#GODS I want time and more importantly some privacy to journal through this

[thelunaticghost]

cant wait to get my degree certificate I'm gonna burn that bitch up

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Paint it Black

gif credit: @spnwhenever​

Dean Winchester x Reader

Words: 3103

Summary: Dean must deal with a particularly nasty demon after it possesses his girlfriend. 

Notes: Kicking off the final week of the Winchester Takeover, this imagine is based on the song ‘Paint it Black’ by the Rolling Stones. Both Dean imagines are song based this week, so I hope you guys enjoy!

Special shout out to my amazing beta reader Sarah, @suckmysupernatural​ . I love her so much and honestly, she’s helped me so much in getting these imagines out for you and she has some absolutely killer writing of her own!

Want more Supernatural? Find it HERE

-

I see your red door

I want it painted black

“Deeeeaaan.” Your sing-song voice made him shiver. “It’s cold in here, Dean.”

“I said stop talking.” He spat, pacing back and forth outside the circle. Sam eyed him cautiously, the tension of the room making his chest tight. He had to keep a cool head. 

As much as it pained him, he wasn’t sure Dean would do what had to be done if it came down to it. It would have to be him. 

“Dean,” He sighed, opening up the journal. “We have to do this.”

“Just wait a second, Sam.” His eyes pleaded, his panic evident in his voice. “We can figure this out.” 

“Come on Dean.” You groaned. “I can see in her head and I think we both know I’m a lot more fun.” 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean lunged towards you, but Sam stopped him. A sick smirk spread across your face. 

“I knew this would be fun.” You closed your eyes and opened them again. Dean felt his blood run cold, staring deeply into the empty black.

-

24 Hours Earlier

“This is a bad idea.” Sam covered his face with his hands as you stared down his brother. 

“This is between me and Maverick, Samuel.” You smirked.  Dean just glared back at you. 

“Don’t call me that.” He growled, but even Sam could hear the playful tone in his voice. You had given him the mocking nickname when you discovered his fear of planes. That, and his inability to follow the rules. You knew that he secretly liked it. “Are you ready to put your money where your mouth is, sweetheart?” 

“Just shut up and drink.” With a hand signal from Sam, you started downing shot after shot of tequila. Dean was gaining speed, but you were too stubborn to let him win. You finished the last shot when he still had three to go. Letting out a victory cheer, you gave Sam a high five, wobbling slightly from the impact. 

“I had a couple beers earlier.” Dean mumbled as a begrudged excuse. You sloppily kissed his cheek. 

“Next round’s on you, champ.” 

“I think we should head in for the night.” He gave you a suggestive smile and Sam took that as his cue to leave. Your mouth opened in mock offense. 

“Dean Winchester, did you get me drunk so you could get me in bed?” You snorted when you laughed, but Dean found it incredibly attractive. 

“Something like that.” He leaned his head down to meet your lips with his for a kiss that was far too inappropriate for standing in the middle of a bar. 

“Guys, come on.” Sam groaned from the other side of the room. “We have a motel room… go use it.” The mood was quickly killed when the door to the bar flung open and a bloodied, screaming woman burst in. 

“Somebody, help me!” She stumbled towards you and Dean caught her before she could trip. “Please, it’s my son. Something’s wrong with him.”

“Where is he, ma'am?” Sam asked and she pointed out to the parking lot. 

“He-he killed my husband.” She bawled, clinging to Dean’s jacket. She looked pretty hurt. 

“I’ll stay with her, go find him.” You said, gently prying her away from him. You told the bartender to get you some bandages and something to clean the wounds with. Dean and Sam rushed out the front door and you took the woman to the back room for some privacy. 

Dean followed Sam and ducked down behind a beat up old truck for cover. There, in the middle of the lot, was a man’s body, his face all carved up and clothes drenched in blood. More importantly, the smell of sulfur lingered in the air. 

“Demon.” Dean growled. They cautiously searched the entire premises, but there was no sign of the son. “Well that’s just great.” 

“Let’s get back to Y/N and see what the woman knows.” Sam suggested. 

“That’s going to be hard.” You sighed, wiping your hands off on a rag as you walked towards them. “She’s dead.” You froze, smelling the air. “Sulfur?” The boys nodded. “Wonderful.” 

“We need to head back to the motel and sober you two up before we do anything.” Sam held his hand and Dean threw him the keys to the impala. Dean sighed. There went his plans for the rest of the night. 

“No rest for the wicked, sweetheart.” He draped an arm over your shoulders and you leaned into him, hiding your bloody knife in your boot.

-

No colors anymore

I want them to turn black

Dean took a cold shower to clear his head, still foggy from the alcohol. You seemed fine, considering how much you had had. Sam was watching you with a curious eye. 

“You sure you’re doing okay?” He wondered. You gave him a small smile. 

“There was nothing I could do. She was half dead coming into that bar.” You shrugged. That’s the moment Sam knew something was up. Every death, no matter how hopeless, always ate at you for days. This wasn’t just alcohol calming you down. 

“Right.” He nodded, letting his suspicions seep into his mind. Dean came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and placed a kiss on your cheek. 

“So what’s the plan?” The three of you gathered around the table and you tossed the woman’s wallet in front of the brothers. 

“I grabbed this so we could figure out who she was and where her son might have headed. Her name was Jolene Arthurs. That should at least give us a place to start.” They nodded in agreement. You stood. “Okay, it’s my turn for the shower, but when I get out, let’s head over to the Arthur house and see if we can find the son.” 

You vanished into the bathroom and Sam waited for the water to run before leaning to his brother, lowering his voice to a whisper. 

“Is she acting a little weird to you?” Both pairs of eyes looked at the closed door. Dean shrugged. 

“She seemed fine to me. Hell, she’s holding up great considering she had more tequila than I did.” 

“Exactly.” 

Under the hot water, you washed the woman’s blood off of your skin, cleaning off the knife as well. It was a good thing the bar was pretty empty. She was a screamer. 

“Get out of me, you black-eyed bitch.” You tsked at your reflection. 

“Now that’s not very hospitable of you.” It was your voice, but it didn’t sound like you. With a quick blink, your eyes turned black. “You and I are going to have such fun together, Y/N. Who knows, maybe I’ll get to take Dean for a spin. I’ve always wondered what he’s like in bed and from what I can tell from all those dirty thoughts of yours,” A sick smirk spread across your face. “He’s delicious.” 

“If you touch him, I swear to God-”

“We both know the big man doesn’t care about little insignificant problems like us, so why don’t you try a different threat?” 

“I promise you, I’m going to send your ass back to hell faster than you can say Lucifer.” 

You leaned on the sink, looking deeply into the mirror. 

“Baby, if I’m going to hell, you’re coming with me.” 

A knock at the door almost made you jump. With one more quick wink to the mirror, your eyes returned to normal and opened the bathroom door, finding Dean on the other side. You gave him a bright and confident smile. 

“Did Sam figure out where the house is?” 

“Uh, yeah, we’re about to head over.” He stepped into the room and closed the door, eyes filled with worry. “Are you okay? Sam thinks you’ve been acting a little weird and I know that you think you could have saved that woman-”

“She was so scared, Dean.” You whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. Time to try a different method. “I… I tried, but she had lost so much blood. She begged me to save her. She begged to see her family one last time.” Your lip trembled and any suspicion Dean had immediately dispelled. He pulled you into his arms. “E-every death hurts, Dean.”

“I know, baby. I know.” He soothed, running his fingers through your hair. That’s why you were acting strange. You were trying to hold it together in front of Sam. “Tell you what,” he pulled back enough to look down at you with a small smile, “when this case is over, how about you and I go on a little vacation? Just the two of us. We could go camping in the Rockies like you said you’ve been wanting to.” 

“Really?” You sniffed, wiping your eyes. He nodded and leaned in for a kiss. 

“It’s not me, baby. That’s not me!” 

You wrapped your arms around him again and smiled into the mirror.

-

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue

The day was spent looking through county records and checking the Arthur house. Nothing gave you any clue as to where Jolene’s son, Mika, might have gone. Sam was frustrated, but he made sure to keep an eye on you. Dean shrugged off your behavior as being upset about Jolene, but Sam wasn’t convinced. Something was just… off. 

You kept up your act perfectly. Dean would occasionally cast you a sympathetic smile and reminded you about the camping trip he’d promised once this was all over with. Dean Winchester was a good boyfriend. Who would have guessed? Man, this was going to be fun. 

“Stay away from him, you Pazuzu wanna-be.” 

You ignored the quip. 

“I got something!” Dean announced, coming into the room with Mrs. Arthur’s wallet. He held up a small piece of paper with an address on it. “Mica’s new apartment. So proud of him!” He read. “Hopefully our demon is holed up there.” 

“What if the demon isn’t him anymore?” Sam suggested. You shrugged. 

“Well this is our only lead, Sam. We might as well look into it.” 

Sam gave you a once over and you stared innocently back at him. Maybe he was just being paranoid. The two Winchesters went out to the car and you gritted your teeth. Sam was a problem. You’d have to take care of him if you were going to get to his big brother. Oh well. 

Arriving at the apartment building, Sam and Dean prepared themselves for an exorcism, grabbing supplies to make a devil’s trap just in case. You brought your knife. All you needed was a moment alone with Sammy boy…

Dean knocked loudly on the door and at first, there was nothing. Listening carefully, you all heard the sounds of someone scuffling inside. He was trying to get away. Dean kicked in the door and you filed inside, finding the young man trying to climb out the window. The older Winchester grabbed him the back of his jacket and yanked him back into the room. Mica cried out for help, earning a hard punch to the mouth from Dean. 

“It isn’t in me! It isn’t in me!” He cried. One of his flailing arms hit Dean in the nose and he was able to break away. He grabbed you, wrapping an arm around your throat. He smelled like pathetic fear. Being in his head was like having a conversation with a frightened frat boy. You were much more interesting. 

“Let her go.” Dean growled. Sam gripped the demon blade in his hand, but he didn’t dare make an attack. One quick movement and Mica could snap your neck. 

“I just want to get out of here, man.” Mica sniffed. “I saw what that thing did to my mom. It was in me. I don’t know how, but it was in me.” His body shook as he tried to hold you against him as a shield. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” Dean started to circle around him, slowly as to not startle him. Great. A macho showdown. Boring. 

“Ugh, this isn’t fun anymore.” You whined, whirling around and slicing your knife across Mica’s throat. The young man sputtered and choked, blood pouring down from his neck, before collapsing. 

“What the hell, Y/N?” Sam exclaimed. You smiled, closing your eyes. 

“Guess again Sammy.” Both brothers revolted, staring into the cold black that replaced your eyes. 

“You son of a-” Dean started towards you and you quickly turned your blade on yourself, plunging it deep into your side. Dean screamed. “No!” You winked at him before falling next to the boy you had slaughtered. 

-

I could not foresee this thing happening to you

When you came round again, there was a bandage on your wound, tightly bound to try and stop the blood. You were strapped down to a chair, a devil’s trap painted on the floor beneath you. 

“I didn’t take you for a bondage kind of guy.” You smirked at the scowling hunter. 

“Shut up.” He snapped. Sam searched his bag for his journal. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Sammy. Y/N here is looking a little rough.” You motioned to the wound. “In fact, her little annoying voice is fading already.” 

“Stop it.” Dean’s fists clenched at his sides. The demon was right. If they exercised it now, Y/N might not make it. 

The window Mica had tried to escape from was still open, sending a cool breeze flowing through the room. 

“Deeeeaaan.” Your sing-song voice made him shiver. “It’s cold in here, Dean.”

“I said stop talking.” He spat, pacing back and forth outside the circle. Sam eyed him cautiously, the tension of the room making his chest tight. He had to keep a cool head. 

As much as it pained him, he wasn’t sure Dean would do what had to be done if it came down to it. It would have to be him. 

“Dean,” He sighed, opening up the journal. “We have to do this.”

“Just wait a second, Sam.” His eyes pleaded, his panic evident in his voice. “We can figure this out.” 

“Come on Dean.” You groaned. “I can see in her head and I think we both know I’m a lot more fun.” 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean lunged towards you, but Sam stopped him. A sick smirk spread across your face. 

“I knew this would be fun.” You closed your eyes and opened them again. Dean felt his blood run cold, staring deeply into the empty black. You leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss. Dean jerked away and you cackled wickedly. It didn’t sound like your laugh. Your laugh was hearty and warm. This sound was icy and cruel. 

“Do it Sam.” He said, backing out of the circle. 

“I can give her back to you Dean.” You offered slyly. “I can keep her alive and rent her out to you whenever you like. All you have to do is let me stay.” 

“Go to hell.” 

“Don’t you want to see her again? To hear her voice? She’s just dying to get her hands on you, Dean. I can hear her screaming.” 

“Sam, do it!”

“She’ll die, Dean! You’ll kill her.” 

Dean couldn’t look at you. No, it wasn’t you. It was a demon. He knew what you would want. Turning away, he gave Sam a nod. The latin words were almost drowned out by your screaming. Shrieks filled the room until the dark cloud finally shot up into the air, diving back into the fiery pit. 

Everything went silent. Sam stared at the limp body in front of him and Dean kept his back turned away. Sam suddenly put a hand on his arm. 

“Dean,” he started softly. His eyes widened. “Dean, she’s still alive!” 

Sam rushed to you as you stirred, coughing and trying to speak. Dean ran and fell to his knees beside the chair, helping his brother to undo the restraints. You slumped forward into his arms. You tried to speak, but your voice was garbled and inaudible. 

“I’ve got you, baby. It’s alright now. I’ve got you.” He hushed. Your eyes held a terror that he had never seen before as they welled with tears. “Sam and I are gonna take a look at you, okay?” You nodded weakly and they lifted up your shirt to look at the wound. You winced as Sam lifted the bandage. 

“We’ve gotta get her out of here.” He concluded. Dean slowly lifted you up in his arms, moving extra carefully so that you wouldn’t be in any more pain. 

“You’re gonna be just fine, sweetheart.” Dean promised. He looked into your Y/E/C eyes and smiled. “Everything is going to be okay.”

-

I want to see it painted, painted, 

Painted Black

They told the doctors that you were mugged. That the man who did it got away without them getting a good look. It was enough for them to not ask more questions. When they asked for next of kin, they said that they were the only family you had, which was the first true thing they said since they stepped in the hospital. 

Dean was sitting in the lobby, his leg bouncing up and down with nervous anticipation. Sam had made him stop pacing because he was getting odd looks from people. They were both bloodstained and exhausted, so people steered clear of their direction. 

“You can go back now.” The nurse announced. Both Winchester boys jumped out of their seats and nearly sprinted down the hall. 

“Now, Miss Y/L/N, you need to lay down-”

“No, you don’t understand, I have to see them.” You fought against her as she tried to urge you back into the bed. Your eyes locked with your boyfriend’s and you let out a cry of relief. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I should have known. I should have seen it in that woman before I helped her-”

“Shhhh,” Dean took you in his arms, making sure he didn’t bump your bandages. “I thought I lost you, baby.” 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Sam sighed, giving you a small, guilty smile. 

“You did what you had to, Sam.” You assured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.” 

After they got you checked out, Dean kept his promise and took you camping. It was a break that you needed. Sometimes, you could feel the darkness closing in again, that inky black that the demon had tormented you with. But Dean kept it away, like he always did.

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado​

Supernatural: @desimarie12; @deandreamernp; @vicmc624; @halesandy; @livshaes; @d-whinchestergirl87; @mrspeacem1nusone

[whitediamond223]

I wrote a small little head canon I had of Tsukishima into a little story and uhhh.... here ya go....

“Bye Yamaguchi!”

“Bye!” The green haired boy called out, waving a small hand behind him and turning into his street. Almost immediately the smaller girl, walking along side the tall blond pivoted to face him.

“You should’ve said bye.” She lectured half-heartedly, going to pluck off the blond’s headphones.

“Hmm.” He hummed before turning to face the girl. Her eyes sparkled lightly in the sun as she brought his headphones to cover her ears. The girl slightly scrunched up her nose before grabbing Tukishima’s phone from his pocket as well.

Feeling graphically violated and invaded of his privacy, he raised an eyebrow in the girls direction.

“You have your music playing too loud.” She said simply before dodging her eyes around. “Like always.” She added and then resumed to remove the headphones from her ears. She held them out and the blond went to reach for them with a squint in his eyes.

She seemed to always find something to lecture him over. ‘You’re room is messy. You’re music is too loud. You didn’t say bye to Tadashi.’

“Well maybe if you didn’t talk to much my music wouldn’t have to be so loud.” The blond said with a blink. The girl rolled her eyes and went to shove the giant lightly.

“Insult me all you want. I know you Kei. You’re a big softy.” His heart made a small skip at the way she sounded out the last syllable in his first name in mockery.

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m right.” She stated finally before smiling and handing the blond back his phone. He took it back with another raised brow but didn’t get an answer this time because the two had stumbled upon his house.

Without hesitation, the two climbed into the house and up the stairs to Tsukishima’s room, yelling a small greeting to Akiteru in the room next door.

“So have you beat that game yet?” The girl asked eagerly, eyeing the game consul with an excited spark.

“You’re not already going to start procrastinating are you?” She held up her hand to her heart in mock defense.

“Kei. You know I’m physically incapable of not doing so~” he hummed in response and slid off his school bag to sit by the leg of his chair.

“Come on.” He grumbled and the small girl made her way over to the desk lazily a whining lag in her steps. “You’ll fail if I don’t help you.”

