealed the mystery. Handcuffs. Her eyes widen as she peers at the reflecting surface. He admires her ingenuity, her amazement and above all her candor. He winks at her and before she realizes it, he is behind her, something makes a metallic noise and she is no longer able to move her arms. -Why?- she asks with her surrender tone that excites him to death.

-Because you are still the prisoner and I am the guard.- he clarifies whispering softly, in her ear, after having moved a lock of brown hair. Goosebumps. He doesn’t know if she's really ready for it, but by now it's too late, the mechanism is started, the game started and will not end until "game over" appears on the screen. Pushing her with one hand on her back he lets her out, and then close the bars of the now empty cell.

He chose the perfect moment when they are all busy with their lunch break. Nobody will notice her absence, she hasn’t even a friend. Because she is different, it's not like them. He told her one of these days. It seems centuries have passed and instead it’s not even a week that he met her. And she offered herself to him. At first it was just a gimmick to distract him and get something to help her leave this world. Then, gradually, the farce became real, as well as his muscles pressed against her chest, his tongue in her mouth and the need to find out what else he could do, it became too pressing.

He leads her across the gray corridor, then through an unknown area and then stops in front of a door. When he opens it and pushes her inside, Penelope realizes that it is a closet. Dirty, dusty, extremely reduced. Certainly not the location that a teenager would have imagined would become the background of...

Luke wastes no time. Once having prevented access to anyone, turning the keys repeatedly in the lock, he reaches and presses her against the wall, the only side not overgrown with boxes, brooms and various tools. The mouth is molded with that of the woman, who begins to moan when she feels his tongue at the same time making its way into her palate and his hand resting on her breast and then squeezing a nipple through the fabric. The pleasant torture continues for a time that seems endless to her.

-How... how will you do it this way?- she asks him when he allows her to catch her breath.

-Don’t worry.- he smiles convinced. -I know my tricks.- and perhaps the shocked expression of Penelope is due more to the fact that this sentence for her is tantamount to an admission by him that she is not the first prisoner that he brings here with such intentions, rather than for the next gesture of man. The orange t-shirt is divided into two perfect halves and the busty breasts of the brunette, without any constraint that holds them back, come out into the open, exposing themselves to Luke's eager look. -But... it was my uniform!- is a weak protest and she is aware of it.

His hands are particularly cold and her nipples get more and more numb, until he bends down to take them in his mouth and suck, almost hoping to see them come out of the milk, then stay a few seconds with his head between the two promoters, a relaxed expression that had not visited his face since who knows how long . -Don't worry, there are a lot...- he replies with a certain delay, still too distracted. -I'll bring you another one.- he reassures her continuing to play with this part of her, never satiated. -This was still old, and it stank.- restrain herself is increasingly difficult, every gesture of Luke seems perfectly calibrated and goes to touch the right points in the correct sequence. Penelope fears she might have an orgasm sooner than expected. -These pants don’t do you justice.- he comments at a certain point, after having pricked her for a few more minutes, rubbing her against the wall and having fun moving his hands and tongue in sync, entering her mouth just when he pinches the tip of a breast and enjoying the way in which the girl's eyes open and close for ecstasy of pleasure. Penelope didn’t know what to expect as she doesn’t know if she should be grateful that he didn’t immediately go straight to the point. These preliminaries, however, are killing her. He comes off and starts to take her pants down. She strives in all ways not to think, doesn’t allow his brain to work. She knows that her breasts attract many male looks, but she doesn’t consider her lower half at the same level. But he doesn’t seem to agree with her, because he doesn’t utter a disgusted cry, nor does he stop torturing her. She closes her eyes as his cold hands run along her legs, the skin behind her knee, her thighs, her ass and then... some fingers move forward. They exceed the elastic of the panties. She holds more than a moan, even for the difference in heat. And then he stops. This time, his eyes are wide open and incredulous. He pulls out his fingers and stares them. -You... you're virgin!- strangely Penelope keeps her eyes proud and nods.

-Yes, why, is this also a crime?- it is the first time she reacts to his provocation, which she acts in this way. Luke still can’t believe the information he has just acquired. -I only twenty-two years.- the idea that no man had her before him, excites him even more, makes him feel as if she were really only his, as if she had waited on purpose... but at the same time he also feels the weight of this responsibility.

-But... that ex-boyfriend of which you spoke to me... I thought...- he seems to be lost.

-No.- she exclaims with firm tone. -I was in love with him- she confesses -but I always felt that something was wrong, so I denied to him this part of me.- she simply ends with a shrug that rocks her breast still naked.

-Do you want to lose your virginity... with me?- why instead of asking it, he does not do it, before she changes her mind? But he is not the macho she believes he is, and he is forced to tell her. -I’m not that kind of man.- a phrase that seems strange, absurd, crazy, even to his own ears. He wasn’t this before he met her.

-I'm not usually that kind of woman either.- and she has the fact of being inviolate on her side. -Yes, I want to lose it with you, why not?- he has the decency not to answer. -Before I die, I want to find out if I really missed something in all these years or I was right.- just for a moment, Luke's excitement cools. It is a phrase that is often used as an example, without being conscious of its weight, a way of saying, but she has said it differently. He senses something black beneath the surface but decides to ignore it.

-Looks, it also depends on who you're doing with...- but it's a losing battle.

She tries to get away. She is wounded, she feels rejected. -Do you want to do it? If you don’t want it, give me a shirt and leave me alone.- how far she is from the reality! He doesn’t reply anything but shakes his head and silences her by placing a finger on her lips, the same one that a second ago was inside her. Then he bends down, takes off her shoes and pants, and for last those pink panties that would catch his eye even if he didn’t want to. She is left wearing only that torn shirt, and yet she is not cold, because she trembles with anxiety and doesn’t know if she wants to die yet. Luke pulls himself up again and smiles at her, almost a sweet smile.

-Because that it's the first time, this may hurt a little.- he explains in a calm tone, while the hands, no longer so cold, return to take care of her lower half. -We need to lubricate the area a little, to facilitate the operation.- the way he talks, if possible, drives her more crazy. The fingers are no longer uncertain, they perform precise turns, various lunges that snatch out of her mouth moans of pleasure. He plays with her clit and by the way the girl looks at him, he gets confirmation that this is really her first experience and that the damn who had driven her to be arrested to get rid of him, hadn’t had the least privilege to really touch her body.

But he had certainly touched her heart and soul. Thinking about this irritates him and for this he pushes a little too rude, to which she responds with a lament of pain. He stops and looks at her. If she asked him to stop, if she told him she changed her mind... he would be able to respect her will. But she doesn’t seem to waver in her purpose, so after a second, he starts again.

