#I got a teaching job a salary and insurance

[fiveraccoonsinatrenchcoat]

Quiet My Fears (With The Touch Of Your Hand) Ch. 2

Steve Harrington x f!reader

Description: You have this amazing talent of knocking the wind right out of Steve's chest with words alone.

Warnings: pregnant!reader, mentions of being sick (among other scarier pregnancy symptoms), language

Word Count: 3614

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Rain slammed against the window panes of the Harrington house like bullets. The cold seeped through the walls and ate straight through Steve’s pajamas, and the cup of coffee in his hands was doing little to remedy it. There was zero hint of sun in the sky, it seemed like there would be none all day, and Steve was really regretting coming out from under his covers. 

Steve had only slept in his own house three times over the past two weeks; he’d made quite the home for himself on your couch, living out of a backpack of clothes he’d stuck in the corner of your living room. You had asked him not to leave you alone, and what kind of man would he be if he had said no to that? He probably wouldn’t even have been able to, anyway.

He didn’t know if he would be allowed to sleep in your bed with you, and he had been too afraid to ask. 

While his father never really bothered to care where his son was, and his mother trusted him enough to let him do his own thing most of the time, he was still expected to show his face at home every once in a while. He’d been stuck with the closing shift last night (even though it was outside of his availability, so thanks for that, Keith), and he knew you’d be fast asleep by the time he made it back to your apartment. You’d called the store after you got home at the much more reasonable hour of six thirty. ‘I think I can live with being alone for tonight’ you’d told him. ‘I’ve got a paper to write, anyway.’ 

Fuck, Steve really needed a better job. Preferably one that paid him more and wasn’t open until eleven p.m. on a Thursday night. 

You worked a big girl job at the Roane County Historical Society museum. You were just a secretary, but you had a salary, insurance, and all that other grown up stuff. Nine to five, four days a week, and they helped with your college tuition, too. Come May, you’d have a History degree and a teaching certification, and word on the street said Hawkins Middle was about to have a need for a  new History teacher. Unlike him, you had the perfect five year plan laid out right in front of you. 

Y’know, as long as Steve hadn’t ruined it for you. 

By the time he woke up on Friday, his father was long gone. It was nearing one in the afternoon, and the big empty house felt extra big and extra empty today. Steve glanced out the window as he poured a second cup of coffee and saw the rain collecting in the bottom of the long-since drained pool in his backyard. A handful of stray leaves sat mixed with the rainwater, some stuck in a brown mass on the bottom, some floating lazily atop the puddle. 

He was startled out of his trance by his mother’s voice and nearly dropped his full mug.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said as she walked into the kitchen, heels clicking along the tiles. “Or, good afternoon, rather.”

Meredith Harrington was the opposite of her husband in more ways than anyone could count. She actually enjoyed spending time with her child, for one, but there had never been an angry bone in her body. She wasn’t immune to frustration, or worry, but it was never unfounded. Yet still, for every wild flame of rage that shot from her husband's mouth, she counteracted with calmness. Or, more accurately, quiet, fearful resignation. Her husband never put his hands on her or their son, but Steve could always tell that she had spent her whole marriage walking on eggshells, waiting for the terrifying moment that he did, as if it was a simple inevitability. 

Steve loved his mom, but fuck, he wished she would just stand up for herself for once.

“God, Mom, you scared me,” Steve responded, leaning against the counter. 

“I do live here, too, y’know,” she poked back with a smile. “When did you get so jumpy?”

If she ever found out the real answer to that question, she would probably never let her son out of her sight ever again.

“Haven’t seen much of you these last couple weeks,” his mother observed. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he insisted. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. She put the pocketbook she was holding down on the marble countertop of the island and crossed the room to lean against it, opposite her son. “I can tell, there’s far too much going on in that big head of your’s.”

Steve snorted at the well meaning insult. 

“It’s nothing mom, I promise.”

“Come on now, you know I don’t buy that,” his mother asked with arms crossed. “Talk to me, kid.” 

“I-I don’t know.” Steve was absolutely, in no way, ready to talk about any of what was going through his head, especially to his mom. ‘You might be a grandma come September’ wasn’t really something he could just drop in the middle of casual conversation.

“Is it a girl, maybe?”

Steve’s quiet was proof enough that his mother was, at least partially, right. She gave her son a knowing smile.

“Tell me it’s not Nancy again, right?” she asked. Meredith was generally a pretty forgiving woman, but Nancy had really broken her son’s heart. So, while she would always show nothing but kindness to the eldest of the Wheeler children, she didn’t have to like her. 

“Oh, no. Definitely not,” Steve assured. “That ship sailed a long, long time ago.” 

“Good,” she replied. “Will I ever get to meet this mystery girl?”

Steve just shrugged, deciding it best to omit the fact that the “mystery girl” had lived across the street for eighteen years and swam in their pool every summer for a decade.

“You should invite her over for dinner some time,” his mother said. She leaned forward and pulled a piece of errant lint off of Steve’s shoulder with perfectly manicured nails. “I’ll roast a chicken. It’ll be nice.”

“She doesn’t eat chicken.”

“She doesn’t eat chicken?” she parroted back. “What kind of person doesn’t eat chicken?”

“She’s a vegetarian, mom,” he explained. 

“Ah,” his mom accepted. “Then I’ll make that broccoli cheddar casserole you like. You know, the one I make during Lent every year? Think she’d like that?”

“Yeah, I think she would.” Steve was trying his best to hide his smile, though he wasn’t doing it all that well.

“Alrighty.” She patted her son’s shoulder as she walked past him and gathered her purse. “Well, I have to go run some errands. You’re more than welcome to join me if you’d like.”

“No, thanks.”

“Right. You’re much too cool to tag along with mom to the grocery store. How could I have forgotten?”

“No! No, it’s not that, I-”

“I’m joking, Steve,” she assured with a smile. “Make sure that cup ends up in the dishwasher, okay? Not just in the sink.” 

“Dishwasher. Got it.”

“I love you! Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone!”

With that, the heavy front door shut and Steve was plunged into the silence of deserted suburbia. 

You were at work, he had the day off with no plans, and the idea of being at all productive sounded absolutely exhausting. He finished his coffee in two big gulps and decided the best way to spend the day would be to crawl right back into bed and wallow in his feelings.

Steve had, very much on purpose, kept most of his thoughts about your current situation to himself. Partially because every time you two did start talking about it, you ended up a slushy pile of tears in his arms. The other reason, though, the bigger reason, was that he was terrified that you would put all of your own wants and wishes to the side and do whatever he wanted you to. The concept of you having a baby you didn’t want just to appease him made him sick to his stomach.

His parents only got married because his mom ended up pregnant at nineteen, and having a baby out of wedlock in 1967 was a social sin of the highest order. So they planned a wedding in two weeks time (a small family affair, exclusively to save face and avoid the questions that arise with courthouse ceremonies), and moved into a big, fancy house so that everyone knew the Harringtons were a normal, run-of-the-mill, perfect American family. His father loved to point out all of the things he didn’t get to do all because Steve came along and got in the way, and his mother. . . 

She loved him. He knew that. He also knew that she had to pack up her life to play house with a man she was always a little bit afraid of, all because of him. His father always resented him for it, but his mom never did. At the very least, she never told him she did. 

The thought of doing to you what his father did to his mom absolutely fucking terrified him, but ‘terrified’ had been his baseline state of being pretty much constantly over the past two weeks.

Steve was no stranger to fear. He’d had extensive experience with the feeling; that sharp heaviness that settled itself behind his ribs and sucked every drop of oxygen out of his lungs. When it came at him hard and fast, that was when he could handle it best. This was not that. This fear was slow and achy, all-encompassing. It sealed itself onto his bones, like some sort of emotional slime. Like a fungus.

And, honestly, most of that fear was for you, not him. The worst thing that could happen to him was that he could end up being a shitty father, and while he would hate that more than pretty much anything in the entire world, it did sort of pale in comparison to your worst case scenario. You could die.

Yeah, maybe he was being a little bit dramatic, but you still could. It wasn’t all that far outside of the realm of possibility. You were already horribly sick, you had been for the past few weeks, and while you had been taking the constant nausea and incessant dizzy spells like a fuckin’ champ, it wasn’t like a positive attitude would be able to save you if you started hemorrhaging. 

Steve really hoped, for your sake, that you had yet to go down this train of thought, but he knew you most likely had. As terrified for you as he was, he understood that you were probably feeling all of it tenfold.

And yet, behind all of that, he was having a very difficult time squashing that tiny inkling of reckless hope that had been planted in the back of his head. He was still a 21 year old dick-head who had zero business taking care of a baby, and he definitely wasn’t allowed to be excited about it. For, like, a million different reasons.

Eventually, he fell back into a heavy-limbed sleep, but was woken up however many hours later by the shrill ring of the phone. A bleary eyed glance at the clock on his bedside table told him it was just passed six o’clock. His mother should be back by now, right? He let it ring.

 A moment passed, and it rang once more. He debated for a moment if he even had the right to answer it anymore, but he begrudgingly pulled himself out of bed and picked it up anyway.

“Harrington Residence,” he grumbled, hoping whoever was on the other side could tell how frustrated he was to be awake. 

“Steve?” Your voice came through the line. It was strained, and he heard you trying your best to disguise the sobs coming from your throat. “It’s me.”

“Hey, woah, what’s going on? What happened?” he questioned, any annoyance gone. 

“Are you able to come pick me up?” you stuttered out between sniffles. “I’m at work. I-I have a flat tire.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course I can,” he said.  

“Okay.”

“I’m on my way, alright? Five minutes, tops,” he told you. He had the earpiece of the phone tucked between his cheek and shoulder, and the cord was stretched as far as it could go to reach into his bedroom as he haphazardly swapped his flannel pajama bottoms for a pair of jeans.

“Thank you.” Another sob.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he insisted. “Hang tight, I’ll be right there.”

The rain had slowed back to a dismal drizzle that splashed into the puddles stretched across Steve’s driveway. The drive to the museum was usually short, but the evening rush (as if the barely-there Hawkins traffic could ever be called that) slowed him down just enough for it to be annoying. The museum had officially closed an hour ago, though stray patrons and evening administrative duties usually kept you back after hours. 

Steve saw you shivering underneath the awning that hung over the front doors, comparable to a lost kitten stuck in a thunderstorm. The shoulders of your sweater were soaked through, and as Steve pulled into the parking lot and stopped his car, he could see the angry black rivers of runny mascara that dribbled down your face. 

“What the hell are you doing waiting for me out here in the rain?” Steve asked as he jogged up to where you were standing. He removed his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders. “Why aren’t you inside? It’s freezing.”

“That creepy research assistant is in there and I hate being in the same room as him when there’s nobody else around,” you choked out, syllables broken up by wracking sobs. 

“Alec?” Steve asked, and you nodded. He pulled you tightly against him before adding, “I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”

“Please don’t do that,” you squeaked. 

“Let’s change your tire, huh?” Steve said, though he made no move to let you go. “Do you have the spare?”

“That-” your words were cut off by a pitiful sniffle. “That is the spare.”

“Of course it is,” Steve sighed, though he most certainly should not have, because it just spurred on more crying from you. “Hey, it’s alright. I can take you home and we can get a new tire on it in the morning, okay?”

“I just had a really bad day,” you wept into his shoulder.

“I know, baby. It’s okay.”

“I spilled the hottest tea in the universe all over my legs,” you croaked. Steve winced at the image. 

“I’m sorry,” he said into the top of your head.

“And since it was so hot, I accidentally said ‘motherfucker’ in front of a tour group that consisted exclusively of second graders!” you added. Steve would have laughed at that if you weren’t so wildly upset. “And Creepy Alec was being creepy all day long-”

“My offer still stands.”

“And then I came out here and my fucking tire was fucking flat!” you exclaimed, punctuated by another bout of wailing, the kind that made your whole body shake and your voice stutter. Steve took it the best he could, petting the back of your head and holding you tight, wishing he could go into your brain and dig all of the bad bits out. 

“Let me get you home, and we can get you into some dry clothes and deal with your car in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” you whimpered. 

Steve let you go, but when he went to pull you along to his car so the pair of you could leave, you stayed planted right where you were. You lifted your watery eyes to meet his, and he gazed at you from where he stood.

“Steve?” you quietly asked him. 

“Yeah?” Steve responded. A silence fell between the two of you, though the lazy rain and evening downtown traffic poked holes through it.

“I wanna keep the baby.”

You had this amazing talent of knocking the wind right out of his chest with only words alone.

“That-” came out of fucking nowhere, holy shit!, he didn’t add. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you muttered over a wobbly lip.