“Thanks for the faith.”

“It’s only the truth.”

“Hmm.”

~~ # ~~

The darkly lit sky shinned through the blinds and pulled curtains in the small, surprisingly neat room.

Tsukishima sat across his bed lazily, only half paying attention to what his friend was saying from below him as he read off the small notes on the paper he held in only one hand. His other hand stayed eerily still on the smaller girls arm where it had fallen earlier.

In all honestly, he quite liked it there, feeling her warmth spread to his finger tips, then up his arms, then to his whole body. Then again, she hadn’t seemed to notice it at all and so to reach it back, he might startle the girl into realization. Something he didn’t really want to face. He was already holding back a deep blush from forming on his cheeks at the position the two teens were in.

Laying across his outstretched lap was the head of his little friend, halfheartedly reading out the list of civilizations she had been supposed to memorize the week prior. She stopped suddenly and turned her head back over slightly to face her taller friend with hopeful eyes.

“You-“ missed one. He had wanted to say, but when he saw the way her eyes were only half open and her hair fell lazily out of her bun from all the frustrated tugging she’d been doing, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He stared into her half-lidded eyes and turned away to hide the small smile he felt pushing it’s way through. “You’re good.”

“Ugh thank GOD!” She said and only now did he realize how tired her voice sounded. She tossed aside the journal in her hand and picked up her phone from besides her form on the bed. Her fingers moved across the screen lazily as she replied to the people who she had ignored over the past three hours due to Tsukishima’s request.

And Tsukishima thought he ought to stay home from school tomorrow because he must be sick. The way his heart pounded in his chest as he lightly began to run comforting circles on the girls arm with his thumb. His skin felt pale and sweaty and like it could falls off at any moment with how much he wanted to shake with .... what was the feeling anyway?

“Go to sleep.” He mumbled before he could stop himself. There was only a small hmphf in reply and with little surprise he realized that the girl had already dropped down her phone once again and her eyes were closed.

Suddenly, Tsukishima became painfully aware of all the places where their skin met. How her head rested so vulnerably in his lap. It shocked him how must trust she must have in him and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he returned it. Every last bit.

“Woah. Kei’s smiling...” her voice was slurred with sleep (yet the mocking in his first name was still present) and there was a small loopy grin on her face.

Only when she said that did Tsukishima realize he did indeed have a small smile plastered on his face.

“You’re such an idiot.” Was the only thing he could really think of to say.

“Goodnight Kei.” She mumbled and shuffled ever so slightly, further into his lap. But the movement didn’t bother him as much. He was too busy taking in what she had said. How she called him by his first name, no joke implied. She didn’t draw out the last syllable like she always did in an attempt to get under skin. No, she just said it. Addresses him informally with no hesitation and no immediate regret, at least from what he could tell.

And for some reason, he really liked it.

“ ‘night.” He mumbled quietly. And even though his neck wasn’t in the most comfortable position, and his thumb was getting quite tired from the soothing circles he drew on her arm, he stayed exactly where he was. Not wanting to jolt the girl awake. But more importantly, wanting to stay in this moment for as long as he could.

How simply they fit together astounded him.

But, he liked it.

A lot.

[lovelyrocker]

Love Is Blind Ch.24

~ RPF

~ Characters: Jensen Ackles, Lexi Ackles(OFC), Jared Padalecki, Jesse(OMC), Bethany(OFC), Dr. Turner(OFC)

~ Pairings: Jared x Lexi(Sorta,kinda)

~ Warnings: Talk of Suicide, Talk of Alcohol abuse and Drug abuse, Slight Smut, Angst(of course), Mental Health Situations, 

~ Word Count:7,288

~ Un Beta’d - All Mistakes are my Own

~ *FEEDBACK IS GOLD*

Love Is Blind Masterlist

<Previous Chapter

Lexi had been in the hospital for going on seventy two hours. Other than the four hours Jared had left to clean up and try to sleep, Jared didn’t leave Lexi’s side. Between the blood loss an overdose, alcohol poisoning and her heart stopping, her body was going to need more time to recover. When Lexi woke she’d worked herself into a panic attack in Jared’s arms. Out of fear of putting stress on her already delicate heart,the nurses came in and sedated her in a mess of of rushed apologies and greetings of relief and tears. 

Lexi’s anxiety took over the minute she saw the bandages on her wrists, giving her a short lived calmness of seeing Jared. The realization of what she had done smashed into her like an anvil. She was filled with sadness and regret that she’d been so stupid. She wanted to apologies but couldn’t speak. He throat was raw and every sound felt like needles. 

The next twenty four hours Lexi woke  underwent dozens of tests. Neurological, to make sure her brain function was normal. Physical, to see how she was about to function. But most importantly, psychiatric. She spoke with a Psychiatrist for a bit, not saying much. She was still groggy through most of it and her body hurting from being shocked after her heart stopped.

Lexi was sedated again, resting, while Jared and Jensen sat diligently at her bedside. “You’ve been here for a while. Go home and get some rest.” Jensen told Jared.

“I’m good.”

“Jare,”

“Jay, I’m fine.”

“Go home, see your kids, eat, sleep.” Jesen lifted a hand when Jared went to protest.  “Don’t even. Doctor said she’ll be out til the morning, at least.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s nine pm. Go. I got this for the night.”

“Promise me that you will call if she wakes up?”

“You know I will.” Jensen assure his friend.

~

It was eleven PM now. Jared stopped by Genevieve’s t see the kids for a bit, then swung by Danneel’s to say a quick hi and pick up a few things from Lexi’s  room he’d thought she’d like.

Jared sat in his bed with Lexi’s journal in his hands. Why did he take it from her room at Jensen’s? He remembered the day he gave it to her. It was in Jensen’s trailer a few days after her sixteenth birthday. He had searched for weeks but couldn't figure out what to get his best friend’s little sister. He’d seen her journaling on set one day and noticed she was nearing the end of the small notebook. So he looked at all  the nearest bookstores but never saw anything he thought she would like. They were either too small or too bulky. Too plain, to girly, nothing that fit her style or her personality. That’s when he took the internet and design her a journal. One she could add to, one she could carry with her easily. She’d never used another journal since. 

He tapped his thumb on the cover of the black leather debating whether or not he  wanted to read it. Did he have it in him to invade her privacy? Would he like what he would read?  Lexi was currently laying half sedated in a hospital bed with four inch cuts on both her wrists. Now was not the time for privacy. Now was the time to find out why. More so, what could he have done to stop her. He opened it to a random page and began reading.

 I woke up this morning and for a split second I didn’t hurt. Then I remembered I’m 2200 miles from Jared. That’s when the empty sinking feeling set in.

He swallowed hard and flipped a few pages over.

Today was another bad day. Jensen keeps trying to talk to me but after what he did, I don’t care what he has to say.

Jared stood placing the journal down and went to the kitchen. When he walked back into his room he had a glass and a fifth of whiskey. He had decided that if he was doing this he was gonna need some liquid courage. He turned the pages to the beginning and began again. He mostly flipped and skimmed through reading over the entries.  It was mostly school, work, college choices, school boys, friends, normal teenage things. The handwriting was  different. Softer more carefree. Then he scanned a page that made him pause. 

I have a big problem. I think I have a crush on Jared.

He gave a small smile and kept reading.

Very cliche’ I know! Little sister having a crust on her brothers bestie. But it’s weird, i’ve never looked at him like that until I moved to Vancouver and I have no idea why. 

Then again, how could I not have a crush on him? The man is fucking gorgeous! 

Jared gave chuckle and flipped a few more pages.

I think I’m losing my mind. No way in hell was Jared flirting with me, right? It's in my head, it has to be! He is like  16 - 17 years older than me. That's almost two decades!! But then he looks at me with those piercing eyes and I suddenly forget how even breath. And when he touches me, my whole fucking body is electric. 

Jared let out another chuckle. He knew she made him feel like that but didn’t know that so early on, she felt the same way. 

I’ve never thought a kiss would make my heart literally stop. I feel like that everytime he kisses me. That can’t be normal, right? And I know he wants to take things slow but God, I want him. I know he wants to respect Jensen and I know he is scared because he has WAY more experience. But when we have sex its something that Ive never felt before. Even when we had sex the first time it was so different from with Chris. 

Jared paused just seeing Chris’ name on the paper. 

With Chris it all seemed rushed. Like he couldn’t wait to fuck. It was all pulling and rough. More focused on what he wanted.  Jared was different. He was gentle and careful. I could tell he wanted me but he also wanted to feel me. He took his time and made me feel like I was everything. He still does.

Jared downed his drink and flipped through a few more pages stopping when he saw the handwriting change again.

I hate feeling like I can’t control my life! Every always know whats better for me. Jensen knew better when he made me and jared break up. Jared knew better when he told me to leave and basically forget about him. What about me? What about what i want?! At least chris gives me the benefit of the doubt. He gives me the chance to make up my own mind.

Jared looked at the date and saw it was about three months after she’d moved to L.A. She was diagnosed around this time. He could tell the differences in her handwriting. It was a tell tale sign of her moods and her ups and downs. Jared adjusted his position and several folded papers slide out of the folded back of her journal. 

Dear Jared, I'm above the clouds right now on my way to Austin. My chest aches because all I can think about is you. I know Jensen thinks he is doing the right thing but how can it be right if you and I are hurting this much? The main reason I guess i'm writing is to let you know I get it. I get why you told me to go

Jared swallowed hard pouring another glass of whiskey before finishing and moving on to another paper.

Dear Jared, 

Today didn’t hurt as much. I miss your text messages and phone calls. 

Dear Jared,

I finally got out of the house for a few hours today. It wasn;t bad. Went to a movie with some friends. I was missing you by the end of the night. No one to tell my night to.

Dear Jared,

Tom reminds me so much of you! Gen came by with the kids today and even though she looks at me like she wants to kill me, I’m happy I got to see the boys.

It was letter after letter that she wrote as if she would be having a conversation with him. This was how she coped with not having her best friend anymore. Even though she knew she probably would never mail a single letter, she still wrote and told Jared about her days. The letters went from almost daily to a few a week. Then every few weeks until she left for L.A. Then the handwriting changed again. 

Dear Jared,

L.A. is nice. I’m sure it would be better if you were here with me. I’m managing to deal with everything pretty well. 

Dear Jared, 

  I saw Chris today. He is doing well and getting help.

Dear Jared,

I want to tell you how much i’ve missed you, how much I still love you. I’ve thought of the day you;d be standing in front of me again so I could tell you. But when I saw you I was so mad!

Jared fought back a tear as he kept reading.

You were worried I would recent you for being with you but truth is I recent you for not being with me.

Jared swallowed hard as he flipped to another letter. He saw one dated the night before she hurt herself.

Dear Jared,

  I’m sorry. For being so mad at you. For pushing you away. For such a headcase and making things difficult. I wish things would have been different. That they could have been different. Maybe things were supposed to happen this way. I don’t know. All I do know is you were one of the best things to happen to me. And I want you to know that I love you and none of this is on you.

Always, Lexi

She was saying goodbye. He took another long sip from his glass emptying it. Jared flipped through another handful of of letters and a few more pages of her journal before getting up from his bed, dressing and heading back to the hospital.

~

The nurse walked into Lexi’s room at six am with an I.V. bag of fluids. She was quiet as she walked through the room as to not wake up Jensen who was sleeping on the small couch in the room, feet propped up on the edge and his head on the other, arms crossed over his chest.  And, Jared was on his side next to Lexi in her bed. His head nestled close to hers on the pillow, arm resting across her belly, hand on hers. 

The machine beeped and Jensen blinked awake looking over at the nurse.  “I’m sorry, sir.” The young nurse whispered.

“It’s fine.” Jensen whispered back sitting up the couch squeaking waking Jared.

Jared climbed out of Lexi’s bed and looked at the nurse. “Everything alright?’

“Yes, sir. Just hanging more fluids.” The nurse said to Jared as she pressed a code into the machine. “Her vitals are staying steady.” She told Jensen as he stood next to the bed. “I have a few papers that need signing. I have two contacts on her list?”

“That’d be me.” Jensen raised a hand.

She held the clipboard in her hands. “Which are you, Mr. Ackles or Mr. Padalecki?”

Jared and Jensen both looked at the nurse then to one another in surprise. “SHe has me as an emergency contact?” Jared questioned. 

“More than that.” She looked at the papers in front of her. “You’re Jared Padalecki?” Jared nodded. “You and Mr. Ackles are on a form stating that if anything happens to Ms. Ackles all legal and Medical decisions are to be made by the two of you.” She showed Jared and Jensen a copy of the legalized document. “How are you two related?”

“I’m the brother he’s her boytoy.” Jensen told the nurse casually. “Ma’am when was this document made?”The nurse pointed at a date. “That the year she moved to L.A., look Ellie even signed as a  witness.”

“You didn’t know about this?” Jensen asked him and Jared shook his head. “I’m sorry,” Jensen told the nurse. “What do I need to sign?”

“The first two. It’s consent to treatment for the neuro exams and the other is for billing.”

Jensen signed the papers and the nurse left then he shifted his attention to Jared. “You really didn’t know.”

Jared looked up from Lexi. “Not a clue.”  He gave her hand a squeeze. “She is always full of surprises.” 

“What time is it?” They heard a raspy mumble.

“Lexi?” Jared looked down to see her squirming in the bed. “Hey, baby girl.” He cooed.

“Can I get some water?” She asked trying to sit up

“No, no, don’t sit up.” Jared held up his hands.

“Don’t push yourself.” Jensen handed her a cup with a straw.

Lexi sipped the water and handed the cup to Jared who placed in on the small rolling tray. “How do you feel?” Jared asked. 

“Tired. Kinda groggy.” Her eyes focused on her hands in her lap, instant tears welling. “I’m so sorry,” Both men were at her side in an instant, arms wrapped around her tightly. “I didn’t, I-I just wanted the pain to stop.” She sobbed into Jensen’s chest.  “I couldn’t stop it. It was like I couldn’t breath, my chest was so tight and heavy.” Lexi wet on looking up at Jensen. “I felt like I was on autopilot and once I’d done it, it all just went away.”  She looked between them. “How could I be so stupid?” 

“You’re not stupid, you’re sick.” Jared pulled her close.

“Lex, why didn’t you tell us you were bipolar?” Her brother  took her hand.

“Things were calm and good. For the most part.” She wiped her eyes leaving her head on Jared’s shoulder.  

Two more days past and Lexi began to regain her strength, slowly. She managed to get by with no brain damage but suffered from headaches. Her heart was undamaged as well but the doctor still insisted she remain taking this as slow as possible.  Her mental health was a different story.

“Hey, Jay.” Lexi spoke gaining both Jared and Jensen’s attention. “When can I go home?”

Jensen sat on the edge of her bed and took a breath. “I kinda been wanting to talk to you about that.” He took Lexi’s hand in his and looked her in the eye. “I talked to the doctors and they think that you should go to a place to get some help.”

“You want to send me to a mental hospital?!” Lexi shot up in the bed.

“No, no.” Jared said quickly sitting on the opposite side of her. “It’s a treatment center-”

“You’re in on this, too?!” She looked at Jared horrified.

“Baby girl, listen to us.”Jared said calming her as he placed a hand to her cheek.her face. “It’s not a hospital. It’s a treatment center, kind of like a mental health rehab. The doctors want you to get back on the proper medication and dosages. For that to happen you need to be monitored for a few days or so.” She shook her head in protest as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “We would never send you somewhere if we weren’t absolutely one hundred percent sure it was a good place and you would be taken care of and safe. It’s run by the same doctors that run the practice I go to. I wouldn’t trust you with just anyone, you know that.”

Lexi looked from Jared to Jensen knowing this wasn’t a discussion. “How long?”

“Two, Three weeks, at least.” Jensen said with a small exhale.

Lexi shut her eyes as a single tear escaped. “Where?” She asked swallowing hard as she looked back at them. 

“Like I said, here in Austin. We’d be able to visit you while in treatment.” Jared told her.

~

By the next afternoon she was being shown to her room at the Austin Recovery Center. It was the last place she wanted to be but she knew it was something she had to do. Her room held two beds and was plain. The building was on the outskirts and on several acres of beautiful full green pastures. In fact, the place reminded her of an old ranch, without all the animals. 

Lexi spent the first few days in her room trying to be okay with the fact that she was away from the people that kept her sane. She’d cry then she’d get angry then she’d cry again. 

Her new shrink, Dr. Turner, was a brunette woman that had a bubbly personality. Reminded Lexi of herself a few years ago. Dr. Turner suggested Lexi began taking Lithium again and wanted to make sure the dosage was correct. Three session with Dr. Turner a week along with group every day. Lexi didn’t like the idea of group too much. She didn’t like telling her therapist things much less an entire group of people she didn’t really know.

Which brings her to where she is today. A week and a half of being in treatment and she still hasn’t opened up much. In group she hasn’t opened up at all. So she sat quietly in her chair, knees up to her chest, listening as the other patience spoke.

“I wanna know why the new chick never talks.” Jesse, a young man, early twenties, long, dark brown layered hair nearly to his shoulders and light blue eyes spoke. “Do you think you’re better than us?”

“Not at all.” Lexi shifted her eyes to him but moved nothing else.

“She speaks!” Jesse said lifting his hands. “I was starting to thing you didn’t have a tongue or something.”

“I just don’t like talking to people I don’t know.” Lexi answered still not lifting her head.

“Well, you’ve been listening to us babble for over a week. Don't you think you know enough to share a little?” Jesse asked moving his dark hair away from his face.