-Right because it will hurt, you may scream a little too loud. I'll have to stop you, so the whole prison won't able to hear us, okay?- she doesn’t nod but blinks her eyelids once and stares at him as his fingers continue to do their job. It's not so bad, Penelope thinks, while he takes off his shoes and pants while remaining in boxers. A protuberance greets her. She has never seen a naked man before. She doesn’t want to feel embarrassed or strange about it. But it's really hard to believe that the swelling is all due to her. Luke also removes that garment. They are both covered only in the upper half, from the waist up and this should make the whole situation already unreal.

Still, the closet seems less small, less dirty, less dusty, less ugly. Perhaps the boundaries disappear, perhaps it all disappears, when he makes her lie down on a sort of cot that she hadn’t noticed before. He opens the handcuffs to leave locked just one hand, which he fixes in the edge. He spreads her legs and crouches near her aperture. Ready? he asks her with his eyes, without speaking, then holding her he gives the first push, penetrating the first part of her, the one where his fingers have already been. When he feels he is projected in the right direction, he lies down in turn. He still looks at her, but no sign from Penelope seems to indicate that she has changed her mind. Luke sighs and gives a second push, followed by a third one.

At first she doesn’t feel nothing, then a huge burning, so almost as if someone would tearing her apart. The cry of pain of Penelope, which doesn’t sound very like a moan, is muffled by the great hand of man, pressed on her mouth. He doesn’t stop, although her pupils dance from side to side, and he feel the girl's lips move, trying to say something. Enough, I changed my mind, I don’t want it anymore. Enough, enough, go out, get away from me, stop! Even a few tears flow down her cheeks, but Luke keeps moving back and forth, every time he comes out, he seems to take the urge to penetrate even deeper and slowly, very slowly, the pleasure replaces the suffering, she feels completely filled by him, who begins to kiss her by going in sync with his pushes. Penelope follows him, the tears now dry on the lashes, a small crimson stain underneath that she ignores.

Sometimes he lets her moan but is forced to absorb the strongest moan, both his own and hers, when they reach their full enjoyment, and he empties into her cavity without the slightest regret.

This was also quite predictable. Penelope no longer wanted to meet him, after what happened, although she was the one who proposed it. Just as it was obvious that he would end up seeing it with his own guilt.

Now Luke is waiting to finally see the elusive agent Aaron Hotchner and his subordinate, in charge of convincing her to agree to join the FBI and consequently take her away from him. But maybe it's better this way. If he will not see her anymore, the obsession will lessen. Shouldn’t he already be grateful enough to have been her first time? In a shabby closet, wearing handcuffs. Everybody dream something like that.

He understands that it's all bullshit. Maybe it works in any booklet or in a film of little cultural value, but not with him. Even if he is deeply mistaken, must he tell her what he really feels for her, without expecting anything in return, without demanding... to demand what? What he did was wrong in all respects.

For the umpteenth, last time, he enters that cell.

-What are you doing here, Luke? I asked you to leave me alone!- he notices with a sigh of relief that she hasn’t hurt herself again. At least that. He approaches, she moves back and ends up against the wall.

-I know, but I need to tell you something. I'm not very good at declarations, so I'll tell you what I feel. Yesterday it wasn’t just sex. It was also my first time, because before then, I just had sex. We made love, Penelope. I'm fucking in love with you, I think of you obsessively, I know it's wrong, but it's not enough to stop me. I don’t just dream about erotic things, ok? Even the rest...- she doesn’t understand, is confused, and the way he talks about himself, almost sobbing, certainly doesn’t help.

And I will love you more than any tomorrow, more than any other of what you thought...

-But a prisoner and a guard can’t fraternize.- that's all she can say.

-This will not be a problem anymore.- Penelope widens her pupils as she listens to his story. -Agent Hotchner and a certain Morgan are coming, they will try to convince you to join the BAU. There will be no document or proof that you were here... my job was to keep an eye on you this week, to prevent that something could happening to you... to keep you safe for them. They don’t intend to give up on you.- the hand hits as fast as the tongue of a reptile, the attack of a snake. Five red fingers on his cheek. Luke doesn’t react.

-So it was all a joke! And was this last confession too? Congratulations, Luke, why don’t you sign up for drama academy? You are a sublime actor.- the tears flowing on her cheeks are of anger and disappointment.

-No, there was nothing fake. I really fell in love with you, no one asked me to pretend it... I just had to protect you, but I failed, I wasn’t able to protect you from myself. I'm sorry, but believe me, it wasn’t fake.- she shakes her head.

-I... I don’t really know what to think.- they are disrupted. It's time for Penelope to decide her destiny.

Months have passed, yet the obsession hasn’t vanished at all, hasn’t diminished. There were a thousand other prisoners, no one keeps him up like her. Luke is now resigned to a gray life, a boringly quiet routine. He doesn’t expect that call, as he didn’t expect the one from Rossi.

He doesn’t expect that job, that sudden offer.

Joinining the Behavioral Analyst Unit.

The only thing they can tell him is that someone has pressured. Someone managed to find proof of his innocence. All the problems vanished, all forgotten. Reintegrated with honor, father is proud of you.

He didn’t expect it, but he should have understood that behind it was her hand .

-Penelope.- as the first time and like all the others, the girl's name sounds like music through his lips.

-Luke.- she says. They are alone. It was she who asked the rest of the team to leave her for a moment with the Newbie. She didn’t want to give other explanations.

-Why?- he simply ask, the voice broken with various sweet nuances.

-Because it’s right. I read your file. You're perfect for this team. And you didn’t deserve to stay in that place.- she doesn’t add anything else, but he knows he understood. There are things you can’t hide, there are some things I can’t cry about you...

-Well... thanks. You didn’t have to do it.- these are phrases of circumstance, but through their mouths they take on a different meaning. She nods and puts a hand on her hip. At that moment he notices some different details in her. She changed her hair color. Now she is blonde. How it's possible he had need all this time to notice it? Overall, she's radiant, she looks like another person. Surely one that no longer needs his support. So why come here, help him? Just to return a favor? He must have been a superlative lover, in this case, because he didn’t feel he had really done any good for her, in fact. And her breast... yes, it definitely got bigger and looks even harder. In that first, one night, he didn’t have the chance to do everything he wanted... how long he wanted to reach out and... no, not here! Nowhere, in fact.

Penelope seems about to say something but gets stuck and runs to the sink. She vomits. Luke don’t need anything else.

I don’t care now to pretend, you can read my eyes...

