you'll be far from here

[rpmememaker]

Harass my muse with questions about their relationships, their past, their future or anything else you’ve always wanted to know but never asked.

Make them question their actions or decisions, or think about things they’ve never considered before. 

[arlofleming]

AUDRA | ARLO

[jjbaptiste]

open to: all where: backrooms @ gentille fille/faux folie

Even in the backrooms, the music booms loud enough to make framed pictures rattle. They decorate a lengthy, dim hallway that's restricted access only.

Well — it should be.

"Bonsoir," spoken to the figure. "You lost, or lookin' for me?"

[arlofleming]

He hadn't meant to be caught. He also hadn't really meant to hide. He was exploring, a little more tipsy than he'd been trying to get. More importantly than anything, he was bored. He should stop coming out alone.

"Bonsoir!" Is the reply, a little too excited to be speaking a word of French. "Looking for something. Unclear what. Just went for a little wander." A pause, then a proper look in the man's direction. "Sorry, is this bit off limits?"

[rippedstitch-s]

An example? He stirs his iced coffee with the straw. "Well. Got a bit of everything, I s'pose. Preserved framed moths and bugs, old art from thrift stores. Needlepoints. Some old paperweights and small figures I've painted and repurposed... quite a lot of rare plants, old masks from some theatre company that closed down. Framed notes and old polaroids and papers..." He leans into his hand, elbow propped on the table. "Oh! A taxidermied sparrow would be amazing... if not for me then for a... friend of mine. But I'd love to give some old taxidermy a new, safe home."

[arlofleming]

He hadn't been expecting a list but he appreciates it all the same. Nods, looks into his empty mug. "I think the- preserved moths and shit are so fucking interesting. It's classic rich guy shit, of course, the bug pinned and all that, but it's- well, it's very cool." Arlo's never got hold of one himself, but he can appreciate them.

"Ah, damn. I didn't buy it. Would have - if I'd known you'd be interested. Wonder if I can track it down, or just- some other dead bird just as good?"

[rippedstitch-s]

He has his own iced coffee in his hands, unable to help a small laugh at Arlo's comment about the dead. That's certainly an interesting way of looking at it. "I think she was trying to feed my uh... creative spirit. She knows my home is already filled with eclectic items I find, so I think it made her think of them." Asa perks up a bit when Arlo mentions going to one. "She told me to check Facebook Marketplace? Said there's plenty outside of the city."

[arlofleming]

"Eclectic, eh?" Arlo raises an eyebrow at that, sits a little more forward in his chair. "Give me an example." It's an easy thing to picture - a man such as Asa with the type of weird shit you'd find at a garage sale decorating his house. He lets out a low whistle, "Facebook Marketplace - jeez, goin' further afield for it? Sounds like a day out. I once found a taxidermied sparrow at one."

[rippedstitch-s]

Location: idk a coffee shop or something Status: Open

"Have you ever been to an estate sale? My agent's been raving about them and... honestly, I'm scared I'll get hooked. I already have a bit of a problem with collecting odd items and antiques. Feels like she's setting me up for disaster."

[arlofleming]

He looks up at him, over the glasses that have made a rare appearance. "Have I ever been- Asa, estate sales are maybe the best thing the dead have to offer. Scratch that- they definitely are." The last dregs of his coffee sits in the cup before him, and he takes its emptiness as a sign. "Maybe she's trying to sabotage you, but it's worth it. Dead people are fascinating. I think we should try and find one immediately."

[josephelkhouri]

WHO: @arlofleming WHERE: a vacant lot, near off the record

Joseph has been stood up.

Not that he isn't accustomed to it — as a sprightly young beat reporter he'd been adept at hunting leads down, for those cold calls to government officials to turn into clandestine meet-ups in alleys just as cold. Now, all there's left of his promising source is a blocked number on his work iPhone and a forty-dollar bill for breadsticks and three cups of shitty Americano. By the end of the night, he isn't even that angry that the meet-up had been so unceremonious. Mostly, he's just embarrassed. How devastatingly gauche.

There's nothing he'd do for a quick smoke break, but that was three decades and two minimally invasive thoracic surgeries ago. Instead, he pacifies tonight's losses with some fresh air — this part of the street is pleasantly bin-free, at least. The night breeze shifts against his collar in no unpleasant way, but it's still not enough.

It's not enough! And good Lord, and he's almost jealous of the man smoking merrily just a few ways away, and it's none of those ugly vapes, either. "This is a strange proposition," he turns up his collar, a lazy attempt at anonymity. "but would you mind smoking closer?"

[arlofleming]

It's been a long night. The type of night that begins with a few careful words, a few careless touches, and ends with him being kicked out unceremoniously. He likes to think he's getting better at talking his way out of situations, but that still unfortunately means very little when it comes to people who have figured out why he's there.

Perhaps it's a broach of journalistic integrity to try and get people to tell him things through pillow talk - but fuck does it work half the time. They know who he is, they know what he is, and so if they think he won't repeat the shit they tell him, it rests squarely on their shoulders. That's what he tells himself.

But tonight, as evidenced by the slow walk he's doing home, has not gone to plan. He could get a cab, but he's got a lit cigarette now, and he hates the way the smell lingers in a closed space. The air's cold, but the smoke is as settling as any car without seat warmers. Lost in the motions, thoughts catching on any other way he can go after the story, he's abruptly broken from his reverie.