Steve was paralyzed. The soles of his shoes had been superglued to the pavement and his arms had been turned to stone. It was somehow both exactly what he did and did not want to hear all at the same time, because deep down in his gut he knew he wanted that too, but there was a laundry list of reasons why it was a bad idea, why it was irresponsible, why it was maybe everything he ever wanted, and- 

“Steve, if you don’t want to do this, that's okay, but I need you to tell me. Now.” Your voice, shaky and full of fear and yet so, so determined, pulled him up and away from his thoughts once again. 

“I do!” he exclaimed, maybe with a bit too much fervor. He regained his ability to move and closed the gap between the two of you in one wide step. “I do.”

You stood silent with your glassy eyes staring bullets into his. 

“Look, I’m gonna start talking, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stop, so if it gets to be too much, just shut me up, okay?” Steve said. He brought his hands up to grace your shoulders.

“What?” you questioned, confusion laced throughout your miserable expression.

Steve had spent the last three and a half years doing everything he could to drown out the sounds of his feelings for you, and Robin was right. It was destroying his brain. 

“I’m really, really in love with you,” he said. “And I have been for a really, really long time. Since way before this, fuck, since before Starcourt, and I’m so fucking sorry for not having the guts to say it until now. I’m the universe’s biggest coward for that-”

“You are not a coward!”

“-And I know you deserve better, but for some reason that still eludes me, you’ve stuck with me through all the bullshit, anyway. You could’ve run away whenever you wanted to, you could’ve gone with your parents when they left, but you didn’t, and that has to mean something, right?”

“Steve,” you wept.

“I promise, there is nothing in this world that I want more than to do this with you, alright? Not a single fucking thing,” he assured you. “I meant what I said. Holding your hand the whole time.”

Steve took your trembling hand into his own, fingers fitting together like lock and key. 

“If you’ll have me,” he added.

Your lips wobbled, you let out another shattered sob, and you kissed him like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Like you would drop dead right on the spot if not for his lips on yours. Steve kissed back, because he knew he would drop dead if he didn’t, and now he had tears to match your own.

“I’m really, really in love with you, too,” you blubbered after the pair of you pulled apart. You had a hand on either side of his face, fingers ghosting over the junction of his jawline and neck, and Steve had his wrapped delicately around each wrist.

“You really wanna do this?” Steve asked you. “You really mean it? You’re not just saying it?”

“I really mean it,” you said definitively. You were still very much crying, though you were infinitely less miserable than you had been five minutes ago. The pair of you stayed swaying in each other's arms, protecting each other from the cold.

“Good, because I really mean it, too,” he responded. 

The thick, foggy haze of emotion was beginning to dwindle, and despite the warm bubble of affection the two of you had created, you were still standing out in the rain. And Steve was pretty sure he could see Creepy Alec spying on them through one of the second story windows.

“Let’s go home. I’ll make you dinner,” Steve murmured to you, and you nodded in agreement. 

Steve drove you both back to your apartment and made a feast of plain scrambled eggs and buttered toast, because it was all your stomach could really handle right now. Turns out, he very much was allowed to sleep in your bed with you, and after he’d finished doing the dishes in the sink, he joined you under the pile of blankets that adorned your mattress. Your cat curled itself up at the end of the bed as you drew yourself into his side. He didn’t remember you being this cuddly, but it was a change he was more than happy to welcome.

After a few minutes, when he’d thought you had fallen asleep, your voice pierced through the quiet of your bedroom.

“You’re gonna be someone's dad,” you muttered into his pajamas. Fuck. He was, wasn’t he?

“You’re gonna be someone’s mom,” he shot back.

“Weird,” you responded. “I think you’ll be really good at it.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm. Definitely.”

And of course Steve was still fucking terrified. Terrified of the monsters, and of his dad, and of all the different ways this could go south, but he had you tucked up against his chest, and he was gonna be someone’s dad, and he couldn’t really bring himself to care about any of the scary stuff. In this moment, for the first time in as long as Steve could really remember, the underlying current of fear that ran along his thoughts was finally overpowered by just how much he fucking adored you.

Tiny Little Taglist: @sheisjoeschateau @hazydespair @damon-loves-pie @pariahsparadise @anislabonis-love @e0509 @alexa4040 @starsforviolet @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @plk-18 @hoesbloated

[jeannahas]

MIDNIGHT MUSINGS

Well… we made it another year I guess. If I had to sum up the entire year in one word, I would say “Loss”. In nearly all senses (not fully all)

- lost my job as they couldn’t afford my salary. This dropped me from a salaried position to 12.35$ an hour. With 2.5 kids.

- lost connections to friends and students. (see above)

- business I managed and taught for collapsed, and officially went bankrupt this month, meaning everything I worked to build in Las Vegas over the course of three years is officially gone. Dust. Again, for me. No legacy for me it seems. (See above)

- had a major falling out with a sibling I respected greatly, and we still haven’t talked to each other since. I was in the middle of two gifts for him, and both sit on my desk unfinished. I want to finish them; and send them, it hurts to look at them.

- purpose? What purpose?

- motivation? What motivation?

- I have only been able to put food on the table this year thanks to the fact that my family owns a small house in the middle of nowhere where, and we’ve only had to pay utilities. So self image? Sense of self sufficiency? Gone.

- Hope or faith in humanity? Not really after this November.

- student loans kicked in- not like I have any money anyway. Just sitting there. And of course, in my notice it said any excess payments will go to interest- and why not allow me to pay on the principle????

- Die to a misfiling, my wife and I don’t actually have medical insurance and we’ve been fighting to get on a new program for oh… four months. Unsuccessfully, obviously.

That said, Some good things did happen this year- my son was born, I got to finally meet my youngest niece, and the two of them seem to be fast friends- both born only a couple weeks apart. I saw my younger brother for the first time since his wedding, and almost the whole family was together for Christmas this year, playing games, catching up, being family. I had a really good boss this uear, and he made sure I had time to be with my family whenever I needed it, or whenever they needed me, which meant the world to me this year.

It took almost seven months after having to resign from my job teaching martial arts, but my mental health is finally intact enough to try to get a teaching degree for this next year. Will it work? Maybe! Will president idiot and his oligarch puppeteer kill the education system and put me out of a job again? maybe! But I’m at least trying to crawl my way up from this particular nothing.

I finished the first draft of my book, met some really interesting people that have made life more entertaining, started the second draft of my book, and helped my mom publish her first kids book. My son took his first assisted steps, my daughters are growing independent and feisty (as they should) and my wife and I have never been closer.

I’ve been able to spend more time with my parents this year than… ever, since I moved out, and honestly, it’s been great just watching my kids play with their grandparents.

For once though……… I’m in no way sad to see a year slip by. Goodbye 2024- you were a rough year.

Forgotten gods in the heavens, I am so tired.

May 2025 be better than I am expecting.

[skye-huntress]

I’m in Love with the Villainess Reaction

Episode 6

I’m like 90% sure there are more Knights than those 8 people, but I guess no one else bothers to show up to the meetings.

In the novels, the crossdressing maid cafe was entirely Rod’s idea, but anime seems to be going closer to the manga route. I prefer it this way though

I like how all the girls voted yes for similar reasons.

It’s a blink and you’ll miss it moment, but you can see the Bauer siblings in their maid outfits in the OP.

Yeah, Lambert’s kind of a big deal, so I still find it funny that the First Prince simply referred to him as “the other guy” and “the Vice Captain” in the last episode, like he didn’t know who he was.

Claire’s fear of ghosts and the like is also adorable. And she was so confident a moment ago.

Remember Miss Claire, this is a job you volunteered for.

Now we start to see one of Rae’s most appreciated talents. If it wasn’t for all the teasing she had done previously, Claire might have asked for her hand then and there.

So when Lambert first mentioned about the school being haunted, you can tell Rae was initially confused, but once she heard the details, she immediately knew it was mostly her fault.

I wonder if Rae is getting enough sleep with all of her late night kitchen experiments.

Okay, that’s a nice touch having Misha teaching Ralaire how to play Rock, Paper, Scissors and that’s why she’s been mimicking a hand so much lately.

Oh no, we’re doing that flashback.

I sympathise with Claire here. The whole situation was just so unfair.

Of course, Rae knows about that whole tragedy. There’s more to the story, of course. Even with the new novels from Claire’s perspective, we’re learning new details about it that just make the whole thing so much worse.

Given the dream she was having, I bet Claire was the one who grabbed Rae’s hand in her sleep.

Classic isekai trope right there. Rae certainly didn’t choose to be Claire’s maid for the salary, so if Rae needed a lot of money, she’d have to acquire it through other means.

Ah yes, Claire and Ralaire are both gluttons for Rae’s cooking and baking.

Insurance in case “something happens” which coming from Rae and her knowledge of future events yet to come, means the time will come when Lene needs those recipes. Claire might be Rae’s priority, but it’s nice to see her looking out for other people who need it.

First time we see Rae’s healing magic at work. Of course, Rae made sure to figure out how to do healing, in case Claire ever got hurt. On that thought, I’m reasonably confident that the real purpose behind developing her tungsten carbide barrier was also so she can better protect Claire from any threats.

Oof, that foreshadowing.

I see Rae’s ED song has entered a second phase. I’ve listened to the songs so many times by now that I can just tell, even though I can’t understand a single word.

The Foundation Fair is next episode, and that’s going to be a treat to watch for so many reasons. This is going to be a long week.

On a final note, check out the tags below. I found the second by chance and was really scratching my head trying to figure out the difference.

[ramshacklefey]

Universities: Why are our grad students so depressed and taking so long to finish their dissertations? Also universities: A $7,000/semester stipend (excluding the summer) is enough to live on for a year, right? Oh, and we'll be taking back about $1,000/semester to pay for uh... fees. No I know you got a tuition waiver, but y'know. There's all these fees. Ah, and another $1,000/semester because you have to have health insurance, which the university conveniently offers. By the way, you're going to be teaching a course by yourself, don't worry it'll look good on your CV later. Huh? Guidance on how to teach your own class? What do you need that for? Aren't you an expert in this field? Just be glad you're not an adjunct. They make about 1/2 what you do for each course they teach. Oh, and since this is a public university, we've actually made it illegal for grad students to form unions. Not that you'd have time to. And make sure you're getting stuff published, serving on committees, presenting at conferences, and making connections with other people in your field. You'll need it for getting a job later. Also it makes us look good and brings in a ton of funding which might even go to your professors' salaries. Also also universities: We've set up a mental health crisis center for our grad students uwu. Really though, you should be taking better care of yourselves. Don't you love your field? Aren't you doing this because you're passionate about your subject? Professors: You're getting a second job? I mean, ok, but you really should be focusing on your studies. Hiring committees: You took more than 6 years to finish your dissertation? Are you even serious about your work?

[nightofnyx8]

Thank you for tagging me @roseofbattles!

Greatest Hits of 2023

1. I got my first real job as a teacher! After about 100 applications and thirty or so failed interviews (that was fun eight months of doubting everything about myself), I was finally hired on as the choir and orchestra teacher at a nearby middle school. It has been such a whirlwind (especially seeing as I only took about six weeks of string essentials in college), and I have spent many long days crying at my desk after school. But oh, how I love my kids. They drive me crazy and crack the weirdest jokes and amaze me all at the same time. It's been a lot trying to breathe life into a dying program and I get a lot of pushback from kids who just want to sing pop karaoke all day, but they've grown so much in just one semester. It's crazy exhausting but I honestly would never want to do anything else. <3

2. Reading-I've fallen in love with audiobooks and reading real books again! I've gotten to read a variety of genres and I really feel like it's improved my writing. My favorite this year would probably have to be Eye of the Needle by Ken Follet (thanks to @puolain for the recommendation). I'm currently working through The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy and Red Sparrow by Jason Matthews.

3. Travel- I had the opportunity to go to NYC for the first time ever and met some really wonderful friends! I really haven't been able to go anywhere else, but my husband and I are saving up to go to Spain in the coming months!

4. Writing-I've been delving more into chaptered fics as opposed to one-shots, and I'm been enjoying it! It takes a lot more planning and dedication, but that urge to write an original work someday is always on the back of my mind. We'll see :)

5. Piano-I've never been the best pianist, but this year has given me time to really go from the plateau I've been stuck on for the last five years and I finally feel like I'm making some progress again. I'm excited to actually start accompanying my choirs instead of faking it with block chords most of the time.

6. I've really built up my private voice studio this year and it's growing quite nicely. It's kind of fun to teach middle schoolers during the day and then private high schoolers in the afternoon.

7. I was invited to join a semi-professional choir by a few of my colleagues, and it's been such a joy! We've gotten to sing at some beautiful cathedrals and were invited to sing at our state's choral festival alongside some collegiate choirs. Next season's looking to be pretty busy, and the first year we'll be paid to sing!

8. I had to do a lot of first-time "grown-up" things this year (apply for insurance and retirement, bought a new car, first time with a salary-based job, etc), and while part of me longs for that safety net of college, it's exciting to actually start my career and begin the next stage of my life.