-You're pregnant.- it's not a question. She cleans her face and turns to face him. How can he claim to know it's his baby? It's been weeks. She may have found another one. Maybe a blond and pale boyfriend like her waiting at home. Maybe the asshole from which she had escaped. Maybe she gave him another chance. Still, he feels it's his. He feels it with the hairs of his arms, in the way she looks at him.

-It is not a problem that concerns you.- she completely changes attitude, puts her hand on her stomach, in protective way, but the voice falters, trembles. She never told him she loves him. And yet, he know this too. Luke decides that their "relationship" has been strange from the beginning, so he doesn’t see why now it should be otherwise. He puts his arm around her waist and draws her close to him, caresses her cheek with his other hand.

-Don’t be afraid of me, Penelope. Don’t be afraid of the future or at least allow me to have fear with you.- he moves his hand on her stomach, intertwine their fingers and this time it is the girl's turn to understand. -I would grow up with you this baby even if it wasn’t mine... but I know it is...- those tears in the corners of his intense eyes are the final proof that he is telling the truth.

-Luke, you don’t have to do it. I don’t want to condemn you to a life you don’t want, just because I haven’t been able to keep my legs closed.- he would almost give her a slap, for the absurdity that she said. Instead he merely shakes his head.

-It's not a question of honor. What grows inside you is the labor of love. It was only very bizarre the path we have had to do to get to conceive it.- he smiles, everything fades into that.

I wish I could lose, without ever having to give up...

She puts her lips on his and for the first time in more than a year she feels really safe. She releases all the tension and surrenders to that unwanted feeling, but never disowned. Without more fear.

But the mistake doesn’t exist... fear doesn’t exist . Fear, fear, fear doesn’t exist

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#garvez #criminal minds #cm #penelope garcia #luke alvez #penelope x luke #luke x penelope #garcia x alvez #alvez x garcia #tiziano ferro #la paura non esiste

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greenwgroup · 5 years

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How to Work Safe in Hot Environment

Some jobs should inescapably happen in hot operating environments. operating in conditions of extreme heat combined with further stresses to the body from physical activity, loss of fluids, fatigue, and varied different factors, will cause dangerous health effects or will jeopardize worker safety.

Adapting to the Heat - provide staff time to urge won't to the warmth. With gradually accumulated exposure, staff becomes higher able to tolerate heat. underneath traditional circumstances, adjustment to heat sometimes takes concerning five to seven days. give cool, shaded rest areas wherever staff will take periodic has required.

Re-hydration - Sweating is an element of the body’s natural cooling system, however, it will lead to water loss. The thanks to replacing this loss and facilitate the body still cool itself is to drink water throughout the day, a minimum of one cup every 20-30 minutes.

Appropriate Dress - Thin, light-colored, loose-fitting clothing aids in evaporation and allows air movement near the skin. Reflective clothing can shield the body from radiant and convective heat. Those who work outdoors should wear a hat and sunscreen for increased protection against the sun.

Physical Conditioning - the skinny, palish, loose article of clothing aids in evaporation and permits air movement close to the skin. Reflective article of clothing will protect the body from beamy and convective heat. Those who work outdoors ought to wear a hat and ointment for accumulated protection against the sun.

insulating heat- producing machinery can even facilitate scale back beamy heat or areas or shade heavy equipment operators to reduce the sun’s intensity. Use accessible mechanical devices to scale back exercise.

Work Scheduling - To require advantage of climatical and different environmental conditions, begin jobs earlier within the morning, and so house hot work throughout the day.

Monitoring - Supervisors ought to check environmental conditions a minimum of hourly and monitor worker response to the heated conditions. Heat stress could be a silent hazard. Staff might not notice that there's a drag till heat stress is well advanced.

Educating - staff ought to bear in mind of the necessity to interchange fluids, acknowledge dehydration and heat exhaustion, and grasp what to try to once these conditions seem.

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antinonymous · 5 years

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Love never changes. Nor does it eat, nor age, nor laugh, nor blink, It’s war. I’ve lived a life with many men who only ever use anger and joy to justify feeding and breeding constant war. Hate adapts and evolves. The difference between the two can seem blurry, but when the line between love and hate is stark, you’ll know. But you can’t always. That fantastical shit can’t exist. No, there’s a bunch of times where one must scream incoherently and without language to convey indescribable human emotions. Sometimes, that’s the only way to rid oneself of such feelings.

This right here is my personal masterpost and autobiography.

Even in the grim excesses and radically-different expressions of the human form, it is always just that- human. But though every human is human, not all humans are humane. What good is a human who only wants for themselves? What good is any thief or hoarder? That’s an unnatural human; a walking corpse designed by generations upon generations of class division and specific manufactured complacency in postmodernity.

In my story I encountered several fiends involved with thievery and acrimony. Why would anyone try to say there is a good thief? Where is the justification for mass destruction for brief momentary pleasure and profit? What justifications can someone possibly have for exploitation, mechanisation, and, again, general thievery imposed against the majority of humankind? Where’s the love in that? The rich will take and hoard all they can and make sure the needy and impoverished will die off, and that gives them their sickening feeling of love, which complacency then turns into the norm. Workers below are commanded “die off and shut up”. And I’m aware this is a tumblr post, so I trust you know that a plurality of folk receive such a message. I have, and perhaps you have too.

As I type this, I’m beginning to question how I should even say what I need to. Power is a strange thing. Having the ability to affect others’ actions is the definition I was given for it (as well as a confusion with it and Newtonian physics in my youth). The origins of where those in power come from often involves going through hundreds of years of violence. For example, stuff X is his. Why is it his? His great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather stole X from everyone else who had a say on it and had fewer qualms about using whatever means to get X. Now everyone agrees X is rightfully his when it almost always is obviously not. There’s a lot of powerful power analogies I could use, but I’ll keep this post spiritual.

Many will criticise, say, the Christian religion, due to the abhorrent, bastardly and genocidal ways with which they’ve gained and kept their power, particularly in Europe and the Americas. However, the history of early Christianity shows an absurd cabaret of many characters, some of whom I’d coöperate with, in another life. My favourite is Valentine. Why? Because he is a joke relic of history; a legend so cool that nobody ever decided to soberly (or accurately) figure out his or their life or lives. There were many Christians at the time with his name, and the stories people have of him/them are all over the place. Reading about ‘him’ is like looking into the files of a bunch of stoners who can never properly sort their shit, saying “yeah man this Valentine guy cured this old hag…or maybe... no she was like 18... anyway… and he, like, made them hear because they were deaf!” And then another guy says that the girl was blind and could then see, and that that particular guy wasn’t actually Valentine but possibly someone else (or maybe even 20 people; apparently it was a very popular name at the time).