“What do you want to know?”

“Is Lexi your real name or nickname?” A girl, Bathany, a bottle blond, very thin, asked across the circle.

“Nickname.”

“What’s your real name then?” Jesse asked.

“Alexia”

“That’s pretty, why change it?” He asked.

Lexi simply shrugged. “A nickname my brother gave.”

“Why are you in here?” Bethany asked again. “Aren’t you a model or some shit?”

“Language.” Dr. Turner, who was leading the group that day, spoke.

“I did model, yes.”

“Then, why are you in here?” The girl asked again. “Isn’t your brother like really famous, too?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“You say that like money and fame fixes shit.” Jesse said towards the other girl.

“For some people it would.” The girl spat. “So why are you here. You’ve been sitting in group for almost two week and said nothing. You never talk outside of group either.”

Lexi looked at Dr. Turned who nodded her head as a sign of motivation to speak. “I tried to kill myself.”

“How?” Jesse asked sitting forward, curious.

“I  drank a bottle of whiskey, took a handful of vicodin and slit my wrists.” 

“Damn, you really wanted to get the job done.” Bethany said with a grin.

“Okay, that’s enough for today.” the Doctor spoke.

Lexi sat on the grass looking out at the flower filled fields across the property. The wind was warm against her skin as she watched the birds fly.

“So, you care for company?” Jesse said walking up.

“Sure.” She looked up at him as he sat down next to her.

“What are you doing out here alone?” He asked looking at her.

“I like the view. Jesse, right?”

“Yeah.” He nodded looking at her carefully. 

“How are your cuts?” She asked pointing to his bandaged forearms.

“Better. You?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You really tried to kill yourself?” He asked bluntly as Lexi gave him a nod. “How and why?”

“I told you in group.”

“That was a watered down version.” He told her.

“I drank a fifth of whiskey then walked over to my-” She paused and corrected herself. “A friend’s house and took a handful of his pain pills. After sitting on the floor I took his razor and just cut.”

“Why?”

“I just didn’t want to feel anymore.” She looked at him. “The minute I heard my friend’s voice I knew I’d made a mistake but it was too late.” She took a breath. “Does that satisfy your curiosity. Is it enough info to run back and tell the little bitchy blonde in hopes of getting in her pants?”

“I-”

“I am not stupid. I learned how to read people years ago.” She turned her attention back to the field.

“Maybe I just changed my mind on that.” He was clearly intrigued.

“You’re not getting into my pants either.” She said with sass.

“Wow, you are a feisty one, aren’t you?” Jesse gave a cheeky grin.

“You have no idea.” A deep voice came from behind them.

Lexi turned to see Jared standing there with his hands in his pockets and a visitors tag clipped to his shirt. “Jared?” Lexi stood looking at him her heart began to race at the sight of him. The last time she saw him she was still in the hospital. “What are you doing here?! Oh, Jared this is Jesse, he is in my group. Jesse this is Jared-”

“The friend?” Jesse said with a smile looking at her. “Hey, nice to meet you.” Jesse extended his hand to Jared.

Jared shook his hand. “You too.”

“I’ll leave you two.” Jesse turned walking away.

Lexi turned to Jared and he gave a hesitant, nervous chuckle, clearing his throat. “Can I- can I hug you?”

“Of course!” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders.  “My God, I’m so happy to see you. I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you too.” He leaned his head on hers. He took a step back and looked at her. “You, you look good.”

“Liar,” She looked away trying to hide her redding cheeks. “I look like crap.” 

“Nonsense.” 

 “Come on, let’s sit.” She guided him to a bench.

“Seriously, you look great. Your cheeks are a perfect pink.” He said giving her cheek a small touch. “How do you feel?”

“Tired mostly. I have these really bad headaches. Doctors say it could be from my meds or from the trauma of all that happened.” She fiddled with her hands in her lap. . “I- I like the beard.”

“Yeah?” He ran his hand over his facial hair. “We finished filming like a week ago.”

“Ahh, so it’s hiatus beard time.” She said with a smile tucking her hair behind her ears.

Jared saw the bandaged on her wrist and gently took her hand. “Are you healing okay?”

“Yeah. They’re just itchy.” She looked up at him. “How about you? How are you with all of this?”

“I’m good.” He spoke and she gave him a look, a look he knew well. A look letting him know she didn’t believe him. One look and he gave in. “Alright, I lied. I’m worried about you.”

“I know.” She placed her hand upon his cheek. “But, you don't have to. I’m okay. I feel a lot better being on medicine again. It was adjusted to higher dose last week.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you’re sticking to the doctor’s instructions.”

“I should have never stopped taking my meds. I felt good. I figured I was better.”

“A lot of people do that. That’s why they tell you talk to a doctor before stopping your meds.” He placed his hand on hers. “Oh, Jay told me to tell you he misses you and you need to get your ass better so you can come home.”

“I’m actually surprised he wasn’t here with you.” She gripped his hand a bit. “He has been here every visitation day since I got here.”

“He called me and asked if I would like to come see you. I asked if he was coming but he said I could come just me.”

“Really?”

“I was just as surprised as you.” Jared told her.

 Lexi nodded. “I’m glad you came. So, Are the kids good?”

“Yeah. They actually ask about you a lot.”

“Awe, I miss them.” She smiled.

“Oh,” He pulled a few pictures out of his pocket. “I have something for you.”

It was all photos  of the kids playing at his place in Austin. “Oh, look at them!” She boasted. “They’ve gotten even bigger.” She said as she flipped through seeing different picks of Jared and Jensen with them as well as Danneel and Genevieve.

“Odette is starting to crawl.

“Is she?” Her eyes sparkled. “And the twins?”

“Are just like Jensen in every way.”

“Poor Danneel.” She giggled flipping through the pictures still. “It’s only been a few weeks but seems so much longer.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Here you go.” Lexi handed him the photos.

“Oh, no, those are yours to keep. I asked the doctor and she said it was okay.” He looked around and reached into his jacket pocket. “Actually. I have one more for you.” He handed her a picture of the two of them together from when they were together. 

Lexi looked at the picture of the two of them snuggled together outside by a fire. One of the few times they had gotten to be outside like that together. “This is one of my favorite pics of us.” 

“‘I know.”  He smiled down at her, the glimmer in her eyes filling his heart. “That’s why I brought it.”

“Thank you. It means a lot.”

The two hour visit went by a lot faster than they’d liked. We they hugged before he left, Jared held on a little longer, a little tighter than he needed. Just the feeling of having her in his arms, so warm and full of life. It’s what he needed after finding her cold and lifeless in his bathroom. Lexi could see in his eyes the longing he felt.

 Lexi sat in Dr. Turner’s office watching as the doctor settled into her position across from her. “So, you had a visitor today.” The doctor began. “Who was it?”

“Yeah, Jared.”

“How do you know Jared?”

“He’s a friend. Also my brother’s best friend.”

“Oh?” Lexi nodded. “Is that all?” The doctor challenged. “Just you and your brother’s friend?”  

“I don’t know what we are to be honest.” She said looking down at her hands as she picked the remaining nail polish off.

“Why is that?”

Lexi looked at her therapist and took an audible breath. “What I tell you can’t leave this room, right?” Lexi eyed her. 

“As long as you or anyone else isn’t in any danger, that’s correct.”

“So if I tell you some stuff that happened like two years ago, even though it’s not really bad but some people may not approve, you can’t say anything? Right?”

“Unless you’re hiding a dead body someplace, no.” Dr. Turner chuckled.

“Okay, um, Jared and I have… history.” She looked at the doctor. “Like romantic history.”

“I see. Why do you see that as a problem?” The doctor scribbled something down.

“Because I was a minor at the time. I - mean sorta but not really.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow lifted.

“Not Like a kid, but I was seventeen the first time we slept together.” Lexi’s hands were sweaty as she rubbed them on the knees of her pants.

“How old was he?”

“Thirty two. And I know that sound really bad.”

“Lexi, why are you jumping to defend this to me? That’s legal.” The doctor asked as she wrote in her notebook again.

“Because,” She sighed with an eyeroll.  “I know what you’re thinking and what you want to say even though you can’t say it.”

“Is that so?” The doctor studied her for a moment. “Lexi, do people know about and Jared’s past?”

“A Handful of people.”

“Did they react unfavorable?”

“My brother threatened to have him thrown in jail for statutory rape.”

“You brother who is his best friend?” Dr. Turner added.

“Yeah. But that’s not the worst of it.” Lexi scoffed.

“I’m guessing the world wind love you told me about was Jared?” Lexi nodded. “Tell me What happened?”

“See, I was living with Jensen and Jared up in Vancouver where he worked. When he found out he made me move back down to Texas and forced us to cut all ties. When really hurt because Jared was my friend, he was my person, you know?” The doctor nodded. “And things just went south after that.”

“How so?”

“Well, first my sister-in -law Danneel through a party with Jared’s ex wife and Jared had to be there for support and all. That night we ended up sleeping together and the next day Jay found out. It was bad. That night Jared broke up with me for good.”

“That must have hurt you.” 

“It did.”

“When were you diagnosed?”

“A few months after I moved to L.A.” She watched as the doctor shook her head and wrote. “Why?”

“Lexi, can I be frank with you?”

“That’s kind of your job.”

Dr. Turned put her book down and leaned forward a bit. “When you’re symptoms began you were focused on Jared. That’s why you didn’t notice them. You were young and in love and it's easy to misplace the highs and lows.”

“So you’re saying, you’re saying I wasn’t in love I was sick?!” She looked at Dr. Turner neary horrified.

“No, no! That’s not what I'm saying! Not at all! I’m saying it seems to me, Jared kept you grounded. When you were forced to cut contact, you lost your anchor.”

“So you’re saying this is Jensen’s fault?” Lexi asked even more confused.

“I’m not saying that, either.” Dr. Turner held up a hand. “Do you feel like it’s Jensen’s fault?”

“No! I mean, I was mad at him at first but I understood and I’m over it now.” Lexi pushed her long, now auburn hair back from her face. “That was the first and only time I’d ever really been that angry at my brother. See, aside from Ellie, Jared was my best friend.”

 “And with Ellie off at college that left Jared. You began to go down and you had no one to catch you so you spiraled.” Dr. Turner” explained. “Lexi, tell me, when you hurt yourself, where were you?”

“Why?” She asked with a small shake of her head.

“You were at Jared’s?” The doctor saw the look of confusion growing on Lexi’s face. ‘Weren’t you?”

“How did yo-” Lexi shifted in her seat. “Uh, yeah, I, I to his house when he wasn’t home.”

 “Why?”

“Because I felt safe?” Lexi answered with no hesitation but paused, a look of extreme horror on her face and tears in her eyes. “And he, he found me.” 

“Did you want him to be the one that found you?”

“No, no, I just wanted to be somewhere I-I,” She quieted not being able to speak. The doctor saw her emotions flashing in her eyes as she recalled that day. “He sounded so far away but I could hear him screaming my name.” Her lip quivered as she spoke the sudden unexpected wave of emotions came down on her. “I could feel him grabbing me and begging me to wake up.” That’s when she broke. “Oh God, how could i do that to him? How could I let him find me like that?”

Dr. Turner moved  next to Lexi and held her. “Because you had no control at that point, it was your illness, not you.”

“He had crap he has to work through, too. How could I be that selfish?” Lexi looked up at her.

“Lexi, when you aren’t medicated and your illness takes control, it’s not you anymore. I’m sure he knows that. If he is as educated in mental health as you say, i’m sure he knows.”

Lexi’s mind was spinning. She’d always wanted to keep Jared safe. She never wanted to drag him into the mess she called a life. She felt as if she’d betrayed him. As if she let him down in the worst possible way.

That was the last time Lexi talked to Dr. Turner in recovery. That breakthrough was what Lexi needed to truly clear her head. She was released from the recovery center but wasn’t ready to be on her own yet in L.A. Although Ellie would be there, she felt she wasn’t at the point to be around all her old triggers. Since her mom and dad were traveling a lot due to her father’s work, Lexi opted to stay at Jensen’s instead of being home alone in Dallas. Lexi much preferred to be around family than alone in a huge house. Not to mention Jensen wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

Lexi would continue to see Dr. Turner in office one to two times per week and ground at least once a week. More if she felt she needed. Her group was similar to an A.A. group. Except instead of drinking the people were anxiety ridden. depressed self harmers. They even had sponsors of a type, “buddies”. Your buddy would depend on you in his/her times of need and vise versa. It gave them responsibility for their actions.

It had been two days since Jared was back in Austin having started filming again, and he still hadn’t contacted Lexi. So, being curious, that afternoon she made her way down the stone path along Lake Austin till she came up on Jared’s backyard. 

He was sitting in a wicker patio chair with his guitar in his lap. Lexi smiled as she walked up the path listening to him strum. Standing just feet away she stopped and watched him for a while. When he glanced up and saw her he stopped playing. “Lexi.” He placed the instrument down and stood. “What are you doing here?”

“I got home a few weeks ago.” She said with her hands in her back pockets. “I thought you would have stopped by when you got home the day before yesterday, but-”

“I was- I did..” Jared shoved his hands in his pockets. “I pulled in the drive but never got out of the car.”

“How come?”

“I didn’t know if I should. I didn’t want to mess up your recovery.” He admitted looking at his feet for a moment. “I’d only seen you the one time in treatment. I didn’t know if you-”

“If I’d be pissed at you now?” 

“Yeah.”

“So, you tell me you won’t push me away this time and you help me then completely disappear after I get released?” She waved a hand.

“You heard that?” He asked in disbelief. “You heard what I Said when you were unconscious?”

Nodding her head. “Most of it, yeah.” She took a step toward him. “Jared, can we talk?”

“Yeah. Come in, I’ll get you something to drink.” He motioned to the door as she followed him in. “Beer, soda, water?”

 “Water is good. I’m kind of staying away from alcohol for now.” 

 “Of course.” He shook his head in realization as he grabbed a water from the fridge. “I’m sorry, I-’

“It’s okay.” She smiled softly taking the bottle of water from him.

They sat in the living room, Jared making a mental note of her physical condition. Her cheeks held a pink tone again and her lips were back to their red shade. She seemed to have more charisma in her although she did have a cautious air about her.

Placing her bottle down she looked at Jared and raised her hand to his cheek for a brief second before grazing along his stubble. “You look good, Jare.” She told him with an exhale.

“Are you okay?”

“Jared, I came here to tell you how truly, unbelievably sorry I am.” Jared gave her a confused look. “I didn’t think about how finding me like that-” Taking a pause for a breath she looked up at him. “I’m so sorry I did that to you.” She tried to hold back the tears that insisted on rising.

“Don’t be.” He told her. “I’m not.”

“What? How could-”

“Because if I wouldn’t have found you then you wouldn’t have been here today. I rather deal with that then putting you in a casket, do you understand me?” He told her holding her face between his hands. “Listen to me.” He gained her eyes and focus. “I heard you. I heard you before the paramedics came in. You said you were sorry.” Tears threatened to rise in his eyes. “You said you wanted to take it back.”

“You could hear me?” Her voice a whimpered cry.

“Always.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ll always hear you, baby girl.” Touching his lips to hers for a moment he pulled back and looked at her. “Lexi, I love you.”

“Jared,” She looked down finding it hard to concentrate or even breathe looking into his eyes. When she glanced back up his eyes drew her in. His touches, swift and calculated, felt like fire through her body when he touched her. “My God, I’ve missed you.” She whispered between sweet, simple kisses.

In a mess of pulling and grabbing, they traveled up the stared to his bedroom dropping clothes from the door to the bed. All Jared wanted was to be inside of her again. He needed it like he needed air to breath.

Sliding into her Lexi gripped his arms burying her face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him filling her, heating her already heated flesh. She tangled her fingers into his silky long hair giving a slight tug, her hips rising from the bed as Jared grinded into her never letting the bodies part. Sweat beaded his forehead as Lexi pushed away the hair from his eyes, his lips finding hers easily.

~

Now they lay in his bed with the hot Texas sun shining in through the balcony windows. Lexi sat up, the sheet still pressed against her body knees to her chest. Jared laid with an arm behind his head and his other stretch out caressing her bare back with his calloused fingers.

“What are you thinking?”He asked her.

She stared into the bathroom. “How stupid I was.” She looked back at him. “How much I’ve screwed up over the past few years.”

Jared leaned forward pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Don’t apologize for being sick. That’s something you couldn’t control.” Lexi looked into his eyes and a pang of guilt hit her. “I miss this. You and me, being together.”

“Me too.”

“But Jared, I have to be honest with you.” She faced him. “I’m not supposed to get involved with anyone for a while.” Looking down she felt Jared’s fingertips grazing her bare arms. “It’s part of my therapy.”

Leaning back he looked up at her. “I know.” Her eyes darted to him. “Well, I didn;t know but I had a feeling it would be.”  He Cleared his throat shifting to the edge of the bed. “Listen, why don’t we get dressed and head downstairs.” He slid into his Saxx and grabbed his shorts. “I’ll meet you down there in a bit. Take your time.”

Lexi dressed quietly and made her way down stairs thoroughly confused. Rounding the kitchen she heard Jared talk and stopped just within ear shot. “Yeah, she’s okay.” She heard Jared say. “I promise I'll bring her back later.” Lexi took a step closer trying to see if she could hear who was on the other line. “Jay, i’ll keep her safe.” Jared turned and saw Lexi standing there. “I gotta go.” He pulled the phone from his ear and looked at her. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Were you telling him you just got done nailing his little sister?” She said hoisting herself up on the counter. 