For a second, he wonders if it's a proposition of a different kind, his navy blue dress shirt unbuttoned to about halfway isn't exactly a deterrent, but then his eyes settle on the other man. He raises an eyebrow, but closes the distance between them without hesitation. "Do you want one? Or is proximity enough?" A drag, then a slow exhale, just off to the side of the man's face. Doesn't wanna make the old guy choke. "You alright?"

[dvnhams]

for: open! location: some bathroom @ the brooklyn museum.

In David's defense, he makes it at least twenty minutes inside the gala before he gets the itch to powder his nose. That's almost a new record for him.

He slinks off to a handicap bathroom near the back stairwell and cuts a few lines on the marble countertop before he can think too long about all the jizz-germs he'd probably find there with a blacklight, snorts like his life depends on it (if he's going to be here for a few more hours, it just might). It's his luck, really, that someone decides to start jackhammering their fist against the door when he's midway through his last rail. "Jesus christ," he flinches, swatting at the coke dust that's kicked up against his black suit jacket. There goes, like, twenty-five dollars, up in literal smoke.

"Yeah, hi, hello, what the fuck do you want?" He's demanding as he yanks the door open, a dime bag crumpled in his fist. "A guy can't shit in peace anymore without some metropolitan fuckwad crawling up his ass?"

[arlofleming]

When he stumbles his way through the hall to the stairs, a few gins down, Arlo isn't exactly looking for the other man. He just saw some stupid fucking boring shoes and a tiny form. But isn't he always, in some small way, looking for David?

He starts banging on the door mostly to be annoying, but as he does so, the ideas of bathrooms floating in his mind, he decides that if he doesn't piss immediately he might actually implode. Deliberately, he doesn't say his name, some part of him understanding that the moment David hears his voice is the moment he stays in this bathroom the whole night.

Knowing this, as soon as the door is pushed open, he shoves his foot by the frame. Crushing his foot probably won't deter David at all, but at least he can be a victim then. "There's no way you shit in public. You're definitely one of those who have to wait til you get home to do it."

[lolavillarin]

@arlofleming setting: arlo’s LOLA’s office at Disruptor HQ

—

Lola only had an hour alone in the room, but it was enough to have it redecorated some. Gone are all of Arlo’s picture frames, except for one, where the photo inside had been replaced by Pilgrim Harry. All of the pens on his her desk are glitter gel, as well as a pencil with a pompom at the eraser end of it. The name plate on the door, too, had an upgrade for the new owner. 

She’s debuting a brand new suit for this, tweed in cream, paired with a pair of fuck-off sunglasses Lola kept on even inside. Her feet are crossed over a stack of papers, next to a jumbo-sized oatmilk latte, quad shot, that she’s been draining for the past few minutes. 

“Come in!” He hadn’t knocked. “…I thought they’d taken away your keycard by now.” She aims for the straw again, and slurps loudly. “Oh, you’re co— okay. Your stuff is in that box right there? I would have labeled it, but I didn’t know what any of it meant, so? I just threw all the papers together? I shuffled them a little bit. But yeah, it’s all there.” 

[arlofleming]

It doesn't take much for Arlo's morning to be offset entirely. Today, it was an errant shirt that he'd been planning on wearing. It had been white with thin blue pinstripes and it had determinedly not been where he'd last had it. Forced into wearing a red button down instead, he was already in a fragile mood by the time he got into the office.

So, as he makes his way in and is confronted with Lola, of all people, and it takes him a goddamn second to process. His first words, with incredulity, "You don't make a business deal over twitter." In one fluid movement, he is in front of the desk, looking to see what has been moved. "Where is David? Where's my-"

He stops, holding up the picture of Harry Styles and lets out a ridiculous snort, "Who the fuck is this?" He hasn't seen Lev in a while, maybe this is what he looks like now. His face is blurry in his memory. "Is this your husband?"

[arlofleming]

— BASICS

Name: Arlo Etienne Fleming Age / D.O.B.: 40 / 23rd November 1982 Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Cis male, He/him, Queer in some form. He's never given much thought to it. Hometown: Toulouse, France & New York City, USA. Affiliation: Media Job position: Head Writer for Disruptor Education: Bachelors Degree in Business, Masters in English Literature. Relationship status: Single. Children: N/A. Positive traits: Quick, interested, charming, eloquent. Negative traits: Arrogant, dishonest, manipulative, shallow.

— DESCRIPTION

Raised between various French cities and New York, Arlo is the product of those that raised him. His mother: charming and unhappy and passionate, and his father: a liar, arrogant and desperate for more power than he has. He hasn’t quite accepted, and perhaps never will, that he is so much better as a second. The first thing he expressed a real interest in, finding out about what others were up to, has become his life’s work. He knows how to twist it to fit whoever is paying him - knows how to connect it to a million other seemingly unrelated things. Loves that his name will get him inside places but that his own conversation will keep him there. He is a wordsmith, a spokesperson, a man made to be in front of the camera, wicked in his writing.

— HEADCANONS

Arlo will actively encourage you to call him Etienne. It’s his middle name - the only part of his name given to him by his mother. Arlo is his grandfather’s name - a quiet, stern old man who had only ever ignored him, and Fleming is a legacy. In another life, he is Etienne Bouchard, a son his mother got to raise in her home country and thus did not resent. 

He has two older siblings, two brothers, one who followed in the footsteps of their father, and the other who works in an entirely different field. They were not particularly close in childhood - and they have always seen one another for their worst traits.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS

TBA.

[chrispinecandid-deactivated2023]

CHRIS PINE Madame Figaro (2022)