An early memetic guy was he, who was such a courageous badass (or dumbass) that the stories don’t really have to make sense or be consistent- his character of a martyr helping Christians get Christian weddings during the time of illegal Christianity just sounds like the type of radical non-conformist that modern Christianity needs. He did what he felt was right and told Roman authority to fuck off. When Rome became Christian, the Christian became Roman. Rome was, of course, decadent. Thus became the Christian. The Roman elite had stolen Christianity from the poor and subverted it to justify later European atrocities for profit.

But the original idea is still there- where the weak can feel as safe and strong as the already powerful. Modern Christianity is such a watered-down, bigoted bore. What happened to those willing to behead or get beheaded for to fight against oppressive systems of power? Or of the teachings to men to gouge out their eyes so as to not sin against women? As someone who loves salty food, I must admit that modern Christians are not the Salt of the Earth, but rather the Grease of the Earth. Peanut Butter and such.

You could easily describe me as angry. Anger is a bit of a drug that can appear to try to assist in any and every given situation. Despite the many times I may have let my anger go too far, I don’t get bogged down in my regrets because of the outlandish and downright advantageous times where said anger has helped me deal with nasty people who hate general humanity and only crave destruction if and when it means they can profit. Many of these people use the Christian god to justify their own expansion. Nowadays the Christians and romantic, godless Pagans are both plebeians with the actual patricians now wealthier than ever; we fight and snatch what little we have from the claws of a pesky, greedy, and stubborn crab while said crab says it is handing out all it has. As if.

Valentine did likewise in the Roman Empire. He wanted to let others feel validated as they loved one another, to the death, and if he’d seen the church’s vast history of refusing to let others be themselves and love who they love, that he’d have been agitated at that. It makes you wonder if heaven is now filled with anti-Christian converts who collectively decided “fuck, we all fell for a scam!”

As you can tell, this is gonna be a long one. My story is profane but it’s the life I’ve lived. If you can’t already tell, I’m a bit unsure as to where to start. I don’t want people identifying me but I’ve never stood out. I’m neither tall nor short- 5′7″. I have green eyes, and I have i have dirty blond hair that’s thick yet soft. I indulged in henna in my youth; by age 6 I was a regular to having sleeves. I’ve personally never been one to dress fancy-like. For most of my childhood and adolescence I exclusively wore black, white, green, yellow, and red. One for each day of the work-week. These weren’t always worn in that order, but it was a tradition for me to wear them because I didn’t bother to look any different. Lazy, sure. But it’s not like you’re gonna come in from the screen and get me and tell me ‘I should’ve been more outgoing in my youth’. I was raised to not care about superficial stuff like that by my mom, Eunice

She died in 2007 from stomach cancer. My dad was already a mildly incessant depressant from a poor, sad family, so he never really got over her loss.

The Housing Market Crisis© the following year left my uncle, a financial business executive, completely broken and destitute. He lost a considerable fortune and could no longer to afford his home, rendering him unemployed and homeless. This meant he had to move in with my widowed father and my motherless self. I remember seeing a distinct change in his behaviour from him as he no longer treated corporate and government higher-ups with the same respect he once had; now heavily invested in organised economic ideas he’d dismissed in his youth. I was concerned but my dad was still far too sad to care. In the end it ended up being benign and incredibly beneficial.

I remember specifically having to point out to people which of them was which in my youth, due to their similar, slender, pale appearances with dense strawberry-blond hair and the same bright shade of blue eyes. My father, Yves, got many (ink) tattoos for my mom, but also for myself, his family, his love of art, mythology and more. He showed them to anyone who’d ask. My uncle, Wymer, wore heavier clothing to try to stand out but people would still mistake him for my dad being all covered up or what have you. He had to work at Walmart©, and when I told him to wear his fucking uniform out in public to differentiate him from my dad, he responded by growing a beard and never once shaving it. He also decided to never get tattooed whatsoever, and to bring books with him wherever he went because everyone in town knew Dad didn’t read a lot. The two together were altogether sad, angry, but nevertheless goofed.

I won’t lie, saying that line to him was rude, classist, and bitchy on my part, but in the end he had a righteous fuckin’ red bush on his face which covered his mouth and neck. He was stubborn like that- to make subtle reminders of others’ statements to him was always amongst his goals, and he really enjoyed that follicle expansion.

Their differences didn’t end there.

A big one was how extroverted Wymer was compared to his brother. Even around my mom, Dad was always shy, and he frequently put himself through a lot of feeling of self-disgust, self-hate, self-pity, remorse, regret, and seemingly infinite sorrow. He often made long visits to mom’s grave which only gave passerbys the look of a vacuumous void. He was the eldest child in his family, already in his late 50s. He plead hindsight to her early warning signs; saying he “should’ve known better.” I encouraged him to find someone new, but he never dated anyone ever again. In fact, only with the exception of when he got blitzed out of his mind on cocaine in 2010 Christchurch and demanded an aged sex worker, he never even wanted to fuck again. I actually spoke to her before she left our room; I forget her name, that youngblood, for she told me only once, but she told me some stories of the industry down there. She surprised me at the end of the night by saying he spent almost the entire time with her just asking questions about the problems related to said industry; having her nevertheless conclude him a “sadist”. The following morning, he found her again and invited her to brunch, eventually allowing her to stay with us the rest of the trip. She never took her word back on dad or gave us her name. She slept alone, and she got annoyed with dad paying for all her stuff. He wrote to her off and on for the next three years using the pseudonyms she’d give him.

My uncle was more generally angry and restless; wanting to fill people in on what he felt they were missing. He would regularly attend the local bars and it wouldn’t be uncommon for him to leave and come back sober. He just wanted to witness to them folk about stuff such as the labour theory of value, the frequency of market crises, the importance of understanding global industrial pollution or something along those lines. He often complained of his mental health, namely his short attention span’s relationship to his reading. Because of this, despite him having had few years of a head start on me in political economy, I quickly read far more than him. He began paying out of pocket to attend college classes and debate professors to get a 2nd or 3rd or 8th opinion. The 2008 crash shattered his life of finance, such as an earthquake shatters a busy bridge, and he quickly realised that he’d landed far left after the debris settled. He directed his anger at profit-driven actions and abandoned belief in the free market, instead looking for community-made creation/distribution systems. ‘Finally’, he thought, 'I can lash my anger out at those who deserve so much worse than the average, common fiend.’ His willingness to learn and desire to understand were enough for me to ignore his beard’s smell and his pronounced and maddened approaches, countenances, gesticulations, and obsessions.