9. I've been Journaling a lot more this year! It really helps me get my thoughts out at the end of the day.

10. My husband and I will be celebrating our three-year annivesary in May. He is such a nerd and likes to take me on walks to see exposed infrastructure, but he is such a good man and I'm excited to see where life takes us next.

Bonus: I'm hoping to really be kind to myself and my students in 2024. Being a new teacher is very overwhelming, especially as I'm the youngest teacher in the school and it's been hard not to beat myself up over every bad day. But next year also holds the promise of always learning something new and sharing it with the people I love <3

tagging @whateversawesome @klainelynch @neejmorp @puolain @wondrousmay and whoever else wants to do it <3

[denimbex1986]

'Matt Damon has been praised for his response to a reporter’s question about teachers’ salaries in a newly resurfaced video.

The actor, who most recently featured in Christopher Nolan‘s Oppenheimer, attended a Save Our Schools march in Washington DC in August 2011, with interview footage from the event revealing Damon’s commitment to the cause.

In a recorded interview with Reason.TV – during which Damon stood alongside his mother, who is a teacher – the actor was asked a question that suggested teachers would work harder if they had less job security, similar to the unreliable nature of acting jobs.

“You think job insecurity is what makes me work hard?” Damon replied. “I want to be an actor, it’s not an incentive.”

He went on: “That’s the thing, see, you take this MBA-style thinking, right? It’s the problem with ed policy right now.

“There’s this intrinsically paternalistic view of problems that are much more complex than that. It’s like saying a teacher is going to get lazy when they have tenure, a teacher wants to teach.”

He added: “I mean, why else would you take a shitty salary and really long hours and do that job unless you really love to do it?”

The cameraman then chimed in to claim that “10 per cent of teachers are bad”, to which Damon’s mother asked: “Where did you get that number?”

The operator replied: “I don’t know, 10 per cent of people in any profession maybe should think of something else.”

“Well, OK,” Damon responded. “But maybe you’re a shitty cameraman, I don’t know.”

Viewers have since been heaping praise on the actor for his defence of the teaching profession. “Matt Damon absolutely decimating these people who are suggesting job insecurity is important for incentivising hard work as opposed to passion, all on behalf of his teacher mother is just really damn refreshing,” one Twitter user wrote.

“Matt Damon nails it,” another person added. “This Matt Damon clip should be reposted by every teacher in America,” a third said.

One person wrote that “damn Will Hunting jumped outta him for a second”, referencing his role as the sharp-tongued titular character in 1997 film Good Will Hunting, in which he plays a janitor at MIT (Massachusetts Institute of Technology) with a genius IQ.

The actor has been vocal about workers’ rights more recently in the midst of the current actor and writers’ strikes in Hollywood.

Speaking to Associated Press at an Oppenheimer London photo call in July, Damon said that “we ought to protect the people who are kind of on the margins”.

He went on: “And 26,000 bucks a year is what you have to make to get your health insurance. And there are a lot of people whose residual payments are what carry them across that threshold. And if those residual payments dry up, so does their health care. And that’s absolutely unacceptable. We can’t have that. So, we got to figure out something that is fair.”'

[critcallylowhp]

Story- my school’s band teacher had to get jaw surgery to fix her teeth. Something about like… having to remove teeth, drill new holes and put in false teeth? Idk, it’s been years now.

Point is, she got this done so she could continue to bite and chew like normal. She had to wear a brace for her lower jaw for months and it was absolute hell for her. The brace would wear sores into her lip and this tiny woman still came in to teach ungrateful lil rats. God bless her even if I didn’t like her a ton.

Now, this sounds like it would be an important, very much needed surgery, right? I mean, it was literally going to help keep her functioning as normal. NOPE!

Insurance pretty much claimed it was cosmetic surgery because it was fixing her teeth. This meant she had to pay for all of this out of pocket. On a teachers salary. Luckily, her husband had a much better paying job, so she was able to get the surgery, but yeah.

Point is, cosmetic surgery covers a much, much larger category than just boob jobs and butt lifts, and genital procedures. Which, by the way, are still valid.

Btw, she did heal wonderfully, and I can still remember how happy she was when her mouth was healed enough for her to play trumpet again.

Look. I’m going to be honest with you. Adopting that hard anti-plastic surgery stance while trans people’s lives and right to transition is at stake is absolutely horrendous timing. Knock it off.

[x-rambles]

Audacity-April 17, 2023

I need a moment to journal, with audacity for a moment. I remember doing this activity when I was apartment hunting. I am currently doing the work, to set myself up for amazing things.

I am working toward a higher salary, with lesser living costs, and higher joy. I am doing work to improve my romantic relationship, to move myself to become in gut-level love, and to move myself to marriage. I am planning for a schedule, in my field, that I love, with a shorter workday, and shorter workdays throughout the year. I am working toward minimizing my cost of living, and developing the foundation for passive income. Once I complete my coaching course, I will have the funds to save and maintain a car.

Babygirl, I will step out of my beautiful home, step into my car, drive to work, drive to Target after work, drive to my fianceès house, to spend time with him. Baby I will have the option to drive to different grocery stores as needed, I may begin shopping at Aldi's again.

Baby you will live in a small apartment in home ownership, then move to Airbnb one bedroom, then your ENTIRE unit while living with your fianceè. Babygirl please CLAIM the greatness. Although there is pain at this moment, there is a difficulty, there is stress, there is anxiety, PLEASE take the moment to remember WHAT this is all for, and to DREAM. Baby remember to DREAM. YOU ARE WORKING TO LIVE YOUR DREAM.

You are PUSHING yourself through this home-buying process to offset your cost of living, AND to make a generational difference. So you will have income while staying home with your babies.

You are FACING your fears with yet another job to step into a CAREER CHANGING position in INDUSTRY LEADING places. You are PAYING every month to participate in a program that will ensure you GROW inside, and your romance, your marriage, is that much stronger.

The finances you're sacrificing monthly is also a lesson in how far you can go--As you develop more streams of income (your current side hustle, your negotiation for a higher salary) ON TOP of reflecting on INTENTIONAL spending habits monthly, to make room for what's to come! To make room for your home savings account, your car savings account, and your car insurance.

BABY GIRL--In MONTHS' time, you will be working a shorter day, teaching content you love to bright and engaged students, you will be home-owning, offsetting costs, and incorporating MORE space for even more income. You will continue doing the work, to become a WIFE, in a loving marriage that allows you to continue growing.

The pain here, is necessary, for the next level. Once you have this job, you will breathe. Once you have this house, you will BREATHE. Your tenants will contribute to housing costs, and you will begin another journey, from a place of more ease. You are growing your network to ensure peace, ease, and happiness.

By the time 2024 rolls around, you will be a new girl. The most important thing is...You will be the SAME Girl, in a better, THRIVING position--You're ALREADY that girl. By being the girl who got Qualified, by being the girl who is paying for these courses AND IMPLEMENTING THE WORK, by being the girl who is pushing herself, to job search, work a side hustle, work a full-time job, YOU ARE HER.

The circumstance will look different SOON--less clawing your way, more maintaining. Baby you are doing this for a reason, for things that you can't really imagine right now. Remember to DREAM. As you're working hard, KEEP DREAMING.

XoXo, C.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

If I Fell For You (Part 1) - The Nanny

Summary: The reader interviews for a new live-in nanny position with Jensen and quickly gets the job but she starts to slowly see that her new employer is going to be different than any other she’s had before...

Masterlist

Pairing: Jensen x nanny!reader

Square: Slow Burn

Word Count: 4,800ish

Warnings: language, mention of death of a spouse/death of a parent

A/N: Please enjoy the first part of this series! This was also written for @supernatural-jackles​ Tell Me A Story Bingo!

________

If someone had said you’d be celebrating your 30th birthday by accepting an interview to be a live in nanny when you were a kid, you would have told them they were nuts. Beyond nuts. Beyond help for that matter.

But there you were. Thirty. Single. Childless. Taking care of other people’s families and not doing much else with your life. You weren’t sure if your mom would have been on you about the no kids thing or the no boyfriend thing more to be honest.

But the pay was normally good and sometimes great and it gave you a taste of family, even if you were just the help to the adults most of the time.

You buzzed the button by the gate at the end of the driveway, a brief moment passing before it opened. It was probably on a timer like most of the people you’d worked for before, an alarm system kicking on at some point in the evening that required a buzz in, the code or a car sensor. You drove down the driveway and parked a little behind a black SUV. The house was a little modern, a little grand, a little overwhelming. A fence and lots of trees surrounded the property. The yard appeared large but you could see houses on either side. Private but suburban. 

The cadillac wasn’t a shocker. Most everyone in these neighborhoods had Escalades. You walked past an open garage on the way up, a muscle car and a more modest smaller SUV parked inside. You went up the very short path and stepped up, ringing the doorbell and fixing your shirt. You were in jeans and a plain gray shirt. It was your normal wear for chasing small children around all day and you weren’t a fan of uniforms.

“Hi,” said a very tired, very handsome man as he opened the door. “You must be from Nanny Core.”

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N from Home Pair,” you said with a smile. He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the door. 

“The last girl was from Nanny Core,” he said. He blinked them open and shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Yes, Y/N. You’re the one that’s a consultant, not firmly associated with Home Pair, right?”

“Correct,” you said as he opened the door more and you stepped inside.

“Can I ask what the distinction is?”

“Mostly it has to do with benefits,” you said. “Consultants pay out of pocket for their own or negotiate with their client for those to be covered.”

“Gotcha,” he yawned. You looked ahead and he wiped his hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I must seem like an ass.”

“You seem tired is all Mr. Ackles. Not a crime,” you said with a smile. He nodded and he returned it, no fake cheesiness to it. 

“Mind if we do the interview in the kitchen over a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Wherever you like, sir,” you said. You took off your shoes when you noticed he didn’t wear any inside and he chuckled as you walked back farther into the house.

“Uh, for the record, call me Jensen. None of that sir stuff. They must teach that at nanny school or something huh?” he said, motioning to a table. “I noticed all of you do it.”

“Something like that,” you said. You took a seat and watched him go to a coffee machine, fumbling with it before he spilled some ground coffee on the counter. He shut his eyes and gripped the counter’s edge, taking a deep breath to himself. “How about I make the coffee and you take a seat, hm?”

“I’m okay,” he said as he opened his eyes. 

“Well making you coffee is probably going to come up in my job quite a bit so consider this part of the interview. It’s alright, really,” you said. He glanced over to you and you smiled. 

“Thank you,” he said. You swapped places with him and got him a cup going, taking a mug off the counter and waiting a beat before liquid started pouring out. “I’m gonna ask you the same question I’ve asked all seven other women I’ve talked to today.”

“Yes?”

“Why should I trust you to watch my children?”

“Honestly?” you asked as he nodded. You smiled and carried the cup over to him, Jensen taking a long sip. “You shouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t. That seems counterproductive.”

“I wouldn’t trust any stranger with my child. Trust is earned, not given. I think the real question is do you believe I’m capable of earning that trust with you and that’s something intrinsically only you know.”

“How so?”

“You meet a lot of different kinds of people with this job. My gut reaction to you is stressed, overwhelmed, sleep-deprived father who doesn’t really want any nanny at all but is forced into this situation. It’s going to be impossible for you to trust any of the seven woman from earlier or me off the bat, Jensen. You should be thinking of who will you come to trust. Who can you count on.”

“This is why my wife should have been the one doing this,” he said, smiling to himself as he drunk down most of the hot liquid.

“We could always re-schedule for when she’s available.”

“Oh, we’d have to wait a very long time for that,” he chuckled. He sat the mug down and glanced down briefly, smiling as he looked up. “She passed away unexpectedly six months ago. Car accident.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said. He nodded and made a face like he wanted to make a comment. “My mom died kinda unexpectedly. I know it’s...harder.”

“You’re young. How old?”

“Turned thirty today,” you said. He laughed and you heard the life behind it, Jensen shaking his head.

“Well Happy Birthday. I meant with your mother though. If that’s okay with you I mean.”

“It’s fine. I was sixteen,” you said. 

“That...fucking sucks doesn’t it?”

“So does losing your wife,” you said. 

“Yes it does. I’ve grieved. We all have. The kids are small. They’ll be okay.”

“Is dad okay?” you asked.

“Yes. Ready to start moving on with life again,” he said with a soft smile. “You’re kind. Not in a I’m trying to get this job kind of way. Just kind.”

“Well being cruel doesn’t sound like very much fun,” you said.

“You’re not trying to impress me.”

“The first rule of nannying, Jensen. You think you’re interviewing us when in reality we’re interviewing you too.”

“How am I doing so far?”

“Nice coffee choice,” you said with a smile that he nodded at. “You respect people. You’ll employ me but won’t treat me like I’m second class. You’re checking the boxes so far.”

