#I plan on cranking out some stuff today between jobs and stuff

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

I know it’s been a while and I really didn’t want it to be this long, but here I am. A lot has happened in the last few weeks and, to summarize it all, it’s taken a lot out of me. I wanted to have everything done and be able to move onto the Hocus Pocus AU, but honestly, I haven’t even finished the halfway point of the final Camp Wanamaker chapter. I definitely still want to write it, but with October being halfway over already, it feels as though pushing it to next year might be the easiest option (though I would love nothing more than to jump into it right now haha). Anyway, I feel as though I should sort of explain why I’ve been so distant in everything, especially my writing, but it’s sort of taken a lot out of me to write it all out. I do apologize in advance for being sort of blunt; I haven’t really been taking the time to process my own emotions lately and it shows.

For starters, my grandma’s step-mom, my Great-Grammy Donna, passed away. At 94 years old, she was still doing fairly well health-wise and keeping things as interesting as possible. She was creative, always spoke her mind, and, although we weren’t technically blood relatives, I felt just as close to her as everyone else. Her house was home to everyone and she made sure that you never left her house hungry or wanting for anything. She always loved it when my mom and I visited and promised to one day teach me how to make proper Polish food, though we never got the chance. Honestly, she partially inspired me to write Vivien’s Nonna Dawn and I made their personalities fairly similar, which made it really hard to think about writing her character at all lately.

On top of that, my car was having some pretty serious - and rather expensive - issues. In total, I would have had to pay at least 3 grand out of pocket to get it all fixed. Due to being from a family full of mechanics, I managed to find a quick fix for some of it, but the car needs to be road-worthy by the end of November and I don’t have the money for it all right now, so it looks as though I’ll have to just bite the bullet and buy a used car before then. I’m holding out hope that something road-worthy will come along soon, but until then, I’ve at least got my old minivan.

Now, I’ve been working on seeing the good in things lately and one of the few bits of good news I have right now, is that my mom and I have been working out more to get ourselves out of depression. It’s been working pretty well so far. I’ve lost almost 30 pounds and dropped a size, which feels great. As I am pretty tall, my weight is more evenly distributed, but I’m still hoping to be down to my goal weight by my birthday, if not sooner. It’ll be a lot of work, but I’m determined and it’s helping me get into a better head space, which is a bonus, if you ask me.

Anyway, I’m hoping to finish the chapter soon and, if I feel up to it, maybe work on the Hocus Pocus AU. I am still determined to finish this last chapter, but I’m definitely ready to move on as I really want to get into the storylines I’ve been practically dangling in front of my face like a carrot. It might take me a while as I work through things, but I want to make sure I take my time and have things come out the way I would like them to. I don’t want to half-ass anything or give you a cruddy chapter! So, yeah, that’s where I’m at with everything and I hope to get back to writing/posting more soon!

In the meantime, I’ve made my Pinterest boards for Melaka Mystica (Hocus Pocus AU) and True Colors (The Last Of Us AU2) available. There may be other boards making appearances sooner or later as I try to figure out what to write next, but for now, that’s all I’ve got for you. I hope you enjoy them at least a little!

[syoddeye]

catnap

nikolai x f! reader | ~1.1k words cw: implied abduction. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: wrote this on my phone. lightly edited.

you need to disappear.

you have one packed bag, cash in a couple different currencies, and a fake passport that took a year to acquire. after selling all your worldly belongings and pawning your family heirlooms, you have enough to find transport. you think.

the passport guy hooks you up with a number. tells you to call it between one and two pm, says there’s a time difference. no sweat. if this works, if you can secure a path out, you’d call at two in the morning.

the phone rings long enough to make you sweat. burner clutched in a clammy palm. but finally a man answers. voice deep and thick, something you’d like to sink into if the circumstances were different. russian.

you don’t understand him, but you know it’s a greeting.

in a few short words you introduce yourself. explain you need a ride out of the country.

he switches to english after a delay. tinged with amusement, like he thinks you’re a runaway kid on the line.

— where to?

anywhere. maybe somewhere with a beach. where people don’t ask a lot of questions.

— i know just the place.

he gives you directions—instructions on what to do when you arrive at the rendezvous. he speaks as if he's arranging something normal, like you're nothing discussing him smuggling you out. adamant about one detail.