None of what I’m saying is a complaint, though. I loved those two. Wymer spent a lot of his time online reading books, essays, and articles on the environment, philosophy, world history, sociology, the residue of western colonialism, and systemic societal buffoonery. He also wrote about communist witch-hunts and handed pamphlets of his thoughts to the townspeople, which the local cops weren’t ever pleased with. He was never much of a good economist but he had grand social scope. In 2019, y’all’d call him ‘woke.’ Meanwhile, Yves would spend his time painting or playing croquet with the neighbours in the backyard. He had a bit of a substance abuse problem which he always seemed to be weaker than. The cigarette lighter industry loved him. If he read at all, it’d be some cheesy novel or children’s literature. He wanted to spread happiness to others as he felt he had none himself. In 2019, y’all’d call him ‘a beta’.

Both of these men were always ones to keep me safe. Mom and dad told me they were my guardians, and my uncle swore the same thing to me after her death. They fought a lot as children but learnt to appreciate one another into adulthood with their mutual love of, among other things, listening to metal. Their quirks were what they were, and few quirks can distract from basic kindness, humility and human decency. This meant they were hostile towards all that I deemed a threat. This was such a honour I had to have those good, safe people with me. And seeing as it were that I was the only openly gay girl living in a conservative Christian town, I couldn’t have had a safer upbringing. I was a ‘witch’ surrounded by a bunch of Puritans, Papists, Quakers and Messianics who all seemed to behave similar to, and want to live in, a golden moral past which never actually existed. My father and uncle were truly the best men I ever knew, and everyone else knew that (maybe they even knowingly acted upon it). I lived in an apathetic town. ‘Other people are not my concern.’ Those people shit on the idea of being ethical, except for my home.

Every time that I’d have friends over, they’d say that our family dynamic was the best they’d ever been to before the end of their first visit. Every single time. And they knew it was because we all had a respect of each other and a desire to understand ourselves in there. I really wanted to help both of them out and they felt the same for me. My dad was specifically very gung-ho on wanting the boys at school to leave me alone. In fact, that was among the first things he said when he found out- he actively called out death to all those who sought to wish me harm, and he kept going on about contacting the school. Mom and Wymer did the same. It was a bit much, and as much as I loved and appreciated him loving and accepting me for who I am, again, it was a bit much. I’m not short and I have never lost a fight. A small part of me thinks that Yves was just scared that in whatever harassment scandal he’d imagined that I’d come out as victor and be convicted of manslaughter.

He put a lot of effort into protecting me to distract himself from the fact that I, spiritually, was now protecting him. Appearances deceive. He never fully learnt that from me.

He also forgot my friends Shane, Mack, and Albin. These boys were quick to learn and prudent in judgment. They were among the first I came out to since they were generally nice, soft-spoken nihilists who didn’t flirt with any girl or woman under any circumstances. They all generally looked alike, so it’d always be easy to look for them in the streets. These three hated each other but were the type of outcasts too lazy to care about making other friends. We all loved playing soccer and othergames Yu-Gi-Oh, Pokémon and Magic the Gathering as kids. Since we grew up in the same neighbourhood, we played with each other enough to turn our friendship unbreakable. We all had a sacred blood-bond in our own type of weeaboo mysticism.

At some point in 8th grade I made them all swear a type of Knight’s oath in service to none other than me if and when other boys wouldn’t take 'no’ for an answer. I was going through an edgy phase so my exact wording was probably something more like an order to “defend their queen against normie, goblin scum” or something to that effect. They and I all read the same fantasy and sci-fi bullshit so I really wanted my message to stick like jizz glue. I was their queen because I always beat them at their games. I always found the rarest Pokémon wasting the least amount of Pokéballs. I always found the most Minecraft diamonds. I always ended up killing the most enemies on COD. That shit was glorious; if only Twitch© were a thing back then. When you’re a girl and you’re consistently better at games than a cis male gamer, boy oh boy does it upset them. Normally it angers them, but these three specifically were far too nihilist to be that rude- my skillz instead humbled them, and a bunch of kids in my position would milk friendships like that for all it’s worth. Those three agreed and kept their word in flame.

This plan sorta backfired. The boys stopped flirting with me and knew I sought no romance with them, good, but now all the girls avoided me and started giving me harsh glares (One even gave a free pink King James Bible, with the irony sadly being entirely lost on my giver). I didn’t quite realise my plan immediately led to them telling others. In hindsight, that should’ve been more obvious. I felt a formidable and frosty chill from said others, as well as glares that made me feel like I was a carefully-watched animal. I’m thankful that dad and Wymer didn’t allow me to have a smartphone at that time, because cyberbullying has always been such a steaming pile of aardvark mucus, and I, in middle school, needed to see none of what they wrote.

Most of the staff pretended not to notice and gave slaps on the wrist for punishment. But I had a secret weapon- friends and family who always loved me despite not always trying to understand me. They meant well in defiance of their occasional insensitivity, their budding awareness of ignorances and their lack of any idea of what it was they were trying to do.

It was all I had; better than nothing- better than many. They’d listen. Listening is classically underrated; people have spent way too long not shutting the fuck up. This allowed them to try to understand. When you get someone primed for some understanding, then can you extol to them whatever bullcrap it is you must say. And, if in-fact Yves and Wymer understood, then they’d go apeshit for the next week and a half on the staff. They never realised how often my friends got suspended for the same reason.

There’s several good tales I could tell, but my favourite started by Albin simply talking to a school administrator about certain new policies which seemed to be very excessively Christian-in-nature and vaguely queerphobic. He was irate that he wasn’t able to go to a school dance with Shane, since Mack was my date and we didn’t care to go with other people. This staff member was higher up than a mere teacher so he was in a position to cast judgment on my friend. But Albin always fucking hated this guy so he didn’t cower in fear. This administrator was a real prick and everyone there knew it, so when Shane and Mack heard them two screaming in an abandoned hallway, they went to the source of the sound, with Shane recording on his camera. He recorded a short, rambunctious, vague, and incoherent dialogue with the two which included the administrator saying, among other things, that he’d “wipe the school clean of all you disrespectful millennial f*ggots”. Albin went full steam ahead through that horsecrap, instantly declaring him a kind of religious oligarchical czar; saying to him that he was forcing the school board to bow down before a type of ugly deity.

“It may as well be called Holy Law! Whoever does not fall down and worship shall be instantly cast into a white-hot furnace? Is that what you’re saying? That’s basically what you’re saying! Obey or perish! Is that what you want? Will you condemn those who you refuse to let exist?” The administrator made them leave their space when he realised a sizable crowd had watched him make an ass of himself.