“What if I don’t check all the boxes?”

“You don’t get to know the luxury of knowing the answer yet, Mr. Ackles,” you said. “Interview isn’t over.”

“You got fucked over by somebody, didn’t you.”

“Also perceptive,” you said. “Like I said, I don’t tolerate being treated unkindly anymore. It’s why I left my last position.”

“I have one more question,” he said. “Would you treat my children like they’re your own?”

“Again, asking the wrong question,” you said. He sat back and crossed his arms, smirking at you.

“What exactly should I be asking?”

“Will you treat my children kindly and with respect but take charge when required?”

“What’s the difference?”

“One is me doing my job and the other is me doing yours.”

“How old did you say you were again?”

“Thirty today.”

“Right. Well I think I know where I stand. Do you have anything for me?”

“Can you show me a picture of your kids?” you asked. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “You answered my question.”

“I didn’t show you anything yet.”

“You’d be surprised how many fathers I’ve met don’t carry pictures of their children in their wallets. That one is just a me thing.”

“Your dad do that?” he asked as he tucked it away.

“Maybe,” you said with a shrug. He was polite enough to not go down that route though and this was already getting more personal than you anticipated. “I think I know where I stand as well.”

“I’d like to hire you,” he said.

“Assuming our negotiations go well, I accept,” you said. He held out his hand over the table and you shook it.

“I did come up with what I thought was fair for salary and benefits. Let me go grab the paperwork and hopefully settle on something,” he said. He excused himself and you looked around the house, already trying to familiarize yourself with things. He was more relaxed when he returned with some papers and a notebook, handing you a few sheets. “If I’m missing anything let me know. I-”

“This is my weekly rate?” you asked when you saw the number at the top of the page.

“Oh no. That’s your daily,” he said as he took a seat. “So I think that’s-”

“Jensen,” you said, pushing the paper back. “I have to ask, things like insurance, are those coming out of your pocket or mine?”

“I’ll cover the expenses of your health, dental, all of that. You just choose and I’ll subsize it as part of your paycheck,” he said. 

“This is for a live in position. Um...can you just...explain what makes up that daily rate number?” you asked.

“It’s simply your base pay. Obviously I pay for housing, utilities, gas obviously. I will get you a credit card to make purchases with for the kids and all of that so it’s simple to keep track of. You’re free to any of the food in the kitchen. I’m guessing the salary is the sticking point here.”

“Jensen,” you said as you scratched your head. 

“I can go up fifty more dollars a day.”

“Jensen. This is way, way too much money. Way too much,” you said. “The average rate around here is about twenty five an hour or two hundred a day. Jensen this is double that. Are you factoring in like time and a half for additional nights and weekends?”

“No. That’d be on top of that. I thought that was a fair value based on the fact you are going to be taking care of the most valuable things in my life. It’s gonna get taxed too so it’s not like you see all of it.”

“You’re sweet, Jensen,” you said, writing down a number at the top of the page. “The average in Austin is twenty five an hour. I would be very happy with that.”

“You have to literally be the first person in existence to negotiate their salary down from the offer,” he said.

“Are you rejecting my offer?” you asked. He took the paper and crossed your number out, jotting down his own and spinning it back. “Jensen.”

“Y/N,” he said, crossing his arms. “I came down. Now it’s your turn. Do you accept?”

You knew thirty five was still way overpriced for the job, especially considering everything else he was paying for.

“I will accept on the condition that you get four hours of what we’d call evening or weekend at the normal rate ever week.”

“I can agree to that,” he said with a smile, writing that down. “So medical plan. Single, plus one, family?”

“Single for all that,” you said. 

“I should mention that there is an in-law suite off to the other side of the garage where you’ll be staying. It’s just down the hall but it has its own small living area and kitchenette. There is a separate entrance to it. If you have guests over I just ask you keep them to your area of the house,” he said.

“Absolutely. I don’t tend to bring people over much anyways while I’m on the job,” you said. He let you read over the rest of the benefits, a good amount of sick and vacation time too. Technically you were free evenings and weekends but he could ask you to work longer if he needed you and you were available. Overall everything seemed in order. “Alright. Everything looks good to me.”

“Awesome. Are you available to start Monday?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said. “It gives me plenty of time to move in things tomorrow so I can jump into the kids routine first thing Monday.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll show you around. We can start with your side of the house.” You got up and followed him over to near the front door and down a long hallway, past a set of doors. There was a frosted glass one to your left just before he pushed open a wide white one.

Behind it was a living area and kitchen. Not huge, about the size of a small apartment. There was a TV and sectional, a table tucked against the wall and a kitchenette like he’d mentioned with full size appliances. 

“Like I said, I know it’s small. Please like, seriously watch TV out in the family room at night if you want or hang out wherever or the yard or pool. This is just your own space when you want to be away from us.” You hummed and he showed you a closet and then a bedroom and bathroom. It was simple but decorated nicely and looked relaxing. “If there’s something obvious I’m missing please let me know. A cleaning service does come by every two weeks on Tuesdays at around ten in the morning. They’ll do in here too. Otherwise you can keep after yourself. Cleaning stuff is in the laundry room. Oh yeah. Um, this is probably the last time I’ll like, ever come in here unless you need help moving things in since this will be your space.”

“Thanks. I don’t have too much. I do have one request before we sign all the paperwork.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to meet the kids if that’s alright. There’s not much point in hiring me if they hate me.”

“Fair point. We’ll get ‘em over here and then get you all squared away.”

Monday Morning

“Good morning,” you said, a cup of coffee in your hand already as Jensen yawned. 

“Morning,” he mumbled. His hair was a mess and he was in only a pair of boxer briefs before he paused and looked down. “I should probably put on some clothes.”

“This is your house. Wear whatever you normally would. Pretend I’m invisible,” you said as you poured a cup of coffee into a mug for him.

“Sounds like you worked for some real assholes,” he said, graciously taking the cup. “As long as it doesn’t bother you, me walking around in my undies.”

“No, not at all,” you said with a smile. “Would you like me to drop the kids off at school and daycare this morning?”

“Sure,” he said. “Car keys are on the table by the garage.”

“Okay great. I’m used to driving that kind of SUV,” you said. You snuck a look at your schedule you’d printed out again, knowing the twins would get need to get picked up around noon. You started to work on their lunches and snacks for the day while he took out the carton of eggs from the fridge. He cracked one into a pan and turned the heat on, yawning again as he got out some bread and threw it on a plate. “Would you like me to make lunch for you as well?”

“No thank you. I’m getting lunch with my manager today. You don’t have to make me coffee in the morning either, Y/N. Your job is to take care of the kids, not me,” he said.

“A cup of coffee is not difficult, Jensen. My job is to help you so if I can make dad’s life a smidge easier it’ll make theirs better too,” you said with a smile.

“You’re not like, a morning person are you,” he chuckled. “I don’t do peppy in the morning.”

“Oh no. I’m always a little nervous when I start a new job. I’ll get a rhythm down soon,” you said.

“So what do you normally do once the kids are dropped off?” he asked as he got out a spatula.

“On a weekday I’ll review their schedule, see if anything different is going on. An average day like today I will clean their rooms, their bathroom, do some laundry while they’re at school, maybe some shopping. I’ll pick up the twins, bring them home for lunch, a little playtime, a nap. We’ll have some quiet time and maybe a craft or coloring before we get JJ from school. Then I’ll give them all a snack, we can get outside and play to get some energy out. I’ll help JJ with any schoolwork she has while the twins play and then I will start on dinner about the time you’ll be getting home. Since you have no plans currently tonight I’ll leave you guys be at that point until tomorrow unless you ask me for help.”

“So when do you take a break?” he asked.

“Naptime. I’ll have lunch with the twins. Don’t worry about me Jensen. That’s my normal plan but if you would like me to run some errands in the morning I can,” you said.

“No, no. Just…” he trailed off. “I still want to make them breakfast and dinner and play with them too is all.”

“We’ll figure out the right mix of things,” you said. “You just gotta tell me is all, okay? It can vary day to day too,”

“Yeah,” he said, taking his fried egg out of the pan and placing it on one piece of bread. He made a sandwich and took a big bite, looking out the back window. “I never asked. How was your birthday?”

“Hm?” you hummed, dropping some carrots into a reusable bag.

“On Saturday you said it was your 30th. You do anything fun that night?” he asked with a soft smile.

“I got a new job. That was the highlight of my day,” you said, Jensen cocking his head. “I ordered pizza, binged netflix. My normal Saturday routine.”

“I know everybody jokes about 30 but it’s really just jokes. Wait until you’re 42,” he chuckled. “Then you really feel old.”

“Most 42 year olds would kill to look like you,” you said. You shut your eyes and shook your head. “I’m so sorry. That was so inappropriate.”

“It’s alright. I took it as a compliment,” he said, smiling again. “So you did nothing for your birthday, huh?”

“Uh, no,” you said, mixing in some grapes into each of the snack bags.

“I’m gonna get you a birthday cake,” he said.

“Mr. Ackles-”

“I thought I said it’s Jensen. I’m the boss so what I say goes. We’re gonna have a birthday cake for you tonight. So. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Whatever you want is perfectly fine.”

“Y/N.”

“...I like red velvet,” you said. He smiled and chuckled. 

“That was my wife’s favorite,” he said. “Haven’t had that since her birthday. She would have liked you.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. You’re quite kind to me. She was always protective of me, even if she was the scaredy cat most of the time.”

“Can I ask how…” you said as he took another bite.

“Accident. Tractor trailer versus her car. He tried to miss her but it was too late. I wanted to hate the guy too but it was an accident and I couldn’t blame him for that.”

“My father died in a car crash when I was six. It does get better with time,” you said.

“That’s why you didn’t know if he had a picture of you in his wallet or not,” he said as you nodded. “You’re too young to have that much tragedy in life.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not young anymore.”

“You’re young and overly generous,” you said with a smile. 

“Misery loves company,” he said as you both heard a few feet above you running around. “Munchkins are up.”

“You want to make breakfast or should I?” you asked.

“Give me five minutes to get them in some clean clothes. Then I can show you how they like their eggs.”

“Sounds like a plan, Jensen.”

Later That Evening

“Y/N?” said Jensen, knocking on the door to your room. You got up from the couch and answered it, Jensen standing there with a smile. “The kids and I were wondering if you’d like your birthday cake for dessert.”

“You actually got me a cake?”

“I did indeed,” he said. You followed him down the hall and back into the living space, Arrow running up to you.

“Y/N! Are you sleeping over?” she asked as she gave you a hug.

“I live just down the hall now, cutie,” you said.

“Daddy, can we have ice cream too?” asked Zeppelin as he climbed up into his chair at the table.

“Sure thing bud. Girls, would you like some too?” he asked. Both the little ones said yes as he looked back at you.

“I really shouldn’t,” you said.

“We eat ice cream in this house,” he said.

“You don’t have to twist my arm over it,” you said. He got out the container and set it down on the table by the cake, lighting the match on the candle on top. “Oh please don’t-”

He started to sing though and the kids joined in, Jensen having a really good voice actually. You blew out the candle when they were through and he dished up some dessert for everyone.

“Y/N, can you read me a bedtime story later?” asked Zeppelin and you glanced at his father, Jensen making a face.

“Well Y/N’s not at work right now so she doesn’t have to unless she wants to,” said Jensen. “We’re already cutting into her-”

“I would love to, Zepp,” you said, his little face lighting up. “Maybe you guys want to join us?”

“JJ’s a little big to get read to at night I’ve been told,” said Jensen.

“Am not,” she said. “I can get a story too, right?”

“Of course,” you said. You took a bite of the cake and hummed. “This is really good.”

“I bought it myself,” said Jensen. 

“Well you have good taste,” you said. “In fact, I’m gonna have another slice.”

“Good,” he said as Zeppelin grabbed the ice cream container. “Alright, alright. You can have a bit more, bud.”

“Night, JJ,” you said, getting a hug from her as you put her back to bed an hour later. JJ smiled from her bed and you flicked off the light, pulling the door shut after you turned on her night light.

“Thanks for giving up your night with them. I didn’t mean to have that happen,” said Jensen as you headed downstairs with him.

“It’s no problem. It’s good bonding for us,” you said. You helped him pick up the plates at the table and wash them off, Jensen grabbing a bottle of whiskey from a tall cabinet as you covered up what was left of the cake. 

“Drink?” he asked.

“A small one,” you said. He poured a single into a whiskey glass and slid it over to you, smirking when you took a sip. “Oh that’s smooth.”

“Very,” he said, drinking from his own glass. “Thank you for tonight. JJ’s been…”

“She’s the oldest. She’s gonna have a harder time with it.”

“You were about her age when your dad died you said?”