“No, I wouldn’t-”

“It’s a joke, Jare.” She said with a smile. “So what was this? Just a quick hit before it's too late?” She eyed him. “What’s going on? If you knew I had conditions to my treatment why didn’t you stop what just happened?”

“Lex,” He grabbed her hand and pulled her from the counter and sat her in chair at the breakfast nook. “Listen, I need to tell you something.” He walked to a drawer and opened it. “I took your journal.” He held he worn book in his hand.

“Why?” She looked up from where she sat unsure what he was about to tell her. “Why would you do that>”

He placed the book on the table and sat next to her. “When you were sedated, I - I read it.”

Lexi looked down at her hands feeling her anxiety bubble to the surface. “You did?”

“And I found the letters.”

She stood from the table feeling mortified as she carefully pushed the chair beneath the table. “I should, um I should go.” 

“Wait, no.” He stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her arms.

 She backed away crossing her arms over her chest. “Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” He held up his hands. “I- I just, this isn’t going how I thought it in my head.” He huffed.

“You’re having conversations in your head but, I’m the one that just got out of the nut house.” She shook her head. “Hell of a match, aren’t we?” After everything her sarcasm remained.

He then ran a frustrated hand over his face. “Can I explain? Please?” He held out a hand for her to sit back down with him and she did. “I’m trying to tell you that I get it.” She gave another unsure expression. “I just,  I didn’t, I didn’t know I was, that you, ugh, damn it” He ran another frustrated hand over his face. “It was the same for me as it was for you.” He finally got the words out. “You kept me calmer, my anxiety was less, I felt like I could function on a whole new level when we were together. Even my bad days were good.” His confession poured out catching Lexi off guard. “I wanted to tell you that I know how it felt. It wasn’t just you. And, and being with you today, It was good to feel that again. Even if I know it won’t last.”

“Wow.” Lexi let the word out in an exhale. “I, uh, I think I should have went with that beer.” She chuckled.

“What? I, I mean, you’re not mad?” He asked astonished.

“Jared, if I was to trust my deepest more personal thoughts to anyone,” She reached taking his hand. “It’s you.”

Jared still held a guilty look. “I’m still sorry I invaded your privacy.”

“If you can forgive me for what I did, I certainly can forgive you for being so concerned.” Jared smiled at her and her heart fluttered. “Now what?”

“We focus on you getting better and know i’ll be here for whatever.”

“Jared you know I-”

“You don’t want me waiting for you, I know.” 

He kissed the back of her hands. “Just focus on you, okay?”

Next Chapter>

TAGS: @saxxxyjared @xostephanie @onethirstyunicorn @dreaminemz @squirrelnotsam​  @jbbarnesgirl @thevelvetseries​

[ks-caster]

Letters to Gabriel

Fandom: Heroes

Characters: Elle, Gabriel

Notes: Throughout her arc, Elle develops a coping mechanism where she writes letters to Gabriel - even though she’s often betraying or being betrayed by him, somehow writing her thoughts to him helps.

Gabriel and Peter are going through old Pinehurst files, and Gabe finds a manila envelope full of these letters - she kept them, and they were archived.

Letters 1 and 2, as well as the rest of the outline, are available under the cut.

Chapter 1:

Dear Gabriel,

They didn’t tell me how cute you were. 

Or how depressed. 

It was just supposed to be a simple meet ‘n’ greet assignment; I go in, say hello, plug my name into the back of your head for when it’s needed later, and then walk off the face of the earth until next time. 

Well, you know that’s not how it happened.

My hands are shaking. This has been the craziest afternoon. And now here I am, sitting in a corner of an unused office, writing a letter that I can never send, to a guy I barely know. I’m not good at dealing with stress and fear and uncertainty… all those uncomfortable, nagging emotions that no one—at least in my line of work—ever has. Or at least, they don’t admit to them. 

My father has told me all my life that I’m supposed to be stronger, smarter, better. I can’t stoop to being mediocre in anything, and God forbid I should be below-average. So I can’t be worried, not in front of anyone. I can’t be shocked and disturbed that I almost walked in on your dead body. That’s why I’m scribbling my thoughts to a complete stranger on a memo pad I found—okay, stole from—beside Bennett’s phone. I’ve gotta do something, so maybe this will help me calm down before I break down into a nervous wreck.

After I left your shop, Bennett told me that we’re not just observing you because you have a power. We’re waiting for you to kill someone. Bennett said that we needed to see you hunt “in the wild,” because transferring power from one vessel to another is extremely rare. But I’m guessing that the homemade noose—a sturdy thing; I can’t believe that you actually bought it when I said it broke on its own—might just be an indicator that you’re not interested in killing anymore. Maybe what you did before was a fluke. Maybe we’re wrong in our analysis. Maybe we’re totally off-base, and you didn’t kill the guy at all.

But then, why would you try to hang yourself?

Okay, so you probably did murder him. But, well, I’m an agent—if a junior one—and I’ve killed loads of people. You offed one guy… It’s hard for me to remember that kind of… of innocence. I have to go pretty far back. Actually, I don’t even remember the first person I killed, so I have trouble understanding what the big deal is. But it’s sort of sad, still. You seem like an all-around decent guy who made a mistake that can’t ever be fixed.

And you said I was like an angel. When you looked at me, your eyes were so full of light. I’m a manipulative, violent, compassionless bitch, who dreams of becoming a good enough femme fatale to impress her high-standards father. But when you finally got around to figuring out that I was there, when you asked me for my name, when you said I was like an angel… nobody’s ever looked at me like that. Certainly no one’s ever asked for forgiveness from me. More importantly, I was never the kind of person who would ever even consider giving forgiveness if it was asked.

Your face, the way you saw me, what you said… I liked it. It was like I was actually a nice person, for the first time in, well, ever. 

Even though it’ll be pretty bad luck for you, I look forward to seeing you again. I want to see your face, and see you look at me like I’m an angel.

I want the excuse to act like I’m an angel again.

Until next time,

Elle.

The letter was written on lined notepad paper with the Primatech logo in the bottom right-hand corner of each mini-sheet. It had been folded several different ways, and also torn in half—all at once, by the slant—and carefully repaired with scotch tape. 

Behind him the lock on the door rattled as a key was inserted, and Gabriel took a deep breath and then slid the whole stack of papers back into the envelope, closed it, and hid it inside of his shirt. After spending several virtual years alone with Peter in the dreary loneliness of his mind, Gabriel didn’t keep too many secrets from his friend. But this… until he’d read the whole thing, he wanted it to be just his. Not so much secret as personal, he decided, and that was okay. He was entitled to a little privacy.

Chapter 2:

Elle’s second letter was written on the backs of old calendar pages. On one side of each piece of paper a month was divided into little squares for each date, and on the other side her simple, slanted script filled the entire page with dark blue ink. 

Gabriel had taken the big manila envelope back to the hotel room he was sharing with Peter, and had laid the stack out neatly on the desk, in the order they had been in originally. He resisted the urge to look ahead; he had all the letters, so he might as well read them in the order in which they were written. Besides, this might be the only record left of Elle Bishop’s life, thanks to the efficiency of people like Bennett who wouldn’t want dead agents to leave a paper trail. Out of respect for her, he decided, he would read the letters in order, leaving the memory stick for last, since she clearly wasn’t very high-tech in the beginning.

Dear Gabriel, the second letter began.

Hey, it’s me again. You know, I’ve never actually had peach pie before; it was good.

Being with you… was good.

From the moment I stepped through the door, I was walking on air. I was expecting the “angel look” again, but the whole night, I got something better, something I never knew I’d ever want. You looked at me like I was… me. Not “Agent Bishop,” not the Director’s-Creepy-Twisted-Protégé-Daughter, just me, and no one else. All evening, I was just “Elle.” And it was wonderful.

You said you fought with a hunger for more abilities, that you had wanted to be “more special,” and that now you think it’s okay to be ordinary. But oh, Gabriel, you’ll never be ordinary. No one ordinary could ever make me—me!—feel so calm, so complete, so at-home.

Gabriel, I don’t care how corny that romantically-retarded Bennett said it was. I stand by what I said: you are special just the way you are.

And some tiny corner of my brain, the part of me that still has enough human left in it to care, is utterly repulsed and terrified by what I’m about to do to you.

I tried—well, okay; my attempt was lame and went nowhere. I bucked at the reins a little, that’s a better way of putting it. I told Bennett after I left that I thought your suicide attempt was a wake-up call; that I didn’t think you’d kill again if left to your own devices. I even said I refused to turn you into a monster.

But then he reminded me that if I didn’t follow orders, I wasn’t an agent, and if I wasn’t an agent, I couldn’t stay with the company. I’ve been trained—as Bennett reminded me—since I was four years old, by my father, who believed in me, who supported me, who groomed me to be the best and brightest. If I’m not with the company, then… where am I supposed to go?

He’s my dad. He’s put so much effort into raising me. I can’t betray him. 

Not even for someone who makes me feel as… as right as you do.

I gotta stop writing you letters, seriously. I have the one from the day we met stashed in the bottom of my jewelry box—dunno why I kept that one—but there have been others, just notes, really, scribbled on napkins or post-its. Like I said in the first one, I don’t really know what to do when something’s wrong, you know, in my head. Whenever I’m upset or hurting or just surprised about something, I always “tell you,” even though I’m not actually sending you, the real live Gabriel, any of these letters. It became a habit practically over the night, and it’s sticking like a leech. I’ve tried keeping a journal instead, but it just doesn’t work.

Because when I write, I think about what you might look like reading it. I imagine your face, your eyes, how you might look at me, and tell me it’s okay to be ordinary, that I don’t have to be special either.

But if everything goes as planned with our date-night next Saturday, then… Well, it’s just really, really stupid and probably unhealthy for me to keep doing this. I’d never live it down if someone found these. So this will be my last letter to you, Gabriel.

I really wish there was something I could do to save you from me.

Elle 

It wasn’t the last letter, clearly. The stack below it on the desk had to contain at least four or five more.

Gabriel stood up and strode to the window, pulling on the thin chain to make the horizontal blinds rotate open. He stared down at the parking lot below, needing a moment to breathe before continuing. So, even beforehand she knew that what she was doing was cruel and terrible. 

Turning quickly on his heel, Gabriel stalked back to the desk, sat himself down, and picked up the third letter. Delaying the inevitable was just another kind of slow torture.

Part of Chapter 3:

What have I done?

Elle’s third letter, written in black pen on plain unlined copier paper, began without any introduction.

What have I done? She wrote, the script perfect and even, like that thought had consumed her long enough for her to write it out neatly before she could continue. The rest of the letter was barely legible—her hands must have been shaking terribly, or else she’d written it in a moving vehicle. Probably the former, Gabriel thought as he carefully deciphered the wobbly handwriting.

What have I done? Oh Gabriel, what have I done to you?

I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Gabriel, you can’t imagine how sorry I am—or perhaps you can. You tried to kill yourself, after all, when you murdered that man, and now I’ve destroyed you, and there’s a razor-blade on the desk by my elbow still wet with my blood. Some people say that cutting helps when you feel like this, but it didn’t help me at all. 

Nothing can help me right now; not even writing this. The thing I do to keep myself sane now hinges on someone whose sanity I shattered. Irony is cruel…

Even killing myself—yes, I thought about that—wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change anything, it wouldn’t undo anything. So here I sit, bandages wrapped around my bleeding arm, writing yet another letter I can never send, to a man to whom I really do owe these words. I’m so sorry.

And you didn’t kill me.

You told me to get out—to run away before you hurt me. Even in that state, even in the frenzy I pushed you into, you had a strong enough heart to try and save me.

The paper was badly water-damaged; from tears, Gabriel assumed. These obscured the writing so badly that for several paragraphs, only a few scattered words were readable. 

Twenty-two years of my life, the letter continued after the worst of the damage, and I’ve never had anyone look at me like you did—in the clock shop like I was an angel, and in your apartment like I was just Elle. You made me feel like I could actually be that way; not Agent Bishop, but just myself. 

The next sentence was crossed out, and Gabriel had to focus carefully to make out the words. Even my father never looks at me that way, she’d said, and then deleted as best she could.

But I can’t undo what I’ve done. I can’t unmake the monster I created. No matter how much I wish I’d been brave enough or good enough to say “no” at the time, I can’t change the past. I hate myself, and I think I always will. I hope I do. If I brush this feeling under the rug, if I forget how horrible this was, how horrible I was… then what will I become? It must have taken a demon to raise a demon.

She post-scripts more about how much of a coward she is: she doesn’t type it because she doesn’t want any chance that a record of her emotional slip-up will reach Bennett or her father. When Gabriel finds it, it has been torn in half and then carefully repaired with scotch tape.

Outline:

Chapter 3: Elle’s third “letter” is a long rambling apology, dated the same day she manipulated him into killing Trevor. That night she went home and was so full of self-loathing that she didn’t know what to do. She tried to let it out by cutting herself, but it didn’t help; she wasn’t changing anything, and even suicide wouldn’t change what she’d done to him. So she patched herself up and decided to write him a letter—a letter that she knew even then that she could never actually send—telling him how incredibly stupid and guilty and sorry, sorry, sorry she was. Twenty-two years of life, and she’d never had anyone look at her like he did that day in the clock shop; first with eyes full of tears, then with wonder, like she was an angel, and then that day when they’d had pie in his apartment, like she was just Elle. Not agent Bishop, not some made-up character, but Elle, just herself. Even her father didn’t ever look at her that way. (Perhaps that bit is crossed out?) But she can’t undo what she’s done, no matter how much she wishes she’d been brave enough to say no at the time. The letter is written in shaky handwriting on pieces of unlined blank printer paper. She post-scripts more about how much of a coward she is: she doesn’t type it because she doesn’t want any chance that a record of her emotional slip-up will reach Bennett or her father. When Gabriel finds it, it has been torn in half and then carefully repaired with scotch tape.

Chapter 4: Elle’s fourth letter is written—still by hand—a little more neatly on lined, three-ring-punched paper. It has also been torn and repaired. This one is dated several months after the first, and she talks about how she has Peter in custody, and how she’s read the new files on Sylar, and can’t help but wonder if he’s happier that way, with no inhibitions or conscience. But then she records a conversation she had with Dr. Suresh, and Mohinder tells her about how he found the words “Forgive me!” scrawled in blood on the wall of Gabriel’s apartment before the evidence was removed. Now Elle is conflicted. She wants to be a good daughter and a good agent, but she’s having problems with her father. Her father is concerned about the problem Sylar poses, and she’s afraid that she is being blamed for his actions, even though she was following orders when she created him. That’s why she writes another letter—not to Sylar, but to her friend Gabriel, the sweet single guy whose oddities made him easy to talk to, like he would understand her problems because she wasn’t any stranger than he was. But then she reflects on how she destroyed that part of him, and she can never forgive herself.

Chapter 5: Elle’s fifth letter is a rant, written so hard on the paper that it is torn in places and grooved in others. It is on paper torn out of a notebook, and the only tape repairs are where she tore it from writing too hard. She starts off by calling him every bad name she can think of in all capitals, then calms down enough to record that she tore up her two previous letters, and then thought better of it and fixed them, because writing these was helping her keep her head on straight. She goes on to say all the horrible punishments she’d like to inflict on him, and then says how scared she is. Scared because she created an even worse monster than she ever expected, scared because without her father to guide her she has no idea what she’s supposed to do, scared because there’s relief mixed in; she finally doesn’t have to try so hard to impress him. She’s so confused, and even though she hates him, writing a letter to the old him seemed like it might help.

Chapter 6: Elle’s sixth letter is written shakily again, and hasn’t been ripped, though several parts of the page were burned off and re-written on clean paper, which was then taped to the bottom so that the whole thing is readable. She admits how much pain she is in, and how lost she is, and how she is going to Bennet—the man who pressured her into turning Gabriel into the monster who killed her father—for help, because he was the man with the plan; the one with all the answers. She feels a dull, routine sort of hatred for him, but she is so confused and hurt and lost that she doesn’t really know how she feels about anyone anymore. She had even started to blame her dearly departed father for turning her into what she is, but she feels that that’s disrespecting him in death and… She feels that she shouldn’t need the man who murdered her father. She shouldn’t need anyone; she’s supposed to be strong. But she needs him. Writing to him is the only thing keeping her sane. And maybe that simple fact just goes to prove how truly crazy she really is. 

Chapter 7: Elle’s seventh letter is written on burned and repaired paper just like her sixth, from sitting on a plane with Claire Bennet, of all people, on her way to some mystery company to get help. She describes again how the lightning is building up inside of her and making her sick, and how she barely dares to hope that this new company will be able to help her. She’s vacillating wildly between hating him and wanting to kill him and almost wishing he were here—the old Gabriel—so that she could talk to him, and have him look at her like that one more time, like she was just Elle and nothing else. The fact that he could feel remorse for what he had done—when he tried to hang himself—the fact that he could try to change, to go straight… The old Gabriel had sort of inspired her to be better. But it wasn’t enough, apparently. She still didn’t have the guts to take his side against the schemes of the Company. 