Before he could leave, however, Mack joined in- “Hey administrator-”

The administrator genuinely looked at Mack as if he were expecting cold-hard cash- as if Mack was going to be a perfectly obedient, whipped coward. That stupid man had no true emotions. Mack said,

“If our god, whom we now serve, can save us from the white-hot furnace and from your hands, oh mister, may he save us! But even if he will not, know, oh you, we will not serve your interpretation of god or worship your fools-gold societal standards which you set up!” Shane was laughing the whole time.

They all got 8 days suspension for that, 8 times longer than normal. The administrator thankfully got fired, though, for the content of what was recorded. I have no idea where the worship ceremony thing came in but I loved it, and ‘the white-hot furnace’ was our class’ inside joke for the rest of the year. In town we’d hear “Look! I see four of y’all walking around in the fire, unbound and unharmed, and the fourth looks like one of the gods.”

This was typical in my hometown of Yeastville for what seemed like a very long time. It was claustrophobic and filled with a lot of frustrating people, but I knew I had it better than many others in my position. Wymer in particular was always a strange source of comfort with all his bitterness toward the rich and his genuine tenderness towards almost everything and everyone else (except those amongst us poor who wish to maintain the status quo of the current flow of capital; he had no sympathy for those who defend parasites). On my 16th birthday he gave me lectures, essays, rants, and even comedy bits in a type of crash-course on women, communism, class-conflict, and the nightmare of ecology, with tons of books. I literally have never met or heard of anyone learning Marxist theory from their uncle. Dad was never much into politics which let him and I go buck wild with reading. They both also allowed me to get the internet in my pocket, allowing me to access all of recorded human knowledge. Learning the hardships of life throughout history all relating to the ways European colonisation and christianisation made their effects on the world made perfect sense when I considered how Shane, Mack and Albin always had a type of assurance that they’d be alright in the end after getting in trouble at school and that I’d always end up getting shat on by most of the rich, Christian staff. We’re living in a society. Uncle Wymer was a very staunch commie who never tried to make enemies, but rather had among the softest of intent all the while nevertheless gathering more and more enemies. Having a man like that in my proximity, in the country, is luck. Dad gave me life and general feelings of warmth and love but Wymer gave feelings of inter-personal and inter-sectional solidarity with red-tinted love.

They were both very optimistic yet sad.

However, if I had been raised in any other home at any other time by any other parent or guardian then I’d never have realised my potential that I and y'all have to be the type of total badass who writes shit like this. Those two always told me to strive for what I want and need, no matter what society’s expectations are. You’re always you, yourself, and the stains of other people, so get some fucking confidence. When I was put through the fear of 2013, that confidence gave me wings with which I’ve soared ever since.

Back in early 2011, a new girl came to the first day of school. She was in my grade and all we were told about her was that she was colourblind, tall, and from a rich family. I clearly remember thinking thinking was going to hate her, as I assumed she was going to the type of bitch spoiled by an extravagant and decadent bourgeois family- the type Wymer would always warn about.

When she walked into homeroom, she was looking at her feet. She was visibly nervous and uncomfortable. She was indeed less than a foot shorter than our 6'7″ teacher, Mr. Young (no relation). She was lanky with medium-length black hair. She looked tired and thoroughly spooked, with a thoroughly frightened glare in her big, green eyes. She wore a medium-length beige dress with dark boots. She’s giggling next to me as I type this. Whatever, lovely. I don’t want people identifying you either.

She eventually started walking toward me, looking at our first names on the desks placed alphabetical order. I believe in the power of first impressions and she did not meet my expectations.

For context, Yeastville is a poor rural town with few resources which still had 90s technology and desks from the 70s. One of those desks broke with some kid in it as she was passing me, and this pushed her, making her fall on me. She promptly got up, looked at my name on my own desk, said “I’m sorry, Yasmine,” and immediately went to the person who broke their desk, having no discernible concern for her new bruises.

We just so happened to have some extra desks so there was no actual problem, it just became the story of the day. After staff made sure everybody was okay, she sat down behind me. I knew I’d never known anyone named ‘Ymir’. She formally introduced herself by apologising profusely and showering me in compliments. This was not the behaviour I’d expect from someone from her family. She was different than any rich folk I’d heard about from the news, books, or from Wymer. Then again, he wouldn’t necessarily have been researching the children of millionaires.

And yes, she was very rich. Her father was a lying lobbyist-loving liberal- a bureaucratic Bonapartist shitlord by the name of Yair Yellowhammer. I’d like to once again clarify that I’m not short, but he wasn’t much taller than me, so he actually was short. Very short. Fucking shrimp. He had meticulous, balding grey/blond hair with a big nose, filthy ears, and a carnivorous smile. His eyes always had anger within them and they were a shade of brown akin to an overcrowded prison’s cesspool. Wymer had told me about him from his twitter©, of all places. Yes, a logging company with which the congressman worked had been looking to send lots of working class folk into our vast forest, making way for chicken farms among other things. He had moved to town because it’s still within his district but remote enough to make his poor and willingly-ignorant supporters think he fought for them in any way. Yellowhammer advanced ahead policy which would benefit his bank account and kill his enemies the fastest every single time, and Wymer’s comrades were always there to complain about the hideousness of it all. In 2019, y’all’d follow him on Twitter© a lot more.

I soon clearly saw, though, that all I knew of her father had to be cast aside because ‘for now’, I thought, ‘she’s not being hostile. Is she an enemy? Time will tell.’ I had to suck in repulsion to her family and bite my lip as we all waited for the bell to ring. This got harder to do as the day went on. She and I shared many of the same classes, and they all put the students in alphabetical order, so I was forced to spend even more time with her.

But I noticed her act like myself. Mannerisms of my persona with individual agony. At some point she said that she enjoyed my smile the most ‘out of all that she’d seen.’ All? I was nervous, genuinely starting to wonder that she was not who I thought she was. I asked about Yellowhammer and her expression turned glum. She was his daughter and she wasn’t proud of him. I stopped my questioning when I realised she clearly wasn’t straight and that her dad’s sexist, homophobic rhetoric may have given her a big can of worms that I was not quite yet in a position to open. Every answer I got from my interrogations only made her more visibly uncomfortable. She hated him, and I was now acutely aware of that.

I asked those brothers at home what they thought and they both told me to ‘just go for it.’ This frustrated me because with all I said I never mentioned if I liked her, but that was the extent of their advice. Even Wymer had little to say:

“She sounds like a nice person…she sounds like the reason why Yellowhammer keeps his life private.”