“She’ll be okay. She’ll miss her but it won’t be a deep pain. She’ll have nice memories of her mom. She’s doing pretty good, trust me.”

“Can I ask another personal question?”

“I’m off the clock. Shoot,” you said.

“Your mom ever...try again with someone else?”

“Yes. Years later she found a good guy. He actually is who I stayed with after she passed. He’s married now, has some kids of his own but I know if I call him up he’d drop everything for me.”

“Good. I was getting afraid you were a complete Shakespeare tragedy,” he chuckled.

“Nah. I’m not at that level of crazy in my life,” you said. “As long as we’re off the clock, can I ask if you’re asking because you’re thinking of getting back out there?”

“I am. My wife kind of insisted on it. When we first got serious we had this deal that we’d go try again if something happened. I mean, I don’t cry everytime I think about her now. I can smile and be happy and that ache doesn’t try to swallow me up everyday anymore. I think it’s time I could get back out there.”

“I’d say it is. The kids are ready. They’ll understand.”

“You think your mom loved the second guy as much as your dad?”

“For sure. She was a bit of a free spirit but she didn’t think you had to have just one soulmate. She told me that after she’d met Ray. She said she got two so maybe I had two out there. I haven’t found either one of them yet so I’ll take increasing my odds as best I can.”

“Well you’re not gonna meet your soulmate sitting at home on Saturday nights, Y/N.”

“Just a lot of douchey guys,” you said.

“Ah. You need to meet a better kind of guy is all,” he said.

“Yeah see I’m thirty. All the good guys are married by now.”

“Oh all of them are taken. I didn’t realize that,” he said with a chuckle. “What am I then? Another douchebag?”

“You don’t count. You’re…”

“Too old for you?” he chuckled.

“My boss. Plus you’re like famous. You can go get like a victoria secret model or something.”

“Looks ain’t everything.”

“Maybe I ought to try older guys now that you say that,” you said.

“Y/N, you gotta be careful with that. I don’t want to see you get taken advantage of.”

“And this is why I watch netflix on Saturday nights,” you said.

“You serious about the older guy crack?” he asked. 

“I do find them more...attractive sometimes. I guess it depends on how old. Why?”

“I got a friend my age, might be interested?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you said. “No offense to your friend but...I mean if he’s 42...I want kids and stuff you know? Although a dude it doesn’t really matter how old...I don’t know.”

“It was just a thought,” he said with a smile.

“I’ll think about it,” you said. “He’s not a weirdo, right.”

“No. He’s an actor. Something to think about,” he said.

“I will,” you said. “Thank you for the birthday cake, Jensen. You’re a good person.”

“I bought a cake.”

“Yeah but I haven’t really had one of those in years. You’re a good person.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said as you slid off your seat. “You’re free to hang out if you like.”

“I’m kinda tired. I won’t be getting up that early from now on I don’t think.”

“I completely understand,” he said. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight Jensen.”

________

A/N: Read Part 2 here!

[confusedguytoo]

I say Haly was constantly having to pay out protection money. It finally got so bad he had to risk refusing to pay. And the idiot crooks who decide to teach him a lesson for refusing go straight the killing the circus' cash cows!

Also possible they gave up salary for better benefits and that they looked out for other acts to the detriment of themselves

I bet at least part of the trust fund was life insurance policies paying out extra for being murdered while doing their job. Bruce was probably given control to invest it, figuring that if the investments went bad he could afford to cover

As for lack of things like monetized youtube, the Flying Graysons have been dead for 15 to 20 years. That's at most prior to Youtube, at least prior to monetization

i actually think it's pretty funny that dc writing dick growing up the son of literally famous, show selling out performers that literally everyone on the planet has heard of and really kind of poor growing up actually because the latter really says a lot of what dc thinks of extremely skilled circus performers and is. a little racist & classist if you think about it. and somehow manages to reflect really poorly on both john and mary grayson and haly's circus.

because i think it's like. they take the roma retcon + itinerant lifestyle + grew up in a rv + circus folk are basically carnival workers who get paid under the table, right? and add that up to = ergo dick grayson must have been very poor growing up despite the fact that. literally everyone on the planet has heard of his super famous parents.

and i'm not just talking modern day, where everyone and their brother seems to have gone to haly's circus (or was there that night). but even in post crisis, people like bonnie's mom were casually name-dropping "oh, like the flying graysons". they were pretty casually known, actually.

like yea, in a lonely place of dying mr. haly mentions that even back then (when they had the flying graysons as an act), the circus was "barely breaking even" but also does this make sense for a circus that would sell out whenever the flying graysons performed. like there's almost a dissonance between how well the circus is always shown to be doing in it's heyday (constant selling out, employing extremely famous acrobats) vs how well they're told to be doing (barely breaking even).

and like. if it is true & they were paid poverty wages despite the fact that they were literally the extremely world-famous headlining act of the circus, then either john and mary are completely incapable of negotiating themselves a fair salary for their skills &/or mr. haly is probably exploiting them.

because like. the flying graysons being a act for haly's circus means they would have to have a contract with the circus for their pay and benefits in return for their act--even in a lonely place of dying the other performers mention their contracts with the circus. because, again, circus performers are skilled workers. so being extremely skilled acrobats who are super famous, john and mary have. a LOT of power on the negotiating table given they're the only three people on the planet that can do a quadruple somersault and other circuses are probably salivating to offer them a lot of money to work for them instead. to buy their world famous act outright would probably cost hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars to avoid paying them royalities for everytime they performed it. if their act wasn't bought outright for a lot of money then their contract probably stipulates a certain percentage of profit from the shows they sell out as the headlining act OR should be more than enough to cover their yearly expenses, food, gas for their rv, insurance, etc. in fact, they may stipulate certain stipeds for gas and food. they might stipulate the circus cover their life & disability insurance given the inherent danger of their act.

so if they're completely unaware of what they're worth and being underpaid for their skills that are literally selling out shows, then you're implying that they're completely clueless & unable to negotiate a fair price for their skills and mr. haly is taking major advantage of them and dick grayson should tell that man to kick fucking rocks.

or they're just. okay? with being completely and totally underpaid for their skills given they like mr. haly so much?

idk. the more famous dc makes the graysons, the more dissonant this actually gets. like in modern day if they're so famous why don't they also have a monetized youtube of their acts & practices with millions of views. if they're that famous and still poverty level struggling, then why were they incapable of advocating for their worth as the only 3 people who could perform a quadruple somersault. like either the circus was a niche thing that struggled a lot and they shouldn't be famous (tim drake should be their only fan) or they were extremely famous and mary and john grayson. should have probably done decently well advocating for themselves, actually.

[mahvaladara]

Apollo stared at his dad and smiled. His dad was pretty smart when he got to talk with him about school stuff.

Apollo: How do you know all that?

Mal: I used to teach school stuff to my siblings and my kids and just overall love reading. Where I come from, there was no such thing as television. 

Apollo: Were you like in a... third world country? 

Mal: You’ll come to understand that ‘third world country’ is a very relative term.

Apollo: How was the place you lived in?

Mal: A beautiful country. Rich one too. People were happy. As long as you had a job and paid the tax or met the quota, you had the right to a house, health, education and a salary with which to buy stuff you wanted.

Apollo: What did you do there? Were you a gardener?

Mal: I was a lumberjack. 

Apollo: Did you want to be a lumberjack?

Mal: No. I wanted to be a librarian.

Apollo: Then why didn’t you become a librarian?

Mal: Because I was not a legal citizen. I didn’t get to study, and to be a librarian, a teacher, even a doctor or a courier you must be a legal citizen. 

Apollo: So you were like an illegal immigrant?

Mal: No. I was a legal citizen who got stripped of citizenship. 

Apollo: So were you like... Deported? Is that why you’re here?

Mal: No. I wasn’t deported. You don’t get deported where I lived. You just can’t get a lot of services, like health insurance.

Apollo: That’s so bad!

[darker-soft-starker]

Starker High School AU, Pt. 2 (Pt. 1, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5)

-----

Peter will admit that during he took an extended moment during his journey home to grieve the loss of his free afternoon, and indeed the impending headaches.

And the rest of his future, if he was honest.

Not that Peter was prone to melancholy by any means, but with this assignment his fate was officially sealed, there was no misunderstanding. He was going to fail this assignment. He was going to, for the first time in his academic career, be forced to submit garbage of a caliber worthy of Tony Stark. It will forever be a black mark on his academic record.

No respectable college is going to accept him after this. In fact, he might as well drop out of school now and hit up Mr Delmar for a job. All of his prep for his MIT application is as good as useless after this. Extracurriculars? Goodbye.

Because it’s confirmed.

He’s doomed.

Swaying with the motions of the train, Peter types a text to Ned, the only person who might provide him with some much needed sympathy.

>  I’m doomed >  paired w/stark for an assignment lollllllllll.  >  help

Maybe Peter could trade with Ned. Maybe he could plead with their teacher, for honest fear of his life and scholastic integrity. He wasn’t even exaggerating. In no known iteration of this universe could Peter amicably work with Tony Stark. It would be like Harry Potter sitting down for tea with Voldemort, or Frodo and Sauron chilling with a pint and a pipe in Bag End. 

It was unthinkable. Implausible. Laughable.

And Peter would laugh, were it anyone but him in this situation.

The feeling is unusual. Never had he found reason in his life to truly dislike anybody before, everyone could be redeemed or given the opportunity for penance. Natasha has said more than once that Peter would offer the devil himself a sandwich if he appeared. 

Tony Stark on the other hand? No sandwich for him.

Well, maybe a slice of bread. A stale one.

While he waits for Ned to responds he catches sight of his injured reflection in the train window, which is admittedly pretty gnarly. Even with his hood drawn up, there was a noticeable berth allocated to him in the busy carriage between himself and the other passengers.

< sux. can I have ur lego hogwarts if u die?

> dude :( pity me.

< lol. so, can i?

Peter sighs.

> sure. Look after May for me, bro. delete my internet history.

< deal. godspeed

Pocketing his phone, Peter wonders if it’s too late to take up praying.

---

By the time he’s back in his apartment his mood has managed to swing back up.

Tony Stark is not going to be the arbiter of Peter’s fate. Hell no. He’s smart, he’s creative and hardworking - it isn’t up to anybody but Peter to determine his outcomes. If he has to do the assignment with Stark then he will. And he will work his hardest. 

If he has to do it sharing the credit with Stark, well, Peter knows a concession when he sees one.

No matter how reluctant he is.

But he powers through it, like ripping off a bandaid. It’s fine! He’s a Parker and he’s come this far in life already against ill, Parker-like odds. What was being paired for one assignment with someone who escaped the nearest hellmouth? 

It’ll be fine. 

Probably.

Not letting himself linger on his fears, Peter clears out his previous plans of going on a YouTube spiral and eating sour gummies until his teeth stick, instead utilising the time to get his foot in and and begins prepping for the assignment. Cursory, preliminary research at first, before the inevitable deep dive begins.

Neanderthal, Peter scoffs, mad all over again. Who is Stark to call Peter a neanderthal? He’s second in his class. He’s a straight A student. He likes school.

And as much as he is moderately skilled in, and enjoys JV, it’s not like he received his scholarship to study at Midtown based on his physical prowess.

The graze on his cheek that stings every time he yawns is proof of that.

Stark can eat his entire ass and choke on it, he thinks darkly, as he continues his research. He doesn’t know the first thing about Peter.

The data is sobering as he delves into job listings and statistics of his projected salary in a three year margin. This is really what his teachers earn? Wow. Depressing.

The contrast of expected salary versus the forecast of steep student loans is disheartening further still.

Teaching quietly slips from second to third on his list of ideal occupations.

Turning on a playlist on his phone, Peter continues to compile notes, amassing a truly gargantuan amount of tabs on his browser. His computer, old enough to be on its’ last teeth, whirrs loudly in protest.

It’s not until his room goes dark that he thinks to check the time.

Ah, shit. It’s nearly six.

Peter pauses. Should he tidy up the apartment?

...Nah, no point in breaking a sweat for Stark.

He continues typing. Then he hesitates, fingers suspended in mid-air. 

But what if Stark sees his unfolded laundry out on the dining table and publicly shames him for his old-but-comfortable Bulbasaur themed boxer shorts?

Goddamnit.

---

A quick, cursory clean ensues and leaves a relatively orderly Parker apartment. No freshly laundered underwear is in sight.

Peter wraps up just a few minutes before six. Right on time.

Taking a seat at the now clear dining table Peter drums his fingers on the surface and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

---

He knows when Tony finally arrives when he hears the sound of a car pulling up outside his apartment block. The riffs of a Roxette remix can be heard playing loudly  from the ground to the seventh floor of his apartment, the bass so thunderous it reverberates the windows all the way up to his floor.

Drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, Peter checks the wall clock again. It’s nearly seven.

Tony’s late.