Chapter 8: Elle’s eighth letter is typed, and in perfect condition. There’s nobody to fear reading it, really, although she does admit to deleting it from the system after she prints it. She says, “Hey Gabriel, what do you know, I’m writing another letter that I’ll never give you, and you’re asleep in the next room over. This is ironic.” She goes on to say how grateful she is for everything he did. Even though he claimed she did it on her own, she says she never would’ve thought it was okay to forgive herself if someone else hadn’t done it first. She says that the things he’s done only allow him to see the good in others better, because he knows what it’s like to be drowning in his own darkness. She admits concern over the Arthur Petrelli situation, but she chooses not to tell him the truth just yet. She says she intends to, but right now he’s so new to the idea that he has a choice about who he is and how he lives. She believes that he’s not destined to become his parents, but she’s not so sure he’ll believe it yet, so as twisted and evil as Arthur is, she lets Gabriel believe he is his father for now, because if he finds out what Sampson Gray is like, she’s afraid he’ll go right back to how he was. She concludes by saying that she believes he has to power to change, and that Arthur may be using him, but he’s also helping him whether he intends to or not. She plans to stick close and help him break away from his pseudo-family, and then tell him the truth when she thinks the time is right. Then she ends by saying, “look at me, acting all mature and knowing, like I think I’m a seer or something. You’re important to me, Gabriel, and I’ll do anything in my power to undo the wrong I did you, even if I have to lie to you for now.” –This would end the cannon drabbles, because Elle literally dies the next day, and Gabriel is confused when he finds a memory stick also in the envelope.

Chapter 9: This one’s a video letter from Gabriel himself; the Gabe of the future. In it, he details out how time would’ve progressed, and talks about his life with Elle—now Elle Gray—and his son, Noah. (The video shows him holding up a picture of their family.) He talks about how Elle’s power started maturing, and she’s a lot more than she seems. She told him that the future would end; that their lives together wouldn’t last, but he said he didn’t care. He wanted her here and now, even if it wouldn’t be forever, because he loved her. A few weeks ago, she started to seem distant and preoccupied, and she finally ‘fessed up that the end of the future was coming soon. She said that she would use the last of her power as she faded to make sure that their son had a chance to survive. He couldn’t time-travel, but he asked her to put this with her letter collection, so that the Gabriel—the Sylar—of the past would find it and know that even though this particular future was gone, the chance for a life without hands covered in blood was still there if he had what it took to follow it. –Gabriel finishes this video in confusion. There’s also a file on the stick, a typed letter from Elle-of-the-Future.

Chapter 10: Elle-of-the-Future writes and explains how she “caught” past-Elle before she made it to that beach, swapped clothes, put on the bloody bandage, and hid her away in another country before taking her place. Since the future—and her existence with it—was disappearing, she would’ve literally faded and vanished if he hadn’t killed her, and she’s still alive, in the past, and pregnant with their son. She says that her vision isn’t nearly as specific as that of the person who initially explained all this to her, and she doesn’t know where his head will be when he reads this, so for their child’s safety she doesn’t say where Elle is. She does say that she loves him, and still believes in him.

Chapter 11-etc…: Meanwhile, Elle—hidden in another country—still writes letters to Gabriel whenever she needs to clear her head. She writes about what happened between her and Elle-of-the-Future, and also writes one when she figures out that she’s pregnant—and it’s gotta be his. She writes about how—on that last, craziest day of her life—she was terrified, but sort of exhilarated, because she knew she’d have to rely on him more, to protect her. 

She writes about how Claire’s media revelation has forced her to keep herself very carefully in check. She has the baby, writes about it, about how much issue she had with her powers maturing while she was pregnant, and how she was afraid to use them at all until the baby was born. 

She writes at length about labor—she has Noah in a wrecked buss, or some such violent scene. Afterward she lets loose a stunning, frightening display of power that has been held in check for far too long. This reveals her true nature to (bad guys/media) and she has to go on the run. Rebel helps her—she leaves his true identity out just in case some random person ever reads it, to Gabriel’s great amusement when he finally reads it. 

Elle ends up working with kids like Rebel and Molly—and a few OC’s—to help other Empowered in need, and once she’s set up in a house, the kids all live there, so she’s part partner, part mom. She writes to him about how she’s not just a mother to her own child, she’s got a group of grade-and-middle-schoolers sleeping on her couches. 

Also she writes all her thoughts about Noah’s name. She wants an angel’s name, because with all the exposure it’s not safe to call him Gray. She thinks about Michael, but it’s too much like Micah, who lives with her, and she doesn’t want it to get confusing. (She doesn’t get a chance to name her son until a while after he is born, due to running for their lives.) In the end, she chooses Noah, because Noah was a survivor, and she thought that if there was any sort of fate attached to a name, she wanted one that came with protection. It didn’t occur to her until later—and another letter—that Bennet’s first name was Noah. Oops, oh well. Maybe Noah Grayson Bishop will be a better Noah than Noah Bennet.

Her letters conclude with some confessions about how much she still misses him, and how she’s so dependent on her memory of him, and wants him for real. Then she says how she can be totally honest here because no one will ever read these, and how even now she doesn’t have the guts to send them, even though she learned through Molly—whose power matured, making her basically omniscient—that he was reformed now and safe to have around baby Noah. She also admits that she’s frightened, because her power is maturing as well, and her body is changing into she doesn’t really know what.

At this point, Molly decides to send the entire package to Gabriel. She writes him a letter as well, explaining that she can’t like him—because of what he did to her parents—but she can’t hate him either, because of what she’s seen of his life and the way he has been changed. She reflects that she doesn’t really have the capacity for hatred anymore, because she knows everything about people, and can’t help but sympathize at least a little. She finishes by saying please don’t tell anyone that she sent the letters, because word might get back to Mohinder, and he wouldn’t understand.

Then Gabriel writes back. In the penultimate chapter, he says he needs to explain, to apologize, and that he’s been thinking about her and missing her too. He says he wants to meet.

In the epilogue, Gabriel enters a restaurant—or wherever—and sees the back of Elle’s head. He is overcome by nerves. She may not have been present as such, but his last memory of her is killing her. He is afraid to approach; his foot won’t move forward anymore. Then Elle lifts up Noah, and he looks Gabriel straight in the eye. It’s a baby’s face, but somehow it says, “Well dad, what are you waiting for? Get over here.” He smiles, and takes the next step towards the booth. 

Down comes the curtain, have a nice day readers!

[everyoneisgay]

Honest Mixtape: You Know You by Grace M.

Welcome to March’s “Honest Mixtape”! Every month we will feature a new writer who will tackle one of your advice questions with words *and* music!

“I came home to find my mom sitting at the kitchen table with a 'mom' look on her face, when i asked how her day was i was terrified and taken back when she said "you're not a lesbian" because my worst fear had finally come true and i had no clue how she knew. I sat there tears rolling down my face as she told me that god didn't make me this way and it was just a phase, i ran up to my room and to find not one but all my journals on my desk just open. I don't know what to do or how to bring it up.”

Grace Says:

Hey there, friend.

I am so, so sorry this happened to you. As a lifelong journaler myself, I get a pit in my stomach thinking about your privacy being violated in this way. Journals can be such important spaces for us to explore our feelings, to document our thoughts, and to find clarity about who we are and who we want to be. I am angry at your mom on your behalf for not only disregarding your privacy in such a personal way, but then using that information to hurt you even further.

It’s ok for you to be angry, too.

I really encourage you to not bury your feelings about this horrible situation, but rather to do whatever you have to do to bring them into the light of day. Do you need to sit on your floor and scream and cry so the whole neighborhood hears? Girl, I’ve been there. Do you need to put on your heaviest shoes and stomp around the block? Onlookers may wonder what cool new sport you’re training for, but feeling your feet hit the hard earth may help ground you in the present rather than reliving that “mom” look over and over again in your head. Take your time working through these emotions, and allow each one to come and go as they do. Doing any of these things will help these feelings work their way through your system until, eventually, you feel strong enough to tackle the next phase of this horrible mess your mom created.

Here’s the truth: your mom doesn’t know shit about who you are. It’s true. Parents like to think they know everything there is to know about the humans they created, but what they forget is that they created autonomous humans who lead their own lives and have their own thoughts and are allowed to have a secret or two. Your mom cannot tell you who you are. You know who you are, at any given moment, better than anyone else ever will. And who you are, at any given moment, is exactly who you should be.

There were quite a few years in my life when my greatest hope was to passively coexist with my queerness. I thought if I could get to a place where I wasn’t beating myself up for it everyday, that that would be good enough for me. Now, I say with 100% certainty that I love my queerness, without a single apology or condition. Being queer has taught me so much and brought so much joy, knowledge, reflection, understanding, and fierceness into my life that I would never want to be anything else. My greatest hope for you is that you get to this place as well. Know that you have a worldwide LGBTQ community here to lift you up and be your family every step of your journey.

Now, what should you say to your mom? I think you have some options and should do whatever you feel most comfortable and safe doing while taking care of your own wellbeing first and foremost. Humans have an enormous capacity for change if they’re willing to open themselves up to new truths, and I happen to know many parents who did just that and are now incredible advocates for the LGBTQ community. This may be the case for your mom, too. But even if it isn’t, and whether that process unfolds over a week or a decade, it doesn’t mean your mom is right, or, more importantly, that you’re wrong. It means that she is a human who is flawed and has her own histories that she’s wrestling with, and isn’t able to be the mother that you deserve right now. Nothing more.

If you’re comfortable, you can encourage your mom to visit My Kid Is Gay, our site that gives advice and support to parents like her who are struggling to understand their kid’s LGBTQIA identity. We even have a whole section dedicated to discussing religion, which seems to be a major sticking point for your mom. Here are some pieces that might be a good starting point:

10 Things Christian Parents Can Do When Their Kid Has Just Come Out

Defining: Gay

Eight Great Gospel Selections for LGBTQ People and Their Families

Reconciling Your Love for Your Child with Your Religion

Dear Devout Christian

On Religion

Is It a Phase?

Additionally, you can sign your mom up for Coming Out with Care, our e-care package for parents whose kids have recently come out, and set a copy of This Is a Book for Parents of Gay Kids (with a whole chapter about religion!) on her nightstand. Both are incredible resources for parents in her exact position.

Confronting a parent—or any adult, for that matter—about how they have hurt us can be an incredibly daunting task. It may feel enticing to never mention the journal reading or the resulting encounter ever again. However, I really encourage you to think about what it would be like to confront your mom about how she hurt you. Writing her a letter detailing how you feel is no less valid than having a conversation face-to-face. Addressing what happened and making your voice heard can be incredibly healing, which is exactly what you deserve. Healing.

However you decide to approach your mom about this, I hope you do so standing firmly in the truth that you know you, and no one gets to tell you that who you are is not who you should be. I also hope that you listen to this mixtape, which I made to encourage you to put your middle fingers to the sky and say to the world, “Fuck you, I know who I am.”

<3

Grace lives in Portland, Oregon and drinks a lot of coffee as a result. She works as the Senior Managing Editor of My Kid Is Gay, a site that provides advice and support to parents of LGBTQIA young people. She enjoys Vitamin D (in the form of sunshine, please), podcasts, intersectional feminism, and talking to people about their life goals. Follow her on Twitter @gracemanger

Cover Art designed by the incredible Isabella Rotman!

[waywardnerd67]

Only Part of Me: Chap. 4 - Returning

Summary: (Y/N) is given two important items that were her father’s. She learns a little more about Zeniel that surprises her and she finally returns to Earth seeing Dean for the first time since she left. Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Reader, Zeniel (OFC) Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Angst/Fluff/Adorable understanding Boyfriend!Dean Word Count: 3399 A/N: As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

(Y/N) was walking down to a small conference room to meet with Castiel. It had been several weeks she guessed since she went to Earth and healed Dean. She had asked Castiel how he was doing but he would tell her was that he was fine. All (Y/N) had done lately was think about Dean and being back in the bunker. She opened the door and saw Castiel along with Zeniel waiting for her. She paused at the doorway suddenly getting nervous. “Hello (Y/N), please come in and sit.” She shut the door and sat across from them. Castiel pulled out a leather book that look incredibly old and then a sword. As soon as she saw the sword she felt drawn to it. She looked up at him worriedly. “I know you are wanting to go back to Earth soon and before you go we need to have a few more training sessions with this.” Castiel placed his hand on the sword. “First, I think you need to read through this.” He slid the book over to her, “Once you have read through this then let me. I’m going to take the sword with me for now.” Castiel got up grabbing the sword and leaving the room.

Zeniel stayed behind, “I know you’re drawn to the sword. Trust me, you will want to read through that first.” She got up a soft smile on her face as she left the room. (Y/N) decided to take the book back to her room so she could have some privacy. She settled on her couch and opened the book finding the title page. “Journal Belongs To: Archangel Michael” She gasped as she flipped through the journal. Michael had beautiful handwriting and was unbelievably detailed in his entries. She started from the beginning and spent the next few hours reading through her father’s journal. A lot of the entries were about battles he was in or how he was running Heaven after God had disappeared. There were several entries that dealt with Michael’s guilt over putting Lucifer in the cage. Michael seem to love all his brothers but was particularly close with Lucifer. It was the last entry that to her the most.

“July 2009. I went back to down to Earth. Rebecca gave birth to our daughter and she is beautiful. Rebecca begged me not to alter her mind and I could not say no to her. She is one of the most devoted believers I have ever encountered. The moment I came to her and asked her to carry my child she agreed. She never doubted anything I told her and was honored to have my child. Now, she will raise her to be as devoted as she is so when the time comes she will take her place alongside me to lead Heaven’s Army. Until then I have cloaked her with powerful warding to keep her out of sight of all angels until she fulfills the prophecy. My vessel is strong but his faith is weary if not there at all. The Winchester bloodline has always been of importance to my father and I do not see why. The fact that my daughter is meant to be with my vessel is strange to me, but I trust in what my father wants. I had a difficult time leaving her but there is much to do in Heaven. I cannot wait to see her again.”

(Y/N) had so many questions now. She reread the a few of the entries again and then she called out to Castiel. He immediately knocked on her door and walked in. “Are you ready?” He asked and she shook her head holding the journal. “I have questions so you may want to sit down.” Castiel nodded sitting next to her on the couch. (Y/N) and Castiel ended up talking for a couple of hours about everything concerning Michael and Dean as his vessel. She sat there quietly for a moment taking everything in. “(Y/N), I think it will help you to start your training with Zeniel with the sword. Do not be afraid of how you will feel welding it.” She looked at him curiously, “O-kay then. Why aren’t you training me?” He stood up and she followed him out of her room. “Zeniel has more experience with this than I do. It is best if she explains it to you.” They walked into the training room to see Zeniel waiting for her. “Good luck.” Castiel said with a smirk on his face which scared (Y/N).

She walked up to Zeniel, “Alright Teach, what’s first?” She smiled at (Y/N) as she brought out the sword. “First, we are going to see how you react to touching the sword.” (Y/N) reached out and took the sword from her. Her vision was shimmering and a surge of immense power spread throughout her body. She felt like something was emerging from her back and then she heard a whooshing sound. She dropped the sword and closed her eyes for a moment. As she opened them again everything was back to normal. “What the hell was that?” she asked as Zeniel was smiling. “I’m impressed. I didn’t think you would handle it so well.” Zeniel pulled out a short sword from her belt and (Y/N) looked at her in astonishment. Zeniel’s eyes were shimmering gold as a bright light illuminated around her. That is when (Y/N) saw them. Zeniel’s wings fully spread out and beautiful. “Wow…” was all she could say as Zeniel holstered her blade. “That is what you just looked like as well except you take more after you dad in the wing span.”

(Y/N)’s mind was spinning thinking that she had wings. “Your eyes look just like mine, but how?” Zeniel took her belt off and sat on the ground as (Y/N) sat down next to her sword. “Isn’t it obvious?” She shook her head and Zeniel started snickering. “There is reason why Castiel wanted me to help train you. Also, why we connected so quickly. I’m a Nephilim.” (Y/N) looked at her flabbergasted, “I’m sorry, what?” Zeniel scooted closer to her. “I’m a Nephilim and like you my father is also an archangel. He’s not the Winchesters favorite archangel especially Dean.” (Y/N) remembered him telling her about when they hunted a trickster who had put them in various tv shows. The same trickster had also killed Dean repeatedly making Sam live through it. Ended up it was no trickster but an archangel messing with them. “Gabriel?” Zeniel nodded, “Yep. He is a lover of the ladies. I never met him like you but Castiel found out about me and trained me up here in Heaven just like with you. He felt since I knew what you would be going though that I should train you.”

(Y/N) took a deep breath and let out slowly. “So, we are like cousins?” Zeniel started laughing while nodding, “Yeah I guess we are. That’s awesome! Are you okay?” she asked as (Y/N) shrugged. “As okay as I will be. Come on, let’s do this training.” She stood up as Zeniel did as well grabbing her belt and fastening it around her waist. (Y/N) picked up her sword as Zeniel pulled her short sword out both getting into a fighting stance. “Bring it on, newbie.” For the next several hours (Y/N) and Zeniel sparred against one another. They both got anger with one another and they both would fall in laughter. One point (Y/N) looked up to see Castiel peeking in from the door. They stopped as he walked up to them. “How is the training?” he asked as the girls set down their weapons. “She’s ready.” Zeniel said as Castiel nodded.

“Are you ready?” (Y/N) looked up at Castiel but he was looking at Zeniel who was staring at him confused. “What do you mean?” Castiel had a small smile on his face. “If (Y/N) is going to be down on Earth then she will need someone by her side. I cannot be there all the time especially if I have to watch over the Winchesters.” (Y/N) started chuckling as he continued, “I would like for you to go with her to Earth. Be by her side and more importantly be her friend. Are you ready to go to Earth full time?” Zeniel had a big smile on her face nodding excitedly. “Oh, heck yes!” She hugged him and he awkwardly stood there. “You’re supposed to hug her back, Cas.” He gently patted her back as she laughed. She let go of him and stood next to (Y/N). Castiel looked to (Y/N), “I believe there are two people waiting not so patiently for you.” She smiled brightly at him nodding.