Eventually, I confirmed this. She’s a fine and strong ‘degenerate’ who, in any other form, would easily strike terror into the heart of Yair. But in her true form she was subject to cruelty unlike that seen in most parts of the country. She told me story after story of him forcing her into all sorts of awful shit- from weeks of forced scripture readings, to a specific 2-week stay at conversion camp, and even the threat of circumcision. Her step-mother, Yannick, added to this torment. She had married Yair only to birth a new son who’d receive the Yellowhammer inheritance instead of Ymir, who, like me, was an only child. She said to me it was her speaking out against the loggers and industrial farmers which led him to admit to such a thing. She had no uncles or aunts to turn to, and her grandparents had long since passed.

“You’re meek,” he said, “You already have the earth.”

Shane, Mack and Albin tried to help me help her and were their typical selves after I got a girlfriend, having now the chance to compete amongst themselves in their games without fear of me beating them. We four discovered her love of astronomy and the English language. She also helped those three with their Spanish to the point of the four of them having entire conversations, where I’d mock them all in French.

Those were, and these still are, times of love; romantic and platonic.

This was then how it was for many months, with both of our home lives getting progressively worse. The Yellowhammers became poorer in spirit and my family became poorer in general.

In late 2012, my other uncle and aunt Eugene and Ulysse Yarborough died in a mudslide, leaving my only cousin, Ywain, out in the world on his own. Neither Yves nor Wymer had the proper income to adopt him, so he was forced by the state to enter foster homes. We weren’t ever real close, but I thought about him a lot when I’d consider whatever unimaginable shit he’d have been going through. These thoughts asked similar questions about Ymir.

By senior year, she and I had a bit of a routine where I was, according to the Yellowhammers, her tutor. This was a big, big lie, hiding raged, adolescent fever, which I’d never get into for y'all. I have no need nor desire to indulge you sick fucks with your disgusting, overactive imaginations. I’m no historian, but I would rather refrain from espousing details on this website because I believe it also gave us the word ‘turbovirgins.’

Anyway, the actual most dastardly and illegal thing we’d do was when we’d go on walks and we’d stumble across logging sites in the woods where trees were being cleared. Stories began circulating throughout the people of the town. Everyone started blaming a secret cabal of conspiratorial green-freaks putting sugar into the fuel tanks of the many construction machines. Every single time, however, it was just me, with Ymir keeping watch over my shoulder (except a few times when I went with Wymer; he would always obsessively check every single machine to make sure it was thoroughly fucked for weeks. He never thought he’d ever become too old for that shit). Nobody ever figured us out, and the developers became years behind schedule.

The last time she and I did that was in early February 2013. After looking from our vantage point on a wooded hilltop onto the main street, I saw an unfamiliar face in the Yeastville crowd. No…it was familiar…familial. It was Ywain. He looked dirty and tired. His jeans were green from travelling through grass and his trench-coat was covered in a thick layer of pollen, dust and snow. His scarf was tattered and his short, dense hair was a mess from lack of rest. I knew not of his plans, and I knew Yves and Wymer were also unaware of them, as none of us had been contacted. I thought little of it. Valentine’s day was in less than a week, and I didn’t want to get distracted from the celebration. When I told those two brothers at home, they assured me there was nothing to worry about, letting me sleep.

The day before the holiday, Ymir tells me that her dad would be taking her to a private school within the next two weeks to finish her education. This was his response to her telling him about me, and prom, I guess. ‘Great’, I thought. I never had or wanted any money- just peace of mind. Society’s expectations of a person can truly break them if they aren’t cut out for them, and I was never looking forward to tending the land of the Young Farm- even with the thought of having it with Ymir. This was my only option, since college was basically never an option for my incredibly indebted family.

No, I always wanted to lead a life with the only expectations ahead of me be ones that I placed. Suicide is the easy way out, but I’ve always wanted to deny death, and have personally always been afraid of reincarnation. This means I’ll always either concoct a plan or wait it out. But I was not looking to wait until my heart stopped beating. No, I needed an alternative and I needed understanding. I got the former and have since realised I may never get the latter.

It started at 2200 hours on Valentine’s day. I’d been running late home from a painful get-together with Ymir when I notice my home having broken windows. I looked inwards after having crept forward, and saw Ywain snoring on our couch. He was even more of a mess than before. I scanned in the dark with my vision and saw my father and uncle laying in bloody pools on the floor. I realised now that Ywain had invaded the home to kill all three of us and take all of grandpa’s inheritance for himself.

There were a lot of recent arguments about the inheritance from our grandpa, an old black man named Kanye Young (that really was his name, true story- there’s a hundred rants I memorised of Grandpa Ye having to tell people he generally hated music and wasn’t related to mister West). It all amounted to a little more than $30,000, thanks to government interference. I had asked both grandpa and dad if Ywain could be included in on the inheritance after the accident but all the adults involved refused, citing my aunt Ulysse’s direct orders to not include him. This type of fucking behavior I now saw may have been why. The stories I heard about him were always that he was a self-centred brat who always wanted more than everyone else and felt that he deserved it, and it showed. He would’ve rather killed his family to go through a legal loophole rather than face the fact his past actions made his mother feel the way she felt and try to change for the better.

It seems that after he killed his uncles, he realised his cousin wasn’t home and decided to nap on the couch waiting for me. I wanted to cry, but then I took a second to contemplate my situation, and I saw potential. I now felt I had been offered the strength of the cosmos, but I rejected it, as I was, and still am, so much stronger. I was not about to let myself be a ward of the state. This is not the tone I wanted my story to have. I was not about to abandon their lessons those two gave to me of fighting for what I need and to be an annoying, squatting prick when it’s needed. I was told of a promising future, so who’s to say I can’t build one for myself? In general, what is there to say? I now had motivation to act- to let myself legally die. The potentiality of a plan ran through my body like oxygen-rich blood, so I ran to Ymir’s house with said plan.

She’s next to me as I type this and she and just got into a bit of an argument for that last, misleading sentence. It wasn’t really a plan. Plans have lots of precision, detail and a need to be made with a careful attitude. I, on the other hand, made a glorified to-do list and went into the Yellowhammer residence guns-blazing. Literally.

I had brought out Wymer’s guns and knives for my trip. Wearing his goddamn Mitt Romney mask and dad’s goatskin leather jacket, I looked like both death and a total meme. The Yellowhammer residence was situated on the outskirts of town in a remote location with no neighbours, so I was able to get to their house with no problem. I’d never been able to explore much of it beforehand, but Ymir had described it to me to the point where I could easily go about my way. When I found Yair and Yannick in bed, I even knew the right places to walk to ensure they couldn’t hear me (Ymir said she’d do this to mess with Yair’s stuff as he slept). There was no conflict or fight; it was anticlimactic and faster than it seemed. For her last words, Yannick thanked me.