Not that Peter is particularly affected with surprise that Tony is incapable of following basic instructions, but still. Really? Really?

By the time there is a knock on his door, Peter is already before it, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Every second between Tony pulling up and his ascent to Peter’s floor has him positively fuming. He can’t believe how this day played out. It started with such promise. He had such innocuous, but high hopes.

Clearly, he miscalculated.

Feeling a touch petty, he waits to answer, listening to Stark knock a second and then a third, more insistent time before he rouses enough calm to open the door.

He instantly regrets it when he does. 

Tony’s expression is curious one as he breezes right passed Peter without waiting for further invitation. There’s a smudge of something dark on his brow, his otherwise white undershirt smeared in dark stains.

Peter watches incredulously as the other boy drops his backpack by the door with a thump.

“You’re late.”

He closes the door behind Tony and scowls at the other boys easy posture, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes taking in the apartment.

“I didn’t realise you lived all the way out in fucking Queens. Do you have any idea how bad traffic is at this time of day? Also, your elevator doesn’t work. I just climbed seven flights of stairs, where’s the hospitality?”

“Try earning it.”

The other boy rolls his eyes. “Like it’s worth my time.” He breezes past Peter and slides his leather jacket off his arms, tossing it atop of his backpack in the corner. “Look, I’m here now. Okay? You can unclench now. So, do I get a tour or what?”

“Or what. This wouldn’t have been an issue if we had just started straight after class like I said.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Tony clutches his hands to his heart before gesturing to the room. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting your busy Friday night, Parker. You got a keg and the rest of the meatheads stashed away somewhere?”

Without waiting for a response, Tony wanders around the living room like a curious child in a new play room. His gaze inspects everything all at once, from peering at up close at the wall mounted photos and hovering his grubby hands over the oddments and knick-knacks speckled throughout the space.

Apprehensive, Peter can’t help but shadow him, afraid he just let loose a hurricane in a china shop.

Without asking, Tony picks up May’s old Magic 8-Ball and gives it a good shake. Peter’s fingers itch to reach over and stop him, but stops himself because then that would require actually making direct skin contact the other boy.

Not worth it.

“Cannot predict now. Huh,” Tony says to himself before placing the ball back in the wrong spot. 

They both watch silently as it rolls precariously close to the edge. 

“Anyways,” Tony helps himself to an armchair, lounging back and spreading his legs wide. “I know your long-term memory is probably as defective as the rest of you, so don’t strain yourself recalling that I had other priorities.”

“Like what?”

“Like literally anything that isn’t being around you,” the other boy grins. “Now, are we doing this thing, or did you invite me over so you could bitch at me?”

“I didn’t invite you,” Peter grumbles, swiping his notebook from the dining table before sitting on the sofa, as far away from Stark as possible. Shifting, he takes his phone from his pocket and opens the notes he’d taken earlier.

“So, I cross referenced some websites and current job listings,” Peter scrolls through his research, adjusting his glasses as they slip down his nose. “Assuming you have no savings, we’re looking at an average of sixty-thousand per annum based on my salary alone. The average rent in --”

“-- Uh, why are we assuming I have no savings?”

"Because... we’re being realistic?”

Tony springs to his feet and paces across the living room.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to Peter, “if we’re being realistic, does having no savings also that mean I have no debt -- or are you paying off two student loans on your salary?”

“I don’t --”

“Do we have car loans? Health insurance?”

“Wait, slow your roll, Stark. I haven’t yet --”

“-- Of course you haven’t. I mean really, Parker, do you ever think ahead? You should try it, we do have a baby on the way, you know.” Tony clicks his fingers and points at Peter. “Oh, names! I want to call it Molly.”

“As in the drug?” 

“No, as in Ringwald. Anyhoo, seeing as only one of us has the intellectual capacity to construct a budget,” Tony gestures to himself, “that would be me, consider maybe that I spent my savings paying off my student loans and bought a car for me and Miss Molly, leaving you with just your own stagnant debt. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he says through clenched teeth, feeling utterly steamrolled. “But we’re not calling the baby Molly.”

“Yes, we are. Think of all the great nicknames. Hey wait,” Tony pauses in his pacing, “are your parents going to be home soon?”

It was in that moment Peters world narrows down to one, botched cosmic joke.

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Peter prays silently for mercy. What did he do to deserve this. This is all his bad karma come at once. This is the bad place.

“Ah, no,” he replies, eyes widening. “No, my parents are not going to be home soon.”

“Cool. Lucky you.”

Oblivious to Peter’s existential turmoil, Tony resumes his patrol through the living room, picking up a frame on the mantle. It houses an old photo of Ben, May and a young, bespectacled Peter. 

It is one of the more embarrassing immortalisations of his younger self, eleven-years old and grinning widely, bearing his silver braces to the camera as he holds up a science fair trophy, curls wild and untamed.

Oh god. That was exactly what Peter needed on this unholy day - Tony Stark in his living room, witnessing Peter in his prepubescent glory. 

Quick, create a diversion.

“So, as I was saying,” he says loudly, “rent is reasonably affordable with a sixty-thousand budget in --”

“Who’s the babe?” Tony points to a younger Aunt May in the photo.

Peter gets to his feet and removes the frame from Tony’s grasp. He glowers as he places it back on the mantle. 

“No one you would have a chance with. Can you stay focused? Like, are you physically capable of it?”

“Okay, calm down,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “You’ve got a lot of anger for someone so vertically challenged, you know that, shortstack?” 

“Focus, dumbass.”

“I’m focused! Let’s see, we’ve established that I am excellent at managing my money. You have a shitty job and a shitty salary, and apparently my imaginary future self has terrible taste in men. So. Have I got that right? Where are we living?”

“Queens. LIC has some one bed, one baths that could be affordable.”

“Uh, rewind. Going to have to eighty-six that - I am not living in Queens.”

Peter stares at him.

Tony rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “Fine, whatever. But I want a Pontiac Firebird in this imaginary life if I have to deal with you.”

“For someone so keen on getting away you’re doing your best to prolong this experience. It’s literally painful.”

“Well, I just like to see you get all riled up, Princess,” Tony grins, leaning back against the mantle and folding his arms over his chest. “You have this vein that bulges on your forehead when you’re mad. Makes you look like a pitbull.”

Peter swallows the particularly acidic retort sitting on his tongue and tries not to let Tony’s words sting. Be the bigger man, Ben used to say. As difficult as it is to channel even a modicum of the mans’ eternal patience, Peter takes a deep breath and reminds himself to stay focused. The less he gets sidetracked by Tony’s fuckery, the sooner it’s over.

He mentions the next part with unease. 

“...Miss Ahn said that we need references and should do field research. Speak to realtors. Ask people who have a similar lifestyle and budget.”

The look that comes over the other boys face is one of unequivocal revulsion. Peter can relate. The thought of having to spend more time with this guy makes his stomach turn.

“Well, Parker, any bright ideas who we can ask?”

The hinges of the front door squeaks before Peter can respond.

Moments after, Aunt May walks into the living room, placing her bag down on the dining table. She looks between the two boys curiously.

“Hey, Pete,” she comes to his side to squeezes his shoulder. “Who do we have here?”

Tony rushes over with his hand outstretched, an eager grin on his face. 

“Tony Stark, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, ah, okay, well,” May laughs as he enthusiastically shakes her hand. Her eyes are soft as Tony smiles brightly at her. “Nice to meet you too, Tony. I’m May, Peter’s aunt. Are you... friends with Peter?”

Peter snorts. 

“Definitely not. We just have an assignment --”

“-- Great friends, actually,” Tony talks over him, taking a seat beside Peter on the sofa. To Peter’s utter disgust, the other boy puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep encouragingly. “Aren’t we, Pete? Hmm? Best buds. We go way back.”

Peter freezes, feeling the line of heat from Tony’s against his side, the weight of his arm on his body. 

Eyes widening, he feels his skin crawl. 

“That’s sweet,” May smiles, putting her hair up in a loose, messy bun. “Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m starving. I’m ordering pizza, Friday special. You should stay for dinner, Tony.”

Tony places his free hand on his chest.

“I would be honoured.”

May looks at Tony strangely before retreating to the kitchen to retrieve the menus.

As soon as she’s out of sight Tony takes his arm off Peter and quickly shifts away from him like he’s been burned. 

“Dude,” Peter whispers, bewildered. “What the fuck?”

“Oh my god,” Tony whispers, shuddering as his face scrunches up in disgust. “I’m going to have to pour scalding hot water on all the places your skin just touched me. Ugh, I feel like I just touched toe fungus.”

Peter slaps his arm.

“What is wrong with you?”

Tony backhands Peter’s arm in retaliation and then shudders all over again.

“Your aunt is crazy hot, okay, I couldn’t help myself. It was an instinctual reaction. Is she taken? C’mon. Vindicate me.” 

“I’ll eviscerate you --”

“-- I mean, clearly she married into the family, she doesn’t share your unfortunate phenotype, but I didn’t see a ring on her finger. So? Yes or no?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter hisses as his aunt comes back in. “She’s not available to you. Not now, not ever.”

“But she is available?”

“Don’t even, Stark. You’re like, sixteen. Don’t you have any shame?”

Tony smiles, as she nears. “Not a shred.”

“So,” May waves a menu at them. “You boys happy with pepperoni?”

Closing his eyes, Peter wishes for death.

As fate would have it, he gets pepperoni instead.

-----

If you had ever told Peter that he would be sitting down for dinner with his Aunt and a dirt-streaked Tony Stark, he would have laughed.

And if Peter were outside himself he would probably find the sharing of pizza and soda over their plastic, chequered table-cloth comical -- in that uncanny, Dogs Playing Poker kind of way. But in reality there was nothing funny about the discomfort of having Tony in his personal space or the heavy, suffocating tension that has removed the air from the room. 

The entire time Tony has been hamming it up, cracking jokes with his aunt, complimenting her on the decor, asking what she does for work. Peter doesn’t know if he’s being sweet to May for the purpose of buttering her up, or, given the wealth of his family in contrast to the Parkers, if he’s being cruelly facetious. 

Nonetheless, Peter has felt on edge. It’s disconcerting, is what it is. Every single movement Tony makes, every time he opens his mouth -- frequently to sweet-talk his aunt -- has Peter’s anxiety standing at attention, hyperaware of everything the other boy does.

He’s beginning to feel like a meerkat whose den has been invaded by a lion.

Through the course of a single meal Peter’s attention moves from the sky to the floor. There is no grace or higher power that is coming to save him from this profound, unusual torture. 

So he focuses his hopes to the south, seeing through their tiny, cramped, dinner table, past bargaining. He’s willing to trade his soul to end it all. Surely some wayward being from hell would come to his rescue. 

May has Peter’s chin between her fingers. She turns it this way and that, inspecting his injuries.

“What happened this time, bubby?” She frowns, brow furrowing. “You look like you got beat up.”

Peter, very aware of Tony’s amused gaze on them, gently pulls away from her grasp. He smiles placatingly and picks at his pizza slice. God he’s never going to live this down.

“Training accident. It’s okay, I feel fine. ‘Tis but a scratch,” he brings himself to joke.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek, carefully avoiding the fresh scabs and injured flesh. “God, you bruise like a peach. Be careful, baby, you’re our money maker,” she laughs. “What about you Tony, do you play football?”

Tony, who is mid way through chewing on a mouthful of pizza, momentarily chokes, beating his chest with his fist to swallow down the obstruction.

“Uh, no,” Tony gulps, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Nope. No recreational sports for me. Can’t.” He gestures to his chest and sighs heavily. “Asthma.”

Peter sips his coke and rolls his eyes, knowing full well there’s a half-empty pack of Marlboro Light’s in the pocket of Tony’s jeans. Asthma. What a schmuck.

“That’s a shame. Do you boys have classes together?”

Unfortunately, Peter thinks.

The other boy seems to have the same thought, as he glares at Peter from over the table. When he picks up his can of coke, he gives Peter the finger outside of May’s eye-line.

“That’s why Tony’s here,” Peter twists his napkin in his grip. “We have an econ assignment together on microeconomics. Teach says Tony’s destined to be on welfare.”

Tony leans in, chin rested on his hand. He addresses May but his stare, dark and odious, rests on Peter.

“Not accurate. Stay-at-home parent, actually. One might say that is the most important job of all. Wouldn’t you agree, May?”

She raises her Coke.

“Hear, hear.”

Tony grins roguishly, the same grin he gave the girls at the lockers earlier. “Petey here was just saying that we should ask you about your experience running a household on a single salary. We’d love to have you as a reference.”

“Was I saying that?” Peter narrows his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

Tony kicks him under the table. The hit lands right in his knee cap.

Wincing, Peter kicks back, satisfied when the other boy bites his lip to hold back a pained groan.