Sam was sitting in the library reading one of his favorite books ‘The Wizard of Oz’ when he heard the door for the bunker opening. “Hey Cas.” He said without looking up. “Cas sends his regards hope you don’t mind having a couple of other angel friends pop in.” (Y/N) said at the table of the stairs. Sam snapped his head up with a surprising look on his face. “Dean!” He shouted as the girls made their way down the stairs. “Sammy? What is…” Dean stopped immediately as soon as he saw her. Sam was engulfing her into a big hug picking her up off the ground and spinning her around. Dean blinked a few times making sure he just was not dreaming or hallucinating. She looked the same except for her long (Y/H/C) hair was cut slightly shorter than before. Sam put her down and Dean walked a little closer to them. “Sam, this is Zeniel. You met her before at the hospital.” They shook hands and she leaned down whispering to (Y/N) who giggled. Hearing her voice and he laugh made Dean’s heart skip. Then she looked over and their eyes connected.

She started walking towards him her stomach doing flips. “Hi Dean.” She said softly looking down at her feet. Suddenly she was being lifted off the ground while the smell of leather and whiskey invaded her senses. She felt Dean’s strong arms around her and his face buried into the crook of her neck. She wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed in relief. She felt his body trembling slightly as he set her down. She pulled back slightly to see Dean with tears running down his cheeks. “I didn’t think you were coming back.” He whispered leaning his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry. I promise I will tell you and Sam all about it.” He looked down at her and he leaned down placing his soft full lips on hers. His hands traveled up to either side of her face and she felt her knees getting weak. When he pulled away she let out a soft sigh, “I missed you.” She whispered as he chuckled. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.” She pulled Dean over to where the others were standing. “Zeniel this is Dean Winchester. Dean this is my friend, Zeniel.” He shook her hand as he pulled (Y/N) into his side.

Sam went out a grabbed food and beer for everyone. Zeniel moaned as she bit into her cheeseburger, “I love cheeseburgers. I have missed them so much.” Sam and Dean gawked at her. “I’ve never seen an angel eat before.” Sam commented as Zeniel cheeks went pink. For the next few hours Zeniel and (Y/N) fill the brothers in on everything that happened in Heaven. When they found out Zeniel was Gabriel’s daughter their faces were priceless. “Gabriel had a child?” Dean asked as Zeniel nodded, “You’re looking at her. Don’t worry I am not much for tricks or anything.” Dean sighed in relief, “Good because I don’t think we could handle a trickster Nephilim.” (Y/N) showed Sam and Dean her specific angel blade which Dean kept spinning in his hand. “It’s not a fidget spinner.” She said as he pouted. “Yeah, that is not even her coolest weapon.” Zeniel said as Dean sat up interested. “Really? What is then?” (Y/N) got up and went to her duffle bag pulling out her long sword. She controlled her powers from surging and setting it in front of Dean.

“Is that what I think it is?” Sam asked as she nodded. “Yes, that is Michael’s sword which is now my sword since y’all put him in the cage.” Sam’s face went bright red. “Um, yeah sorry about that. It was a complicated situation.” She smiled at him chuckling, “It’s okay, Sam.” As Dean picked up his eyes glowed bright blue and he went into a trance. Everyone stared at him and he dropped on the table, “What the hell was that?” he asked frantically. “Zeniel?” (Y/N) said looking to her as she shrugged. “I don’t know. If Dean is Michael’s vessel then the sword may react to him as well. Next time we see Castiel we will have to ask him.” Dean looked down at the sword and (Y/N) moved it towards her. “Why is it not reacting to you?” He asked as she smiled at him. “I do react to it but I have learned to control my powers.” Zeniel snickered, “Show them because you know they’re curious.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes looking to Sam and Dean. “Really?” They both nodded enthusiastically.

(Y/N) picked up her sword and stepped down into the bunker’s war room. They all looked over at her as she got into her fighting stance and let her powers surge through her. Her vision went shimmery, she could feel her wings spreading out and even her sword glowed in a warm light. She could hear Zeniel laughing and she pulled back her powers. Her wings went back and her vision cleared to see Sam and Dean slacked jawed. “Y-You have…” Sam stammered as (Y/N) walked back up to them setting her sword on the table again. “You have freaking wings?!” Dean exclaimed as he smiled at her. She sighed in relief, “Well, I’m glad you’re not freaked out by me.” He shook his head. “No way! You keep getting more interesting by the second.” Soon they were all getting tired and (Y/N) showed Zeniel to a room next to hers she could use. “How are you holding up?” she asked as (Y/N) leaned against her door frame. “I’m alright. This next part will be the toughest.” Zeniel looked at her questioningly. “Dean and I talking alone. I know him well enough to see that part of tonight he was putting up a mask.” Zeniel nodded sitting on the bed, “Well good luck. If you need me just call for me.” (Y/N) nodded then started down the hall to Dean’s room.

She looked in his room to see him lying on his bed with his eyes close. “Do you mind if I come in?” she asked as he looked up at her. “I hoped you would.” She walked in closing his door and sat next to him on the bed. He turned on his side holding his head up with his hand as she ran her fingers through his hair. Dean closed his eyes and a soft moan came from him, “Thank you for healing me six months ago. The doctors said it was a miracle I survived.” (Y/N) let out a small gasp as he opened his eyes, “What?” she bit her lip. “A year. I was gone a year?” Dean nodded as she turned from him swinging her legs over the side of his bed. All the emotions she had been holding in burst through and she began to cry. Dean got up and knelt in front of her, “Hey, talk to me.” He said as she put her head in her hands letting out a loud sob. Dean sat next to her on the bed and put his arm around her shoulders rubbing her arm. “Sweetheart, you have to talk to me so I can try to make you feel better.” She took a couple of deep breaths and to calm herself down.

“I can’t believe I was gone a year. More than that, I can’t believe you are even still talking to me without being pissed.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Dean placed his hand on her cheek turning her head to look at him. He moved a strand of her hair from her face and gently ran his thumb across her cheek. She leaned into his touch feeling her body fully relax for the first time since she did not know when. “I won’t lie this last year has sucked. I was pissed for a while then I was depressed. Castiel did all he could to reassure me that it was for the best. Seeing you now I can see that he was right. You seem happier and more sure of yourself.” She nodded and leaned her head on his shoulder. “As the months went by and I reread your letter I thought I could possibly move on.” (Y/N) felt her anger spike in her and she swallowed hard. “I went out after a hunt Sam and I were on. I was talking with this woman and all I could think about was you. I decided I didn’t want to move on and it ended up that the woman was a demon who kidnapped me.” She looked up at him stunned, “That is when Castiel left to help you and Sam. Then I came to heal you?” He nodded. “I took that all as a sign that I shouldn’t move on but wait not so patiently.” He chuckled as she looked down at her hands.

Dean dropped his arm from her shoulders placed his hand on top of hers. “In all seriousness, seeing you now. Seeing your smile, hearing your laugh and how happy you look. It was worth the wait to see you truly happy.” She looked up seeing his brilliant green eyes staring down at her. “Well, not truly happy but almost truly happy.” She said as he tilted his head to one side confused. “Really Dean? Do you think I could be truly happy without you in my life?” she asked as it was his turn to be bashful. “I don’t know, Castiel said you were struggling with coming back.” She bit her lower lip and giggled. “Why are you giggling?” he asked as she turned towards him. “Zeniel, took me to your Heaven.” Dean looked at her surprised. “Really? Me. Heaven.” She nodded, “Yes. I saw the Impala sitting in front of this old bar called The Roadhouse.”

Dean’s eyes snapped up to hers, “Heh, god I miss that place and the people.” He said with a hint of sadness. “Zeniel and Ash are good friends up in Heaven, but they wanted me to talk to someone specifically.” She smiled remember the conversation, “I have to say Ellen gave me some great advice.” Dean sighed a small smile on his face. “Ellen was an amazing woman and hunter.” (Y/N) scooted back resting against Dean’s headboard and patted her lap. Dean smiled as he crawled up onto the bed and laid his head on her lap. She told him all about her talk with Ellen as she ran her fingers through his soft hair. “Ellen is right, I don’t need for you to be around all the time. I just want you to be around all the time.” She smiled as he snuggled against her.

“I know Heaven and angels are a big part of you now, so I guess I will learn how to share with them.” She chuckled and then sat there quietly for a moment. “Dean?” He hummed his response, “Heaven and angels are a big part of me now. I made a lot of friends up there and I felt useful for once helping Castiel and Zeniel get Heaven restored. However, Heaven is not the part of me that is the most important.” He moved to his side looking up at her, “Then what is?” She slid down laying next him pulling his arm around her waist, “You’re the only part of me that matters, Dean.” He gave her his famous charming smile as he leaned over kissing her then whispered, “You’re the only part of me that matters too.”  

My Nerd Herd: @waywardbaby @waywardrose13 @carryonmywaywardcaptain @ladywinchester1967

[unixcommerce]

CRM Playaz on TikTok: Respect for Customer Data Trumps Huge Engagement Numbers

  The CRM Playaz are not going to buy TikTok. Let me explain why.

Last week Microsoft made it known publicly that it was interested in acquiring a stake in TikTok, a wildly popular video sharing platform that has been in the news a lot lately.

But the Microsoft news seemed to set off a bunch of reports that other companies were also interested in, including Apple and Twitter.

In fact, so many TikTok acquisition stories started cropping up my CRM Playaz co-host Paul Greenberg and I started exploring whether we should put a bid together … OK I was just kidding on that one.

And yes, I didn’t need to say I was just kidding for you to know I was just kidding.

But with all the TikTok acquisition talk going on, the Wall Street Journal published a report this week that found TikTok “skirted a privacy safeguard in Google’s Android operating system to collect unique identifiers from millions of mobile devices”.

Given this news and the obvious repercussions it has for data privacy, what does this say about the dedication to customer experience if any company decides to buy TikTok knowing all of this?  It’s an internal conversation big companies are having.

With 800 million active daily users TikTok is creating a level of stickiness and engagement most companies crave, but are the black hat tactics with user data allegedly being performed worth the potential legal issues?  And more importantly is it worth losing the trust you’ve built up with your customer base?

Paul Greenberg Interview – TikTok Customer Data vs. Engagement Numbers

Paul and I took that up for the latest CRM Playaz ep, and all I can say is after talking about it we’ve decided to withdraw our non-offer to buy TikTok. But does that mean anybody else should?  Below is an edited transcript of our conversation. Click on the embedded SoundCloud player to hear the full conversation.

smallbiztrends · CRM Playaz on TikTok: Respect for Customer Data Trumps Huge Engagement Numbers

Brent Leary: Do you think Microsoft is still as interested in buying TikTok?

Paul Greenberg: Well, let’s say this, I think they are more cautious. I don’t think they’re dropping the idea because ultimately, there has to be some resolution of that. I don’t know what the tactic was that they used. I didn’t read the article. But look, ultimately, anytime there’s a potential legal issue of substance involved, which would potentially impact the operations of the potential acquisition, if I’m the company, I go on hold until that solved. And so, if I’m Microsoft, whether they are holding back or not at the moment, I would, and wait until… Again, I don’t know what the issue is, and I don’t know how easy it is to resolve. I haven’t a clue. But when you get that kind of public uh-oh, then you say uh-oh yourself and step back.

Brent Leary: It said that “the tactic, which experts in mobile-phone security said was concealed through an unusual added layer of encryption, appears to have violated Google policies. The identifiers collected by TikTok, called MAC addresses, are most commonly used for advertising purposes. The White House has said it was worried that user data could be obtained by the Chinese government and used to build detailed dossiers on individuals for black mail or espionage.”

Paul Greenberg: What? So-

Brent Leary: Yeah, that doesn’t sound good. No.

Paul Greenberg: Sure doesn’t. Sounds pretty seriously bad.

Brent Leary: So I don’t think I want to touch that at this point, but does Microsoft need to touch… Why would they… I [crosstalk 00:02:11]-

Paul Greenberg: Look, TikTok to me is still just a phenomenon. It’s not… there’s so many of those. The thing is, in the longterm, if it ends up like Instagram, yeah, then there may be a good reason to buy it, even though maybe out of their price range by that time. At this point to me, it’s a phenomenon that’s been really, really pushed forward by the pandemic. But it’s like the QBs and these short… what was that one that would disappear after a…? Snapchat, right?

Brent Leary: Oh right, after 12 seconds or something.

Paul Greenberg: Snapchat’s around, but it’s no longer a phenomenon because people are moving off to other things. And TikTok, at least for me at this moment, in its history, is like Snapchat early on, phenomenon that could go to absolutely nowhere potentially or settle into something less, or end up an Instagram. It’s just no telling where the thing is going and is no indicators. And nobody could convince me otherwise, that there’s some way of deciding its fate now.

So given that Microsoft would be pretty much required because of everything else, well, on the one hand, they may be required to pay an inflated price. On the other hand, they may be able to get it for almost nothing, if it’s going to actually be banned by the government, otherwise. So TikTok ownership might want to sell, not fire sale, but cheaper than they ordinarily would have. But does Microsoft need it? God, no.

Brent Leary: Yeah. I highlighted the exact action, it says Tik Tok, “skirted a privacy safeguard in Android’s operating systems to collect unique identifiers from millions of mobile devices, data that allows the app to track users online without allowing them to opt out.”

Paul Greenberg: Okay. Well, there you go. Okay, Microsoft, just forget it for now…

Brent Leary: You gotta think about this. And this is probably a conversation for another day. To me, if you, knowing all of this is going on and then still buying this, what does that say about your commitment to customer experience? Not just data privacy, the customer experience, because… This is for a longer discussion at some other point. Data privacy is becoming a much more important part of the customer experience. And when you buy something that is from a company that is doing stuff like this, what does that say to your commitment to customer experience by way of data privacy?

Paul Greenberg: Well ultimately, you’re dealing with issues of trust always. And how can you trust the company that’s willing to acquire somebody that’s violating your actual privacy and actually, ignoring your wishes too?

Brent Leary: Yeah.

Paul Greenberg: You’re probably not going to do well with something like that. And when it boils down to it, what TikTok does isn’t all that amazing either.

Brent Leary: This is not just, oh, we made a mistake. This is, oh, we got caught being devious about what we’re wanting to do with that data. That’s a whole other ball game for me.

Paul Greenberg: Yeah. I don’t know. Microsoft, forget it, okay? Do me a favor.

Brent Leary: Yes and we will do the same. We are going to remove our offer…

Paul Greenberg: Right.

Brent Leary: Immediately.

This article, “CRM Playaz on TikTok: Respect for Customer Data Trumps Huge Engagement Numbers” was first published on Small Business Trends

https://smallbiztrends.com/

The post CRM Playaz on TikTok: Respect for Customer Data Trumps Huge Engagement Numbers appeared first on Unix Commerce.

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[nothingbythebook]

for Small medium larch

A Golden Larch

I am trying to not think of an audience.  I am trying to not think of a reader—the reader. I am trying to not think that you will read this. I am trying to think—note that the “not” disappears, more accurately, relocates—that you will not read this.

This is, of course, ass-backwards. We almost always write for an audience, a reader—even in the privacy of journals that we claim we write for ourselves but of course keep to appraise posterity of our brilliance, significance, intellectual insight, and emotional depth (What? No? Your journals are truly, completely private? Do you burn them, destroy them, after you write in them? No? Then, beloved hypocrite, you are just as vain and ego-fuelled and delusional as I am). Good work, effective work posits a reader. It is created with an audience, a reader in mind. Otherwise, it’s either therapy or narcissistic indulgence, not art.

Certainly not journalism.

But that’s another story.

This story is about heartbreak. And to write a true story about heartbreak, you need to write without thinking of the reader.

I want to tell you a story about my 12 days in Heaven, and I want it to be a truly true story. You know most of my stories aren’t really true—each is a performance, an exercise, a game. But today, I want to give you a true story. To give it, I need to not think of the audience (especially not you), a reader, the reader (the specific reader).

I am thinking, writing in circles.

It’s because I am sober for the first time in 10 days; hungover from Heaven.

View from the Banff Centre Library

Heaven is partly a place, mostly people. I’ve just come back from 10 days—12, if you count the shoulder travel days, and I do—at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity, where I was privileged to be part of the Centre’s third annual Investigative Journalism Intensive.

Background for the uninitiated: The Banff Centre is, I believe, North America’s largest non-parchment granting arts institution. Its official messaging describes it as “a learning organization built upon an extraordinary legacy of excellence in artistic and creative development… the global organization leading in arts, culture, and creativity across dozens of disciplines… [which] aims to inspire everyone who attends our campus—artists, leaders, and thinkers—to unleash their creative potential.”

Words, words, words—what it is, it’s heaven on earth for artists, creators. And because it’s located in Alberta and at the mercy of the economic and political machinations of a boom-bust economy and governments that do not believe in nourishing art, culture, and artists, it’s an arts organization that’s an entrepreneurial leader. It provides a womb for artists from across Canada and the world, and it funds this womb in large part through hard-nosed business operations. Yeah, it’s an arts institution that has revenue streams independent of the government and student fees. And we’re not just talking generous donations from philanthropists (while we’re talking philanthropy, though, to the many individual and corporate donors who made the Investigative Journalism Intensive possible, thank you!).