Ymir, when she eventually ran into me, was understandably nervous, but after I explained everything, she relaxed and asked how she could help. We stole a bunch of gold and clothes before setting the house ablaze.

We ran back to my house, where Ywain was till asleep on my couch. We sneaked up behind him, drugged him, and bludgeoned him until he was completely out of it. We had a bag on his head so he couldn’t see us, and made sure to speak to each other in fake voices in case he could hear. Afterwards, we took off his clothes and replaced them with Yair’s. My plan was that Ywain would then be blamed for the murder of both our families, ourselves, and the Yellowhammer arson.

After we were done with that, we exited my house for the last time. It was around 3 (AM), so the town was still relatively quiet. She was nervous and asked if we could have one last walk through the streets. I made sure to show her all the most beautiful views across many streets. After this, we started walking in the woods toward the city. After changing our names, vocal patterns, styles and certain aspects of our attitude, we were ready to take on the world. It’s 2019 and we still are!

When we got to the city we knew we had to keep a low profile and not try to attract attention. I decided to do this by taking up the mantle from Wymer and I got a job in retail. He’s giving me a grin from heaven. You know the grin; the overtly smug grin that’s only ever 100% condescension, and even when they say they’re not trying to be condescending that just makes you feel it more. Ymir, on the other hand, works at a popular bookstore; keeping stock whilst also writing both book reviews and poetry. We make just enough money to get food, weed, and keep our landlord at bay. I hope you people on this site saw the post about some person who bought a dog whistle to make their landlord’s dogs incessantly bark to the point where the poster could then complain to their landlord that their ‘dogs are barking too much.’ Ymir and I did the same thing, and I recommend it. They’ve probably got the first two Rage Against The Machine albums memorised by this point since that’s all she and I ever listen to. In short, we gave him constant hell.

Things were going surprisingly well for us. It was weird to talk to others about ‘where we came from,’ but we never lied enough to have inconsistencies with our stories. But one day, I had to deal with a co-worker- a Wiseguy. This Wiseguy’s often talkative, but on that day they seemed quiet, tense, anxious, and struck with overwhelming terror- especially when working with me. I asked them if all were well, and they said no. I asked why, and they gave me a look of someone falling to their death.

They swallowed their spit,

“I was watching a YouTube video yesterday about freaky, unexplained crimes, and there was one in particular that caught my attention. A man had apparently killed a congressman and his family, then proceeded to burn down the entire house to ashes before then killing his own two uncles and cousin on the other side of town.”

I looked on, screaming internally, saying calmly,

“…Okay?”

“But,” they continued, “The bodies of the congressman’s daughter and the murderer’s cousin, who was living with his uncles, were never found. There’s also some inconsistencies in the times of death, along with the fact the perpetrator specifically only ever plead guilty of his uncles’ deaths, not that of his cousin or of the congressman’s family.”

I stared in silence. They weren’t done.

“I looked a little into it, and it seems that the congressman’s daughter had a diary that survived the flames. One section that caught my attention was how she was going to have deal with a new baby brother because she was not seen to be a proper heir to the congressman’s wealth.”

This wouldn’t have bothered me at all if Ymir hadn’t told them less than a week prior of her new tragedy involving a tyrant wasting his life in the prospect of a male heir since he hates the princess, our narrator. I felt trapped and exposed. Goddammit, I always told her to check TvTropes© and she never did.

“Are you ready to go?”

It was Ymir. She was standing by my side since her shift had apparently ended early and mine was due to end at any given moment. I turned worryingly to Wiseguy, who had a huge smile on their face. They said,

“I really, really fucking hated Yellowhammer. His death did wonders for the planet, and, uh, I am your friend…so just please tell me what you can when you can!” They then sent me home and walked away.

I eventually told Wiseguy everything. There was no reason to hide; they figured out that I was Yasmine Young. They didn’t have any kind of scared or nervous reaction. Quite the contrary, they were utterly fascinated. And they wanted to help, giving us stuff from make-up tutorials to online spots where we could maintain pseudo-anonymity. They were a comrade much like Wymer, becoming something of my and Ymir’s best friend, being the only one who ever figured us out.

And then, everything went quiet. Nobody said anything after that. ‘Finally,’ I thought, ‘it’s all in the past.’

Last week, after a while of having muscle cramps in our abdominal regions, we learn we both have terminal stomach cancer, the disease that killed both our moms. We can’t afford treatment, and even if we could, we don’t have enough time left to go through thosr miles of legal red-tape. She and I took a while to decide on what we need to do, and we decided to post this. My wife and I have story and we won’t die silently. We have voices that can be heard and words that can be read.

But I’ve said enough about us, back to you, reader- you can do so much better. Practice and improvement is always an option. We, collectively as a people, are stronger than we admit to ourselves. We are the true rulers of the earth; letting a small bunch of ornamental fucks hold our shit for us. The ruling class is a parasite, and like every parasite, it can be killed by, and is smaller than, its host.

Come and get me, INTERPOL, because we have loaded guns and more than enough ammunition to kill ourselves and well over 100 landlords. You can’t get cigarettes with a fake ID but you can get a gun license with it. However, I have no faith in the ability of the cops to use 2019 technology in general, let alone tumblr. Eat santorum, cops.

I’m posting this to Wiseguy’s blog without their permission, and I hope someone on this site can hear me and preserve my words. I hope you read this entire thing because I now that I’ve looked through your blog I have to tell you that you’re a bit inarticulate and shitty at economic theory. I’ll have to send this post to Shane, Mack, and Albin’s blogs, since they appear to still be active.

To end this, I must speak again of Valentine. He may as well have been an anonymous tumblr blog for all history cares because the affects an action matters far more than the individual who performs it. His history is inconsistent and chaotic, but is love not chaos? Not a Petersonian “"“chaos”“”, but an unrivaled, unparalled and uncanny type of lustful wrath that can take out all of hate’s laziness. You can reject both pure nihilist sloth and desire-driven consumerism. Total freedom should not be seen as an extreme!

There’s a lot to take in; you can’t get it all. Do what you know helps. Do what we know helps.

To decontextualise Richard Dawkins-

“…be satisfied with not understanding the world.”

Sin with pride

#christianity #writing shit #weed content #this is an old post from Valentine's day #abuse cw #homophobia cw

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