“Yeah, well, not surprising,” Tony says airily, waving his hand. “Hit your head today, didn’t you? Maybe you should get all that damage looked into.”

The napkin rips in Peter’s grasp.

“Maybe you should go f--”

“I’d be more than happy to help with your assignment, boys,” May cuts in.

Whatever snide reply he has in his mouth instantly wilts when he looks over to his Aunt. She looks...pleased. Delighted, almost. Her eyes under the dull, yellow kitchen light seem to get warmer, and her smile is small but softens around the edges.

Instantly, Peter feels like the worst person in the world. Of course May would be the best person to ask. She does so much for him, the least he can do is set his pride aside for one moment to make her feel good about how hard she works for their life.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand, smiling as gratitude swells unexpectedly in his chest.

“Thanks, May. That would be great.”

Across the table, a smug Tony looks like the cat who got the cream. 

Without warning, Peter’s chest goes hot with contempt, his fingernails dig into his palm. He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone he couldn’t like, until now.

I hate you, Peter mouths while May busies herself with rounding up the pizza boxes.

Kiss my ass, Tony mouths back. 

In an instant his expression flips from contemptuous to angelic when he stands and offers to help May clean up.

Peter stands too, sparing a disdainful glance to the floor. Turns out not even the devil was willing to give him a hand.

Natasha was right. It’s going to end in murder.

---

Peter walks Tony to the door after dinner to say goodbye to his ‘friend’. Following him into the hall, Peter closes the door behind them.

“What do you want, Parker?” Tony asks wearily, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket. “I’m trying to make a getaway here.”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t do that with my aunt. I’m not joking, asshole. It’s not cool.”

“Relax, princess,” Tony rolls his eyes, fishing for his lighter in his backpack. “I’m not actually interested. Just trying to get under your skin. Worked, see? You’re easy like that. Hey, why do you live with your aunt anyways?”

“None of your business,” he frowns as Tony holds one hand up in surrender and lights his cigarette with the other. “Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Can’t, shouldn’t, gonna. By the way, you’ve got sauce on your chin, it’s very distracting.”

Peter wipes at it without thinking. When he pulls it away there is indeed a smear of red sauce on his hand.

Tony walks backwards down the hall and exhales a cloud of smoke, waving in a sardonic imitation of a farewell.

“See you Monday, bubby.”

Peter doesn’t bother with a response, too tired from the week, exhausted by this whole darn day, and it’s not like the other boy cares what he has to say anyway. He takes a moment to swallow his anger before he heads back inside, sighing. 

Well, at least he has an entire weekend free of Stark to look forward to.

May looks at him curiously when he reemerges, but says nothing. He considers for a moment about heading to his bedroom and playing a video game to disassociate - but then, suddenly, remembers her smile earlier, and how alone she looks now. A surge of affection hits him right beneath his breastbone.

He checks his watch and then catches her eye.  Tilting his head towards the living room, he says, “Hey. You wanna eat some ice cream and watch some Colbert before bed?”

She smiles just like she did earlier and kisses his cheek. “Sounds nice, Pete.”

Maybe the whole day wasn’t lost.

As May heads to the sofa and switches the TV on, Peter catches sight of the Magic 8-Ball from the corner of his eye. He walks over and gives it a shake.

Outlook good.

*

*

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @muse-of-gods

[changedlives]

But God!

Shalom,

Beginning of 2020, I was making 38K. By February, I was brought into a brand new role at the same company that brought my salary to 46K. With that income, I was able to purchase my first property. Praise God! But that's not where it stops. Later in the year, I received my 5 year anniversary bonus in a paycheck and I realized I want checks just like that consistently. I am a divorced, single mother of three and the cost of living in Colorado isn't getting any cheaper. So I began searching for roles elsewhere.

I was rather uncomfortable looking for jobs outside of my company after being there for over 5 years. I have no college degree nor certificates. All I got is a drive for more and God. So I prayed to God about it with a goal of having a yearly income of at least 60K and I did the work. But God!

At the conclusion of my job search I had two jobs offers of 80K which was 15K above the posted starting salary for both roles. The choice came down to benefits. The company pays 100% for my health insurance and 75% of my dependents. I also receive a new hire equity grant valued at $54,000 along with many more benefits that I have not had prior. I start the new role on January 3rd. That means my income has more than doubled in a single year and I'm now making 34K more than my last role.

I praise God any chance I get. Thank you Bishop for teaching the word and pushing me to obey. Cannot wait for what 2022 brings to Harvest!

#allforhisglory #laughing #weird #hallelujah

[sheafrotherdon]

How Academia Works in the U.S.

Friends - there’s a lot of professor!fic out there, and I enjoy it greatly, but I want to explain how academia works in the U.S. because . . . no.

Professors

1. Lecturer: someone who does not have a PhD or MFA (or other terminal degree in their field). An art historian who has a Masters degree and is teaching at a college would be a Lecturer, for example. Some large schools will still call you a lecturer if you have your PhD or MFA but aren’t tenure-track/tenure. Those schools are shitty and should feel bad about themselves.

2. Assistant Professor: someone who has their PhD but who has not yet earned tenure. If a person is hired “tenure track” then they’re generally an Assistant Professor for around six years before they go up for tenure and promotion.  (While people can go up for T&P early, it doesn’t happen very often.) If you’re hired off the tenure track, you will not have the opportunity to apply for tenure. You are what’s known as an adjunct or contingent faculty member - you have less job security than your tenure-track colleagues although you have all the same qualifications that they do.  You can in some rare instances be promoted to Associate Professor while not being tenured. (Non-tenure-track assistant professors are generally called Visiting Professors, as if they just stopped by for a while.)

To apply for tenure, you have to produce a portfolio showing your achievements in the areas of 1. research/creative work  2. teaching and 3. service. Different kinds of institutions value each of those three things differently.  Harvard, frankly, doesn’t give a rats behind if you are an amazing teacher - it wants you to be an amazing researcher with a strong publication record.  A liberal arts college is going to value teaching more, but still wants publications.  (Service is expected of everyone, everywhere, and never weighed highly enough.)

If you’re tenure-track, and denied tenure, you’re out of a job.

3. Associate Professor: someone who has been promoted from Assistant Professor (after about six years or so).  Usually they will also have tenure.  Tenure is a commitment from your institution - it brings with it pretty fierce employment protections, primarily (although not exclusively) to protect your freedom of academic speech and expression.  You also get paid more.

4. Full Professor: after another six or seven years at Associate Professor, you can apply to be full.  Once again you have to submit a portfolio of all your achievements in research/creative work, teaching, and service.  If you’re denied promotion to full, you keep your job, but stay an Associate Professor.  You can go up for promotion to full on a subsequent occasion (if you want).  You also get paid more.

5. Endowed Chairs: sometimes a donor will give an institution a lot of money to support a ‘chair’ in a particular field.  That means they give enough money (millions) for the interest to pay that person’s salary, and that person gets to call themselves The Donor’s Name Chair/Professor of Thing The Donor Likes.  Endowed chairs are very prestigious, but you can’t apply for one - it’s entirely the luck of the draw.

6. Graduate Instructors: grad students are often hired by their departments to teach undergraduate discussion sections and labs for large lecture courses.  More rarely, they may be asked to teach an undergraduate course where they are the ‘instructor of record’ - meaning they design the class and do all the grading for a smaller number of students.

Publishing

Publishing is the currency of academia.  There are two types of publishing: either it’s peer-reviewed or it’s not.

A peer-reviewed work is submitted to a journal (if it’s an article/essay) or a university press (if it’s a book).  The editor of that journal/press will take a first look to see if it’s the type of thing that journal/press publishes, and if they think it’s a good fit, they send it out to other academics (usually three) in the same field who do not know the author personally. Those academics read the manuscript and write a review, recommending whether that the article/book be published or not. Some reviewers are amazing at this, and offer constructive criticism that helps the article/book become stronger.  Some are terrible at it and make people cry.  (They are known colloquially as ‘reviewer #2.’) If the reviewers recommend publication, their anonymized comments are sent back to the author(s) who must then revise the manuscript.  If all goes well, it’s then published.  It can take two or three years for an article to get published.  Same for a book.

No one makes money from writing journal articles.  Almost no one makes any money from writing books.

Some academics who are writing on very popular subjects might be published by a trade press (Penguin, Viking, McMillan etc).  Trade press books are not subject to the same rules about review, and very often the authors don’t have to cite sources in a trade book. Sometimes, trade books make money.

Money

No one goes into academia to get rich.  No one. Your chances of becoming wealthy while being an academic are vanishingly small.  You would have to teach at a major flagship university (like, say, Harvard) and be a titan of your field.  Most academics work at smaller institutions and make modest incomes.  Adjunct and contingent faculty are paid horribly - sometimes as little as $2500 a course - and generally don’t get any health insurance or other benefits.  Graduate students are also paid horribly. While many financial aid packages for grad students include a tuition waiver, institutions will load them up with fees for various things that can easily run into the thousands of dollars.  Grad students can make as little as $10K a year (sometimes less!).  Graduate student unions are desperately important in protecting graduate student rights.

Some professors win grants and fellowships to support their work.  This is especially true in the sciences.  Grants and fellowships can pay for all the people you employ in your lab, for example, or allow you to take a year off from teaching and relocate somewhere to do research.  Grants and fellowships are extremely competitive.  No one ever got rich from a grant or fellowship unless they got a MacArthur.

If you’re interested in knowing how much your professors make and you go to a public school (University of [State] or [State Name] University, for example) most states have public record laws that mean those figures are public. You can google them.

A word about graduate programs

No one gets a PhD in two years.  No one. People in the sciences tend to advance toward their terminal degree faster than people in the arts, social sciences, and humanities because there’s a very regimented way of approaching science research.  If you’re a sociologist, in comparison, you’re out in the field collecting data for god knows how long, and then you have to make meaning out of it, and then you have to write it all up, and we’re talking years.

Most graduate programs require 2-3 years of coursework, then prelims/comprehensive exams (where you prove you know an obscene amount of stuff in (say, three) different fields within your overarching subject), and then you do your research and write your dissertation, which is the length of a book.

People do not schedule their prelims/comprehensive exams or dissertation defenses a couple of weeks before those things happen. For a start, trying to get a committee of professors to all be in the same place at the same time is like herding cats, so generally these things are decided months in advance. There is also a mountain of institutional paperwork involved, and seventeen deans (roughly speaking) who have to sign off on things.  It’s a slog.

In conclusion

It works totally differently in other countries.

\o/

[atlafan]

sorry if it’s too much but can you give advice for someone that’s graduating college soon? how do we prepare for what’s too cold? like in terms of credit, jobs, resumes, apt lookinh? entering the real adult world? how was your experience? pls and thank you!!!!

First things first, start making small monthly payments to your student loans. Even if it’s just $20 a month, start getting used to that monthly bill, especially before your interest kicks in.

Find your schools career development office, or go to your schools alumni office, talk to your faculty advisor. Tell them what you want to do. All of them should have contacts/connections. What’s your major? Where are you from? I could help further if I know more.

I was really lucky. I had been working in my schools marketing and creative services department for a year doing social media/video work. They offered me a full time admin position. I also had been with my bf for five months, and before I graduated and knew I would be working in the area, he asked me to move in the with him. My advice while you’re job hunting though is get the job first, and then ask about hosing in the area. The company might leads. You could always stay at hote before finding a permanent residence.

Now, when you’re applying for jobs, apply for anything you want to do. Dont worry too much about the qualifications. Make sure your resume and cover letter are specifically crusted towards the job you’re applying for. Use language from the job description in both. Also, on your resume, only put relevant work experience. I was a waitress for 8 years, and I’ve never put that on a professional resume. Wait to mention something like that in an interview.

Before going for an interview, make sure you do your research on the company. What does their site look like? Who works there? Stuff like that. The interview is a two way street. Bring a list of questions. How’s employee satisfaction? Why did the position become open? Why did the previous person leave? What are the benefits like? How’s the work-life balance? Also know that you don’t have to disclose any personal medical information. You can save that for HR after you get hired.

For credit, you can build good credit by paying your student loans monthly. Build credit by paying your credit card off. I had really great credit after I graduated because I always paid my credit card bill, even if it was just the minimum amount. Basically paying all your bills on time helps with credit.

I’m really glad I work at the university I do. Even though I was entering this new world, I had a comfortable familiarity. I got lucky, a month into my admin position I got offered the job of assistant director for annual giving. I did that for over a year. I hated it. Not at first, but there was a supervisor change and I became miserable. Money doesn’t buy happiness if you hate what you do every day. I’ve been an academic advisor for two years and I absolutely love it. I love working with people and helping them. I also love teaching.

Ask about benefits. If you can stay on your parents health insurance, do that. I’m still on my dads, and I’m riding that wave. See if they have tuition benefits, I was able to get my masters for less than $5000. See if they have gym benefits, vision, dental. When you get hired, ask yourself colleagues about their insurance plans. As about PTO, and ask how that works if you’re salaried or hourly.