Banff Centre Campus, God’s light

But that also is another story. This is not a hard-nosed business story, although I just completed a hard-nosed investigative journalism intensive. This is a story about Heaven.

And also, not thinking about the reader.

So. I’m in Heaven. This is, I think, not a metaphor. The Banff Centre is in the heart of the obscenely beautiful Banff National Park, nestled into the side of the sacred Sleeping Buffalo Mountain (Tunnel Mountain to the colonizers), with views of Sulphur Mountain, Cascade Mountain and others enclosing it in a fairytale-like setting. God’s country for atheists, hedonists, naturalists, artists.

Elk on campus

Elk and deer wander the 42-acre campus; the occasional bear visits too. Birds sing. Little mammals scurry. Trees rustle, the wind whispers.

Artists dream.

More importantly, they work.

I arrive exhausted and beyond depleted. Soon, I will meet my cohort and later, we will share with each other our hopes, expectations, and fears—so many fears. People are intimidated, uncertain, worried—we are, technically, the most promising-passionate-something-or-other journalists around (ha! who the hell told them that? how did we ever fool them into letting us into this programme?) and we are all suffering from Impostor Syndrome. Everyone’s worried that at check-in—or check-out—or any point in-between, someone will lean over our shoulder and say, “Um, sorry, we made a mistake, you don’t belong here.”

Elk harem on campus

What I’m most worried about, though, is not Impostor Syndrome. Over the years, I’ve come to accept Impostor Syndrome as, if not a friend, exactly, then as a constant presence, whose poisonous whispers I acknowledge, hear, but don’t listen to. “You don’t belong here,” the demon—I call her Aunt Augusta—whispers. “You’re so out-classed.” “You’re so right,” I answer back. “And yet, here I am. I’m so lucky. Now screw off and let me take advantage of this opportunity I don’t deserve.”

What I’m most worried about is that I am arriving so exhausted, so depleted, I will piss the opportunity away. I check in at 3:45 p.m.—and I’m on the gorgeous king-sized bed, linens white and fresh, and falling asleep by 4 p.m. I’m going to sleep the entire time that I’m here and what Alberta tax payers, conference attendees, and generous Banff Centre donors will have paid for by providing me with this opportunity is… dreams. Nothing but dreams.

And not metaphoric dreams, either, but literal dreams, in the pre-2013 definition of the word.

I sleep for 30 minutes, and then I do what I always do when I don’t have the energy to move or live. I go for a walk.

To a cemetery.

The Old Banff Cemetery is also nestled into the side of Sleeping Buffalo Mountain, just below the Banff Centre. I visit it often when I’m in Banff. Death affirms life. Later, as my stint in Heaven is ending, I will talk about beautiful melancholy with a positive-but-melancholy musician, and I will tell a fellow journalist that I hope he finds beauty in his sadness.

This is what I find in the cemetery.

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  But this is also not part of this story in which I’m trying to not thinking about the reader. (But do you see how, because I’m trying to not think about the reader, you are only able to follow because you love me and you think I love you, and you hope that, perhaps, I’m writing for you, trying to not think of you? Good. That’s the point, at last part of it.)

That night, I sleep for 12 interrupted hours, waking to the sounds of rutting elk, and also, to the sound of deep silence. Once, my screaming, a nightmare.

The next day, I meet my people.

On top of Sleeping Buffalo (Tunnel) Mountain

I don’t know it yet, of course. When I meet them—when we meet, we are strangers. We spend that day, I think, sussing each other out. Posing, positioning? Impostor syndrome is strong. Intimidation rising.

Me, I don’t make deep connections easily and rarely do I feel that I belong, anywhere, with anyone.

(But when I teach, and I ask students the question, “What do all people want?” the answer I give them is this: “To be loved, to be understood—to belong.)

That first night, I run away from the possibility of connection. I leave as soon as it’s offered, actually. Exhausted, depleted, I sleep another 12 hours…

Later, on the last night in Heaven, I tell the santur player who turns sadness into beauty (you haven’t met him yet, nor have I, wait, it’s coming) that for people like me, intimacy is a conscious choice. Love, connection, trust—none of it just happens. It is safer to be distant—it is more comfortable to be on the periphery. It is easier to be a journalist than an artist: it is easier to walk through a room glibly, smiling and laughing, but not investing. Observing but not risking.

With love, with connection, with trust comes the possibility of loss and pain.

Tears, heartbreak.

No comment

In North American culture, we mostly talk about erotic, romantic love. And we misunderstand it, pervert it—that’s also another story.

Non-romantic love can also cause heartbreak, tear you apart. That’s part of this story.

I will tell you, the reader of whom I am trying so hard not to think, this: the day I arrive, I am so afraid I am too exhausted, too depleted to risk, learn, love. On the day I meet my people—except that I don’t know that they are my people yet—I realize that, the bone-deep exhaustion notwithstanding, I can, I must make a choice. And on the next day, on top of Sleeping Buffalo Mountain, the cold wind whipping my face at the same time as the sun warms it, I make the choice to love them. Fully, unabashedly, no constraints, no barriers, nothing held back.

In the wind

Here’s the magical thing, here is what happens in Heaven: every other person in the cohort makes the same decision.

Not at the same moment, not that day, not on that mountaintop. A few of us are a slower burn than even me—it takes them longer. (And yet others have fewer intimacy issues—they decide to roll the dice, take the risk, and love us all on day one.)

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Photographing the photographers; context deleted

I explain all this to the melancholy musician on the last night. And I cry.

He plays beautiful music to soothe my heart, and I cry some more.

I’ve jumped ahead and you can’t follow.

Rewind.

So. I am in Heaven—aka the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity—on a 10-day Investigative Journalism Intensive. My debriefing, description, depiction of it violates every “this is journalism” rule, I know. I am not a journalist right now. I am a broken, open heart.

And it’s a journalist’s fault.

Robert Cribb, the star investigative journalist from The Toronto Star (see what I did there), who is our main guide on this journey, sets the sappy tone in the first hour of the intensive.

(Patti Sonntag, former managing editor in The New York Times’ news service division and now director of the Institute for Investigative Journalism at the University of Concordia is the other; we also get some time with the brilliant Aron Pilhofer, the James B. Steele Chair in Journalism Innovation at Temple University—holy cow, loves, mind utterly blown, I drink each word from him as if it is vintage wine or the blood of Christ itself).

But it’s Cribb who is the main midwife of what happens in Heaven. And this is weird casting. Really weird. If you’ve read Cribb in the Star—if you’ve read Digging Deeper: A Canadian Reporter’s Research Guide, the textbook for people like us that he co-authored with Dean Jobb, David McKie, and Fred Vallance-Jones and which forms the text for our intensive—you form a certain image. Expectation. At least, I did, and it was the kinda image often depicted in movies. You know. The seasoned, cynical, hard-boiled journalist (or, actually, homicide detective) with a bottle of whisky in the bottom drawer of his desk.

And when you see Cribb in the flesh, he rather fits that image. Maybe better dressed than the typical Silver Screen depiction. But tough, tough. And hard as nails.

Heart of gold inside? I dunno, maybe, not really, more like a heart of steel, or an uber-fast analyzing computer.

Hard-core, not soft-boiled. Clearly.

Not.

“This is love, here is love,” the hard-core Cribb tells us on day one, in hour one. I don’t believe him.

I’m wrong.

This is love.

I have no idea if he knows how he’s doing what he’s doing. How much of it is on purpose, by design. How much of it is intuition. But we fall in love, with each other, with each other’s work, passion, experience, vulnerability, frustration, fear, hope, ambition, humility… fear. Did I mention fear?

We are journalists working in the era of free content, death of newspapers, evisceration of news desks. And the rise of alternative facts and fake news.

We are all probably (not just a little) mad.

I am mad, I am in Heaven, and while here, I am working on three things:

The narrative journalism-this-is-not-really-an-investigation-but-it-has-elements-of-one-I-hope story I want to create around this thing that’s happening in Alberta that I’m not going to tell you anything more about, because it’s my story and while not really a secret, still, containment is the first rule of magic (Ok, I’m not really working on that story. Unless thinking is working. I’m thinking. A lot. Document state of mind, where is it written down, where can I find what I need to answer my questions? I make lists. Identify agencies, names. Think, think, think. A lot.)

meme by David

The novel that I was supposed to have finished in February, but, you know, sick child, life (I plot it out completely, and hit about 6-7,000 new words on it before the intensive ends; also, flesh out some other parts on its sister pieces—I am happy, productive, accomplished.)

A painfully introspective “what do I want to do with the rest of my life, or at least the next five years” journaling exercise (I do not arrive at an answer—except that I do not wish to work for an established Canadian media company in any way, shape or form, I want to be part of a revolution, except that I don’t think I’ve got quite enough fire to lead the revolution—what I want is someone else to start the revolution and tell me how to help execute it, what do you mean, I have to figure it out all myself?—and that, my love, is a taste of what my journal pages look like, minus the expletives, doodles, and digressions.)

This is not a newspaper; this is not journalism

I am not working on the story I pitched to get into the programme. Because I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to write it right now. And that’s—well, that’s also another story. Also, I’m not sure who will pay me for it (which is in some ways the most important story). But it’s ok. I don’t have to write that story, right now. Maybe someone else can do it better. And if they can’t, life is long—maybe I will get to it one day.

Maybe not.

In Heaven, for me, my story is not what matters. My people matter.

I have a people. Do you understand how intoxicating this is for me?

We are an interesting mix of people, from across Canada and around the world. The prairie provinces are well-represented, and the East Coast (hello, New Brunswick!) over-represented. Toronto and Vancouver are notable by their absence—why is that? But we’ve got Montreal (although he’s really Boston). And London, Kingston, and Hamilton. There are journalists from New York and New Orleans, a Pole working in Cambodia and an Australian based in Liberia—and the Brit was most recently working in New York. A First Nations journalist from Northwestern Ontario—what a beat she has, what a heart pounds within her—how does it not break, daily?

Perhaps it does.

Boat in the woods

Exhausted, depleted when I come, I request complete radio silence on behalf of real life while I’m in Heaven. “Unless one of the children is in the hospital and needs a blood transfusion from me, don’t text me,” I tell the family. I issue the same directive to my friends and loves. “Don’t text me, I won’t text you”—I want to be here, away, completely.

I break it twice. Once, when the high school calls me—they never call me, what’s wrong, panic—texts—it’s fine, everything is fine.

The second time, it’s after Heaven becomes interdisciplinary—we the journalists go to hear the musicians in residence perform a concert, and I don’t know exactly what happens—it’s like the secret sauce. Journalists (writers in general, except perhaps the poets) don’t usually think of ourselves as artists. A number of us in the intensive are recipients of artists’ grants, and Impostor Syndrome prompts us to laugh at the label. Artists, us? What are we doing here, really, in this arts sanctuary?

Do we belong?

The answer, I think, is this: Yes, we belong. We’re all here, musicians, photographers, painters, poets, novelists, journalists, because we make things in order to make sense of the world. Right? Isn’t that what we do, at the core? And hearing the musicians make sense of the world in a language in which we journalists, writers are rarely fluent—I certainly am not—shakes us.

Shakes me, anyway, to the core.

Dancing in the Streets, photo by Kathleen

Cello, bass, violins, viola, guitar—flute, gods, the flute, what is that? how does she do that?—voices as instrument, body as instrument, drum and paper, a hundred-stringed Persian santur, piano and bass—is that a Zappa song? And that string quartet, do they share a hive mind and what have they done to my insides, they are no longer my own—they’re cosmic dust, and I don’t exist.

(And yet, it turns out later in the night, non-existent, I can still dance…)

The night of the concert, I don’t really sleep; in the morning, unsettled, vibrating, I break radio silence with an email. I write about the santur player (I’ve met him now, and so have you—but this is all the introduction you get), and the flutist, and the folk singer, and the string quartet from Vienna, and the bass player who loves Frank Zappa, and the dancer who speaks with her body, oh-my-god, but mostly, I write this:

My work is not really moving forward in a significant way—well, I did plot out the next [Series Title Deleted] novel, and I’ve got some words down on that, I should not downplay that—but most importantly, my brain feels like it’s waking up, I am drinking art and I am surrounded by people loving and making art and music and poetry and making words sing, and I am so alive even when I am almost too exhausted to move.

Last night, after an intense day of work work work, and then the concert, and then the party, we danced in one of the hotel rooms until we literally collapsed on the floor—I have not felt such freedom and abandon in an eternity.

And I am grateful, and that’s a good feeling—I have had a very hard time feeling grateful.

Here’s a picture of my crew.

Did I mention that I am so happy? My heart threatens to break out of my ribcage.

View from my room

We work, we learn, we work, we hike, we work, we dance—we talk, argue, share, fall silent. Repeat.

I feel the hangover coming before it hits. It all ends, we are to leave Thursday morning. Tuesday, we fill out programme evaluations, have our closing reception… which morphs into a closing party and karaoke (and there is also a mechanical bull, don’t ask, it’s Alberta)… and then a long walk from Banff townsite to the Banff Centre, the longest way possible, not on the direct path, but all the way around the mountain. With lots of stops.

“No. We’re not turning there—if we turn there, we’re going to be back at the Centre, and then this night is over, no.”

Not my words, but my sentiment.

We lay down for a while at the Surprise Corner look-out point and look at the stars.

It’s two, three in the morning? Too late. Too much. Too little. It’s almost all over.

Melancholy.

“I don’t want this to be over.”

I have the conversation that begins with this sentence a dozen times, with a dozen different people, none of whom I would have met in the ordinary course of my creative or professional career; these 10 days are extraordinary.

We are hungry for each other, we fit each other, we stimulate, challenge, push each other. This is Heaven.

Bridge over troubled (they only look calm) waters

The santur player—you’ve met him now, remember?—is Persian, and in our encounters we talk poetry, of course. The Persian sufi poets excel at metaphor, at using the language of sexual desire to represent divine love, at using the prosaic and the ordinary to represent that which cannot rightly be put into words.

I wish I had the talent of Hafez of Shiraz to put my longing into words. I do my inadequate best—my people understand, because we all feel it. Many of us freelance, which means we are almost always alone, working with cyber-editors and ever-new sources. Colleagues, friends, collaborators, soulmates? What is that?

Even the people in the newsrooms—they often feel alone, isolated. Also, under stress, fire, threat.

Embattled.

Being an artist has never been easy; there has never been a worse time, in the “free” world anyway, to be a journalist at a traditional media outlet.

And yet, here we are.

“Are we stupid?” I ask this question as the level in the whisky bottle—not the first one—drops. “I mean, I know we’re brilliant, we’re all high on how brilliant we all are. But are we really stupid? Aren’t the smart ones in public relations, communications, marketing, in-house at the corporations, out-earning us, out-spinning us, killing us?”

All the industry stereotypes

Maybe.

“So why do we keep on doing this?”

The question answers itself when I talk with the melancholy-but-happy (that’s a thing) santur player, who makes the hundred-string Persian instrument weep to bring peace to tormented hearts. He can’t remember not playing the santur. He can’t remember not making music. He can’t remember at what age he made his first attempts at composition—his father first recorded him “improvising” when he was ten years old.

Music is in his bones, in his DNA.

It is who he is, as much as it is what he does.

I ask him questions, so many questions, intrusive questions, ignorant questions—I am not fluent in the language of music.

But there’s a question I don’t ask, don’t have to ask.

I’ve heard its variant often.

“What would you be doing if you weren’t writing?”

(What would you be doing if you weren’t making music? If you weren’t making art?)

And I don’t understand the question.

I stare.

I smile awkwardly.

I shuffle away.

Bow Falls

We here, this intrepid group now enjoying 10 days in Heaven, we are the people who have to tell the stories. We need to document them, chase them, share them.

Beavers build dams.

We see the “Who, what, when, where” and then ask, “Why? How?”

And keep on asking…

Then write down the answers, send them into the world, so that you know too.

This used to be a valued, precious skill and gift. Lately, not so much.

Except here.

Heaven.

See what happened? A bunch of journalists and the Banff Centre made me believe in God. Or maybe it was the Persian santur. Goddamn Sufis. Where’s my whisky and my heart of steel?

It’s time to say goodbye.

I don’t want to. I break radio silence, again.

Today my heart hurts because I will be leaving them. I am stupidly hiding from them because I don’t want to say goodbye.

As I write the email, I realize I am being stupid.

I close my eyes. And enter into the pain.

I am going to stop being stupid & go love them a little more, a little longer.

Photo by Alex

We spend that last evening outside. Around an open fire.

When I leave them, I am an open wound.

The santur player has a song called “One Last Time”:

I don’t even try not to cry when he plays it.

“This is how I feel about my crew,” I tell him. “Precisely, exactly, completely, this.”

We will never see each other again—not like this, not all of us—and the reality of this hurts, hurts, hurts. We now know each other—and we know we are not alone, and we know we are loved and valued. That is something, that is everything.

We connect—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. LinkedIn. Slack.

Sorry. That is meaningless. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t compare to this face-to-face time, any more than an email “interview” compares to a face-to-face one—any more than watching porn compares to having sex with someone you are mad about.

(You know I was going to go there.)

So. Goodbye.

Photo by kind stranger from Willow’s camera under Willow’s direction

Heartbreak.

When your heart breaks, you have, I think, two choices.

(You almost always have at least two choices, right?)

You can sow it up and harden.

Or you can leave it open. And make art.