Make time for yourself, and go easy on yourself. You had the same routine your entire life and all of a sudden it changes. All of a sudden you can’t go to the beach on a Wednesday during the summer because you’re working. All of a sudden your understand why your dad would come home enraged and yell about dishes in the sink. It’s a time for growth. Make sure to treat yourself. Go out and have fun. Be with friends.

That’s all I can think of for now, I hope this helped!

[corkcitylibraries]

National Heritage Week | Frank O’Connor – Librarian

by Jim McKeon

Writer, Frank O’Connor, was just twenty years of age when he was released from Gormanstown Interment Camp. Cork had been badly hit by the Civil War. It was still a smouldering ruin. Because the city and county had been the focal point of much of the bloodiest fighting the turmoil of the Civil War lingered there longer than it did elsewhere in the country. In the spring of 1924, the city was still edgy. O’Connor had no money and no job. Under the new government all teachers were required to learn the Irish language. For a few months he taught Irish to the teachers at the Protestant school in St Luke’s Cross, near his home. He was paid a few shillings a week for this. He struggled by, a twenty-year old in his father’s patched up, old hand-me-down trousers teaching middle-aged teachers how to speak the Irish language. It was frustrating, especially if you were on the losing side in the Civil War. MacCurtain and MacSwiney had tragically died but he still met Corkery and Seán O’Faoláin regularly. As so often before Daniel Corkery, forever in O’Connor’s background, stepped in and arranged an interview for a job. Cork dramatist, Lennox Robison, who was secretary of the Carnegie Library, was organising rural libraries and he was looking for young men and women to train as librarians. After a tough interview O’Connor got the job. His mother packed his little cardboard suitcase, including a big holy picture of the Sacred Heart, and he set off for Sligo.

 Bust of Frank O’Connor - on display in the City Library, Grand Parade

At last he had enough books to read. Even for 1924, the wages were poor, thirty shillings a week. His lodgings were twenty-seven and sixpence. He had a half-crown (12.5 cent) left for cigarettes and drink. He posted his dirty laundry on to Cork every week. His mother washed it, with unconditional love, and posted it back, and sometimes included five shillings for her son. As a librarian he was all hands. His boss said he was untrainable. He kept busy by reading poetry books and getting them off by heart. He was blessed with a phenomenal memory. The only thing of note in Sligo was that he celebrated his twenty-first birthday far from home. After six months he was sent to Wicklow, where a new library was to be opened.

 When he arrived a local priest wanted to close down the library. Lennox Robinson had just been heavily criticised and fired from his library position because of a controversial story he wrote about a pregnant girl who felt she had mysterious visit by the Holy Ghost. O’Connor’s boss was Geoffrey Phibbs, an influential fellow poet with controversial opinions on many aspects of life. The two young poets became great friends.  Phibbs escorted O’Connor to Dublin and introduced him to Lady Gregory, George Russell (AE) and Yeats. AE was editor of the Irish Statesman and encouraged O’Connor to send him on something for publication. He sent a verse translation of Suibne Geilt Aspires and when AE published it 14 March 1924, it carried for the first time the pseudonym Frank O’Connor. It must be remembered that he was a young civil servant and he may have been contemplating on keeping his job by using a pen name ever since Lennox Robinson’s enforced resignation. He chose his confirmation name, Francis, and his mother’s maiden name, O’Connor. The prominence AE and the Irish Statesman gave him thrust him into literary view. Yeats had great time for O’Connor and said that he did for Ireland what Chekhov did for Russia. But the young librarian missed home and his mother. A vacancy came up in Cork. AE tried to talk him out of it and warned him he’d be miserable back in Cork. It never occurred to O’Connor that he would not return home. Like his father he was, at that stage, a one-town man..

 Notwithstanding AE’s forebodings, he accepted the job of Cork’s first county librarian in December 1925. He was just twenty-two years of age. His salary of five pounds a week was more than anyone in Harrington’s Square had ever dreamed of earning. The library was at twenty-five Patrick Street which was still in the process of being rebuilt.  Minnie was happy that her son was back home again and his father, Big Mick, was impressed that a pension went with his son’s new job. The city was still in a poor condition. The foundation of the Irish Free State in 1922 augured a period of new confidence in Cork. But in 1924 a public inquiry found: 

  …limited progress had been made on rebuilding Cork’s city centre since it had been burned down in 1920. Criticism was made of the poor quality of maintenance of the city streets, many of which were still paved with timber blocks. Part of Anderson’s Quay had fallen into the river. The public water supply was of poor quality…There was virtually no building in progress in the city.  

  In the burning of Cork not alone had many of the character and physical structures of the city been lost, but so also had thousands of jobs and many peoples’ homes. The Cork Examiner reported that thousands were rendered idle by the destruction. The rebuilding was tediously slow mainly because of the shortage of funding. Britain’s refusal to accept blame and pay compensation didn’t help. The Civil War itself and the post-war political divide were also major factors in delaying the building progress. This was another chapter in Frank O’Connor’s Cork, a damaged city struggling to survive. He opened his library over a shop near the corner of Winthrop Street. It was five years since the burning yet major buildings, just yards away, like Roches Stores and Cash & Co, were still rubble. Rebuilding had not yet started in these two well-known shops. In January 1927, Roches Stores finally re-opened for business. Summing up, the burning of Cork had a unifying effect on a people that had been collectively damaged by the event. It also exposed divisions in Cork society at the time. A Church/political divide came to the surface during this traumatic time. It was demonstrated through criticism by councillors of Bishop Coholan for his refusal to condemn the burning. Many republicans were unhappy because they felt the clerical comments were often selective. Frank O’Connor had a huge responsibility for a young and inexperienced man. He was given a cheque for three thousand pounds to set up and stock his library. He made his first mistake. At that time an anti-Catholic bias still lingered in commerce. He naively lodged the cheque in the nearby and more practical catholic bank when the accepted practice was to use the protestant bank. This innocent action caused a major committee dispute and O’Connor was accused of having a personal and ulterior motive. Then, when he insured the building, the insurance company gave him a cheque as a personal thank you. He didn’t want it and kept it for years but never cashed it. He sums up this whole chaotic scenario: 

  By the time the Cork County Council had done with organizing my sub-committee it consisted of a hundred and ten members, and anyone who has ever had to deal with a public body will realize the chaos this involved. Finally I managed to get my committee together in one of the large council rooms, and by a majority it approved my choice of bankers. There was, I admit, a great deal of heat. Some of the councillors felt I had acted in a very high-handed way, and one protested against my appearing in a green shirt – a thing which, he said, he would not tolerate from anybody. 

  When he finally got his stock of books together and organised his new library, he decided that he should have closer contact with the rural community. If they couldn’t come to him then he’d go to them. He bought a van, packed it with boxes of books, and drove all over the county. After six months this affected his health. He was exhausted from working long hours driving all over West Cork and he wrote almost every night. In a letter to old Wicklow colleague, Phibbs, he wrote, I’m working like a brute beast. He became ill and had to have a serious operation in the Bon Secours Hospital. He spent two weeks in hospital and six weeks convalescing. It shows his stubbornness when he shocked the nuns in the hospital by refusing to receive the sacraments before the operation. 

           Cork had a long tradition of theatre and a critical play-going audience, but in 1927 there was only one drama group in the city, the newly formed Cork Shakespearian Company. Daniel Corkery’s little theatre had closed in 1913 and groups like Munster Players, Leeside Players and Father Matthew Players were also defunct. On 8 August 1927 Micheál MacLiammoir and Hilton Edwards brought their touring company to Cork. They performed The High Steppers’in the Pavillion Theatre in Patrick Street. This venue later became a cinema and is presently HMV music shop. After the opening night there was a party at Seán and Geraldene Neeson’s home. Geraldene was Terence MacSwiney’s bridesmaid when he married in England. MacLiammoir encouraged O’Connor to revive drama in Cork. O’Connor was inspired and was instrumental in forming the Cork Drama League. Although he knew nothing about drama he threw himself headlong at the project. Old friend, Seán Hendrick, recalls: 

  That Michael knew nothing about producing plays and I knew nothing about stage-managing them did not trouble us at all…The producer was to be given a free hand in the choice of both plays and cast and members were bound to accept the parts allotted them. There were to be no stars and an all-round uniformity of performance was to be aimed at. 

  Undaunted, Frank O’Connor tore into their new venture. Lennox Robinson’s play, The Round Table, was to be the first production. It was its first appearance in Cork and there were some slight adjustments to suit the local audience. The curtain-raiser was Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. Typically, O’Connor wrote the programme notes, directed The Round Table, and appeared in both plays. The Round Table was a difficult play to produce. It had fourteen characters. Many of them doubled up and played two roles. They had trouble trying to cast the part of Daisy Drennan, but one night Geraldine Neeson brought along a pretty young girl to audition. Although she had a terrible stammer she was a natural actress. Not alone did she get the part but that night O’Connor walked her home. From then on Nancy McCarthy became his leading lady and for years to come she was to flit in and out of his life. The company’s first play opened on 28 February 1928 in Gregg Hall in the South Mall, a theatre venue no longer used in Cork. They got high praise all round especially Nancy McCarthy. They immediately started rehearsing for their second venture, The Cherry Orchard. Cork City was now back on its feet and completely rebuilt and people were getting used to a new freedom and sense of safety. Theatre was a hugely popular event.  Plays at that time generally had an Irish theme and written by the likes of Yeats, Synge, Robinson and T. C. Murray. That had been the custom and they were very popular with Cork audiences. But the young Frank O’Connor had other ideas. He was into French and German and Russian theatre and he wanted to offer the Cork public something different. 

  English drama, no matter how significant it may be in its own setting can have no beneficial effect upon a country which is subjected to cultural influences only from one source. The Cork Drama League proposes to give the best of American and continental theatre, of Chekhov, of Martine Sierra, of Eugene O’Neill and those other dramatists whose work, as a result of the dominating influence of the English theatre, is quite unknown in Cork.  

  That was a more than subtle dig at Fr, O’Flynn, a local priest, who had founded the Cork Shakespearian Company in 1924. The two men did not get on. From 20 December to 30 December1927 they exchanged four letters in the Cork Examiner trading insults. Fr, O’Flynn signed his letters The Producer while O’Connor used his name in Irish. Seán Hendrick joined in the attack calling himself Spectator. Everyone in Cork knew who both men were. Ironically, they were more alike than they cared to admit; they were two proud Cork men, they both loved Shakespeare and they both loved Irish. Two more plays were produced, The Cherry Orchard and A Doll’s House. Both got fine reviews, but the audiences were poor. Maybe the Cork Drama League was going too far too soon, and Cork wasn’t ready for them. By now O’Connor was spending most of his time with Nancy McCarthy. Nancy was a religious girl from a well-known Cork family. He brought her home to see his mother and the couple went on a three-week holiday to Donegal. They stayed in houses three miles apart. They met every day for a year outside of St, Peter and Paul’s church after mass. They were engaged for a while but it did not work out. She would not marry him. He would not marry in a Catholic church and there was no way Nancy would marry outside the Church. She was one of ten siblings and he was an only child. She felt he was spoiled. This was quite true. By now he was being regularly published in the Irish Statesman. He had a poem dedicated to Nancy published 9 May 1928. The last two lines are filled with melodrama: 

  That even within this darkness of our body keeps  

Communion with the brightness of a world we dream  

  Frank O’Connor was beginning to feel that AE was right. He should never have left Dublin. He was no longer enjoying his years in Cork. It was no longer the place he had known. O’Faoláin was in America and recently he had found it difficult to talk to Corkery. He made it plain that he was taking sides and that O’Connor was on the wrong side. O’Connor was restless and felt that Cork was threatening to suffocate him. He missed Wicklow where he could talk literature and art to Phibbs and go on to Dublin to meet AE and Yeats. AE would give him all the latest books and gossip, and Sunday evening he could go to the Abbey Theatre and see a series of continental plays, Chekhov, Strindberg and contemporary German plays. Eventually, getting frustrated with the parochialism of Cork and his lack of success with Nancy McCarthy, he applied for the job as municipal librarian in Ballsbridge. On Saturday 1 December 1928 he packed his case and left for Dublin. He still felt it was only a temporary move. Nothing could cure him of the notion that Cork needed him and he needed Cork. Nothing but death could ever cure him of this. 

Jim McKeon’s book Frank O’Connor: A Life is available to borrow from Cork City Libraries 

Jim McKeon has been involved in theatre all his life and has many film scripts, plays and books to his name. His best-known work is probably the biography of Frank O'Connor. He also toured Ireland and the US with his one-man-show on the writer's life. Jim is also an award-winning theatre director and poet.