I’m making art—I’m writing—and I am trying to not think of an audience.  I am trying to not think of a reader—the reader. I am trying to not think that you will read this, even though, of course, I am writing it for you, only for you.

Document state of mind forever.

xoxo

“Jane”

Photo by Kathleen

PS All you need to know about The Banff Centre: https://www.banffcentre.ca/

PS2 All you need to know about the Institute for Investigative Journalism at Concordia https://www.concordia.ca/artsci/journalism/research/investigative-journalism.html

PS3 (The Most Important One) The Banff Centre Musicians in Residence perform most Friday evenings this fall, in Rolston Hall. If you’re within driving distance (Calgary, I’m talking to you), you should go hear them. Because. Amazing. (Also, free.)

PS4 I know that part of the intoxicating intensity of our love affair comes from its brevity and its enforced, prescribed ending. Were we all to, suddenly, form a single, cohesive full-time newsroom, were we to work together five, six—in this world, seven—days a week for 52 weeks—hell, even a few months—there would be less infatuation and more frustration, the professional equivalent of seeing a lover’s dirty socks on the living room floor, repeatedly, for goddsake, what’s wrong with her, does she not know what the laundry basket is for? I know all this. Vacation romance, fairy tale love affair. I don’t care. It’s not any more real, any less precious because it’s ephemeral and must end. All things end. We are lucky, so lucky, that we drowned in it as fully as we did, among the mountains, the elk, the true evergreens and the mysterious golden larches.

Michael on deadline (he made it)

PS5 Ok, I realize, you–the reader I’m trying not to think of–you’re going to go here:

You: OMG, woman, did you actually do any journalism?

Jame: OMG, we did EVERYTHING. We drilled into the elements of investigative reporting and what separates original investigative work from derivative reporting—and also, how it’s possible to write an original, revealing investigative piece purely from data already out in the public records that nobody had bothered to connect together before. DOCUMENT STATE OF MIND. We pitched out story ideas and refined them—and refined them some more—being part of this process was probably the most useful part of the entire intensive, except that all of it was useful. We talked about focus and moral and purpose. “What’s the point of this story? What’s the moral of this story? Why are you writing this story?” (We’re writing to change the world. Short answer.) We talked about testing ideas and getting started, organizing documents, identifying (and chasing down) sources. DOCUMENT STATE OF MIND. Collaborative (like hundreds of journalists working together) investigations. Sharing data, interviews, and insights. Preparing for cooperative publications and broadcast. Public records and freedom of information requests. DOCUMENT STATE OF MIND. Pay-walls, love as business model, memberships and subscribers, the future of our industry. Doing the work, loving the work–paying attention to the reader. Piggy-backing on past FOIP requests. How data tells a story. Turning data into narrative. DOCUMENT STATE OF MIND. Sequencing interviews, preparing for adversarial interviews, dealing with spin and reluctance. Turning “off the record” sources into “on the record” ones. Libel-proofing stories. Role-playing adversarial interviews. Surviving being scooped. DOCUMENT STATE OF MIND. Solutions journalism (sort of). Data. More data. DOCUMENT STATE OF MIND.

You: I don’t understand any of this.

Jane: You had to be there. Here, have some more whisky, and then I’ll play you some modern Persian music, and we can both cry.

Heaven Hangover, or, thoroughly non-journalistic reflections on the Investigative Journalism Intensive, Banff Centre 2019 for Small medium larch A Golden Larch I am trying to not think of an audience.  I am trying to not think of a reader—

[pastorkevinc]

Twenty-five years ago. Two young kids both just graduated from college moving into adulthood. Married after four years of dating. Idealistic. Big dreams. More questions than answers. Totally clean slate. Waiting with my dad at the end of the isle to receive my bride.

Twenty-five years later much has changed. In God’s wisdom, He both keeps the future hid from us as well as makes us grow in wisdom and discernment. No doubt His goal is to help us trust Him and obey Him better (Eccl 12:13); however, I wish I was wiser sooner. I wish I would have learned some lessons quicker along the way as well. No doubt my wife wishes I would have!

Today, I share advice from twenty-five years to those early in the process. This is some of what I wish I would have known then.

As you begin marriage…

Take advantage of the early years to especially enjoy them.

When you are young, it is easy to not take advantage of all the blessings that you have. In fact, your blessings may not even feel like blessings. I enjoyed so many things, but wish I would have done more and done better. Consider some ways to take advantage of the early years.

Be flexible. As life continues, often you cannot be that flexible. Therefore, while you are young and have the opportunity be flexible.

Be creative. Nothing is too silly. Try and fail and try again. Laugh while you try things together. Do not let pride keep you from trying something different.

Be spontaneous. Just wake up and do something fun. Determine to go to breakfast at 1:00 AM. Take a quick trip. Go walk in the park. The dishes can wait. The floors will as well. The oil change. In twenty-five years you will not remember those things; however, many of the spontaneous things you will.

Be romantic. Husband, take full advantage of your wife’s energy, love, and innocence. Life is long and there are too many hard lessons ahead. Woo her early and often. Be the most romantic person she has ever met or heard of. And wives, do the same. If he does not respond quick or well, keep doing it. Sometimes we men are slow to catch on.

Be a friend. Friendship is the goal of all these things. Build a strong friendship early that better gets you through all the hard portions of life later. The best thing you can be is each other’s friend. If not, life gets lonely. Start young enjoying each other’s friendship and keep developing a stronger friendship each day.

Be clear on your purpose together.

God allows you to make a covenant together with each other and Him. As covenant-faithful followers of Christ, your goal is to reflect the image of Christ better together than alone (Gen 2). Together you portray the relationship of Christ and the church to those around you (Eph 5:32). As a married couple desiring to honor Christ together and do God’s will, your goal includes children some day (Gen 1:28). Keep these things in mind and you will find that marriage is not as hard as some make it out to be. In one sentence: Covenant keepers in the image of Christ striving to live out the relationship of Christ and the church together for the glory of God and good of others – including your own little image bearers. God is the most important person in your marriage!

Begin by serving together.

Many couples begin marriage focused inwardly. Flip that. Begin your marriage by focusing on serving together in various ways – especially in your local church. Find a ministry that you can do together and enjoy. Look for other people that you can serve together. Do not let your life get too focused on just you. You will find that it is fun to serve people together with your best friend. Selfishness can never be satisfied; however, living your life to serve others is very satisfying.

Live for giving not receiving.

This is such a valuable lesson. Look for areas where you are pride-filled and selfish. Identify those early. Repent of those and work together on loving each other better through giving. Please do not keep tabs on how much you do versus the other person. Just serve each other and immerse yourself in the joy of service. You will be happier when you love contraconditionally. Do not make the other person earn your love. Just live to give. Selfishness says, “But I want him or her to do this for me.” “I want…. I want… I want…” Friends, be wise early and live to give instead of receive – which is true love.

Choose contentment and gratitude.

It is hard for me to not want to emphasize one of these more than another. However, this is a biggie. You can begin by making an ongoing list of things about God and your spouse for which you are grateful. Keep adding to it regularly. There are going to be times in the future that you will need that list to help give you perspective. You can even make a journal where you write down things for which you are especially grateful. If you find discontentment and anger in your heart, immediately repent of it and change your spirit. Instead, develop a life-long, marriage-long habit of gratitude. Say, “Thank you!” often. Find something regularly that you can compliment. Even if you have been grateful for something 100 times, you can add another. Look around your home, life, and marriage, there are hundreds of things for which you can be grateful. Then say so.

Choose contentment and simplicity.

As a young married couple, it is easy to want what you cannot afford. It is easy to look around and see all the things you wish you could have versus all the things – especially each other – that you already have. Choose to live debt free as much as possible. House debt, some small car debt, college loans – many of those things are unavoidable. However, most debt can be avoided. In ten years without debt, you will be so glad you walked away from a purchase. One less meal out. One less clothing item. One less many things. In your future, you will be so happy that you chose one less early in marriage. Embrace the fact that you have each other and have fun with it. You do not need all the extras. Life without debt is worth it. Just a very practical piece of advice here, save about 10% annually. Do it young and you will be very happy as you get older.

Learn the difference between principle and preference.

Some issues force you to hold fast. Wherever the Bible teaches a principle, hold onto it as those who are seeking to honor and serve Christ most of all. But most issues are just issues of preference. Learn the difference and, more importantly, learn to give up your preferences for the sake of the other person. Be willing to change. Do not be stubborn. Bend. Be pliable. “Whatever you wish” is more than just a good line; it is a way to live. Strive to please your spouse and do the things he or she desires. Why? Because you can. Because it honors your spouse. Because the other person’s happiness makes you happy. Because it is a joy to be selfless instead of selfish. Because that is what love does.

Recognize the most important person is your spouse.

Enjoy your spouse first and foremost. Turn off electronics. Turn off the games. Minimize Facebook and other social media. Do not live for those on the outside of your marriage; keep your focus on your spouse. Yes, take pictures and take them often. Hundreds. No, scratch that, thousands of pictures. Document your life together by images. As well, share many love notes. Tell your spouse all the things for which you are grateful, what you love about them, and how they make you feel special. Explain how that other person is God’s gift to you. Then, keep those pictures and notes private. You can occasionally share with others, but privacy is good. Do not let a particular image on social media become a goal. Your goal is to love and enjoy the one in your own home.

Be committed to your principles of godly living together.

There are several key principles that will never fail you or your marriage together. Be committed to those things.

Be covenant faithful. God is your example of what it means to be covenant faithful. It is one of His key attributes in the Old Testament. You can observe it over and over. He is praised over and over for His covenant faithfulness (Ps 136). As a follower of Christ, you be covenant faithful as well. Be committed to your covenant.

Live with grace.  As you have received grace from God, please give grace to your spouse. Over and over and over give grace. Just as Jesus Christ gives grace to you, continue to give it to each other. Your spouse can never live up to your “laws.” He or she cannot earn your love. Instead freely and instantly and continually give grace.

Practice the one-anothers. The Bible has almost 50 places where believers in Christ are told to practice particular commands toward each other, like love one another, serve one another, and encourage one another. As a brother and sister-in-Christ, who is also married to each other, please do not neglect these commands. God provides you the opportunities every day to practice these things together and both grow to be like Christ together.

Progressive sanctification is the goal. As you live together as sinners, God provides you each other to help each other grow to become more like Jesus Christ. You live with a sinner. You are a sinner. Understand that and live in light of that. Do not let the other person’s sin exasperate you or surprise you. Why? You live with a sinner. You are a sinner. Now go as two sinners together seeking to live and love more and more each day like Jesus.

Look past your spouse to Christ. If your eyes are on your spouse instead of Christ, you will live disappointed. Marriage will be harder. Life will be harder. Keep your eyes on Christ even as you look toward your spouse. See past your spouse to see Christ. Make your motivation yes to honor and please your spouse, but more importantly as well, to honor and please Christ.

Make a short path to forgiveness. Consider places where you sin. Confess those sins to God and your spouse. Commit to God and your spouse to doing better. Then do what is necessary to change. Offer forgiveness. Seek forgiveness.

On this 25th Anniversary…

I rejoice that my wife has done so many of these things. I recognize where and how often I fail. Thankfully, she has persevered through 25 years with me. She married a sinner. Her patience has been great. My preferences have been strong. God’s grace and her grace has been stronger.

My gratitude list is longer than it used to be but is not as long as it should be. For that reason, I add another one today.

She is still here and striving, 25 years later.

  KevinCarson.com | Walking together through life as friends in Christ sharing wisdom along the journey

© 2019 KEVINCARSON.COM

To the Almost, Newly, & Young Married on the Occasion of our 25th Anniversary Twenty-five years ago. Two young kids both just graduated from college moving into adulthood. Married after four years of dating.

[unixcommerce]

CRM Playaz on TikTok: Respect for Customer Data Trumps Huge Engagement Numbers

  The CRM Playaz are not going to buy TikTok. Let me explain why.

Last week Microsoft made it known publicly that it was interested in acquiring a stake in TikTok, a wildly popular video sharing platform that has been in the news a lot lately.

But the Microsoft news seemed to set off a bunch of reports that other companies were also interested in, including Apple and Twitter.

In fact, so many TikTok acquisition stories started cropping up my CRM Playaz co-host Paul Greenberg and I started exploring whether we should put a bid together … OK I was just kidding on that one.

And yes, I didn’t need to say I was just kidding for you to know I was just kidding.

But with all the TikTok acquisition talk going on, the Wall Street Journal published a report this week that found TikTok “skirted a privacy safeguard in Google’s Android operating system to collect unique identifiers from millions of mobile devices”.

Given this news and the obvious repercussions it has for data privacy, what does this say about the dedication to customer experience if any company decides to buy TikTok knowing all of this?  It’s an internal conversation big companies are having.

With 800 million active daily users TikTok is creating a level of stickiness and engagement most companies crave, but are the black hat tactics with user data allegedly being performed worth the potential legal issues?  And more importantly is it worth losing the trust you’ve built up with your customer base?

Paul Greenberg Interview – TikTok Customer Data vs. Engagement Numbers

Paul and I took that up for the latest CRM Playaz ep, and all I can say is after talking about it we’ve decided to withdraw our non-offer to buy TikTok. But does that mean anybody else should?  Below is an edited transcript of our conversation. Click on the embedded SoundCloud player to hear the full conversation.

smallbiztrends · CRM Playaz on TikTok: Respect for Customer Data Trumps Huge Engagement Numbers

Brent Leary: Do you think Microsoft is still as interested in buying TikTok?

Paul Greenberg: Well, let’s say this, I think they are more cautious. I don’t think they’re dropping the idea because ultimately, there has to be some resolution of that. I don’t know what the tactic was that they used. I didn’t read the article. But look, ultimately, anytime there’s a potential legal issue of substance involved, which would potentially impact the operations of the potential acquisition, if I’m the company, I go on hold until that solved. And so, if I’m Microsoft, whether they are holding back or not at the moment, I would, and wait until… Again, I don’t know what the issue is, and I don’t know how easy it is to resolve. I haven’t a clue. But when you get that kind of public uh-oh, then you say uh-oh yourself and step back.

Brent Leary: It said that “the tactic, which experts in mobile-phone security said was concealed through an unusual added layer of encryption, appears to have violated Google policies. The identifiers collected by TikTok, called MAC addresses, are most commonly used for advertising purposes. The White House has said it was worried that user data could be obtained by the Chinese government and used to build detailed dossiers on individuals for black mail or espionage.”

Paul Greenberg: What? So-

Brent Leary: Yeah, that doesn’t sound good. No.

Paul Greenberg: Sure doesn’t. Sounds pretty seriously bad.

Brent Leary: So I don’t think I want to touch that at this point, but does Microsoft need to touch… Why would they… I [crosstalk 00:02:11]-

Paul Greenberg: Look, TikTok to me is still just a phenomenon. It’s not… there’s so many of those. The thing is, in the longterm, if it ends up like Instagram, yeah, then there may be a good reason to buy it, even though maybe out of their price range by that time. At this point to me, it’s a phenomenon that’s been really, really pushed forward by the pandemic. But it’s like the QBs and these short… what was that one that would disappear after a…? Snapchat, right?

Brent Leary: Oh right, after 12 seconds or something.

Paul Greenberg: Snapchat’s around, but it’s no longer a phenomenon because people are moving off to other things. And TikTok, at least for me at this moment, in its history, is like Snapchat early on, phenomenon that could go to absolutely nowhere potentially or settle into something less, or end up an Instagram. It’s just no telling where the thing is going and is no indicators. And nobody could convince me otherwise, that there’s some way of deciding its fate now.

So given that Microsoft would be pretty much required because of everything else, well, on the one hand, they may be required to pay an inflated price. On the other hand, they may be able to get it for almost nothing, if it’s going to actually be banned by the government, otherwise. So TikTok ownership might want to sell, not fire sale, but cheaper than they ordinarily would have. But does Microsoft need it? God, no.

Brent Leary: Yeah. I highlighted the exact action, it says Tik Tok, “skirted a privacy safeguard in Android’s operating systems to collect unique identifiers from millions of mobile devices, data that allows the app to track users online without allowing them to opt out.”

Paul Greenberg: Okay. Well, there you go. Okay, Microsoft, just forget it for now…

Brent Leary: You gotta think about this. And this is probably a conversation for another day. To me, if you, knowing all of this is going on and then still buying this, what does that say about your commitment to customer experience? Not just data privacy, the customer experience, because… This is for a longer discussion at some other point. Data privacy is becoming a much more important part of the customer experience. And when you buy something that is from a company that is doing stuff like this, what does that say to your commitment to customer experience by way of data privacy?

Paul Greenberg: Well ultimately, you’re dealing with issues of trust always. And how can you trust the company that’s willing to acquire somebody that’s violating your actual privacy and actually, ignoring your wishes too?

Brent Leary: Yeah.

Paul Greenberg: You’re probably not going to do well with something like that. And when it boils down to it, what TikTok does isn’t all that amazing either.

Brent Leary: This is not just, oh, we made a mistake. This is, oh, we got caught being devious about what we’re wanting to do with that data. That’s a whole other ball game for me.

Paul Greenberg: Yeah. I don’t know. Microsoft, forget it, okay? Do me a favor.

Brent Leary: Yes and we will do the same. We are going to remove our offer…

Paul Greenberg: Right.

Brent Leary: Immediately.

This article, “CRM Playaz on TikTok: Respect for Customer Data Trumps Huge Engagement Numbers” was first published on Small Business Trends

https://smallbiztrends.com/

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