— come alone. fewer people, fewer witnesses. agreed?

you do. he tells you the amount he expects upfront. it’s steep, it’ll take what cash you reserved for this, but no matter. you can find work. you’ve always landed on your feet.

the old hangar looks abandoned, cloaked in a thin veil of mist burning off in the morning sun. ivy chokes one of its walls, poking through patches of sheet metal bolted haphazardly over a hole.

sweat clings to your hairline and neck. apart from walking the last two miles, you’re nervous. today’s the day.

music emanates from a chipped wooden door propped ajar. heavy metal. fitting, you guess. poking through, you see the back of a man. faded reddish brown leather stretches over a set of broad shoulders. a sweep of combed dark hair rests on the collar. a cranking sound accompanies the slight swivel of his upper body.

in front of him, a helicopter. your eyes widen, your pathetic vending machine breakfast pulses in your stomach. those things are death traps, and it sounds like he’s working on it.

you could turn back, but your contact had made a comment. one that propels you one stiff footstep at a time through the door.

nikolai is the best in the business, and no one else will accept such a small job.

he turns when you turn down the stereo’s dial with a shaking hand. his face is dusted with a bit of facial hair as if shaved recently, with lines near his eyes and mouth that indicate some years on you. thick eyebrows that raise in surprise, then settle as he grins. crooked teeth, a glint of metal near the back. your name rolls off his tongue and he sets a wrench down, offering you a gloved hand.

— my passenger of the day. little troublemaker.

you heat at that. it makes you curious about how much he knows. it’s not like you told your contact your reasons for leaving. money is a better conversationalist. universal language.

and you have just enough to bridge whatever gap needs crossing between you and nikolai.

he briefs you on the flight plan. he’ll take you to taiwan. they don’t extradite. assures you the heli is solid. he’s just a tinkerer. tells you to use the toilet. he’ll push as far as he can before stopping for fuel and rest. it’ll take three days.

you’re okay with that. you don’t know a thing about flying in something as small as a helicopter and know no better. he seems friendly enough. the glock you bought off a forum months ago in your bag will hopefully keep him that way.

he takes your cash. barely counts it. tuts. it’s enough, it’s the amount he asked for. he gives you a grin and stuffs the bills into a pocket.

— how much more do you have?

the question sets you on edge. great. another chump trying to take advantage of you. he reads your face.

— nothing like what you’re thinking. you have enough to take care of yourself when i deliver you?

you’re not sure, and you say as much. casually. maintaining feigned aloofness. you brag. i always land on my feet.

— like a cat?

he laughs. a big, boisterous sound. it makes your lip twitch. he says something in russian to himself and claps a hand on your shoulder before he turns back to make final adjustments.

— let’s find you a home, little cat.

the heli rolls out and lifts off less than twenty minutes after you arrive. your stomach is in your throat the entire time. nikolai’s muttered swearing does not alleviate the nausea. god, you don’t want to die before your third chance at life.

but it levels out, the sky is clear, and you’re off.

conversation is awkward. doesn't help that the headset nikolai gave you is meant for a much larger head. he lofts easy questions, dances around what he probably wants to know. sussing out your limits. you split focus between unclenching every muscle in your body and providing vague answers.

— you look tired. you can sleep if i am wearing you out with my questions.

he's not wrong. you are exhausted after waking up before dawn to ensure you arrived on time, but you really don’t want to sleep. nikolai is a stranger albeit a polite one. he's a criminal. it's hypocritical, but you know what you've done. you don't know a thing about him beyond: russian, helicopter pilot, and expensive.

he reads your mind again, though, it doesn't take a genius to understand why a young woman might be afraid to fall asleep next to a man she doesn't know.

— i won't hurt you. i have a reputation to uphold. hurting women is not part of that reputation.

his eyebrows lift behind his sunglasses, and the smile he gives you is warm. maybe. maybe a few hours shut eye wouldn't be so bad. you acquiesce, slumping into the cracked leather of the seat.

— enjoy your cat nap. i will wake you if necessary.

you nod sleepily and curl as much as you can onto the seat, hugging yourself tight. the thrum of the engine and propellers makes for decent white noise. you're out within minutes.

nikolai hums when it becomes clear you're asleep. he tilts his head, taking you in as best he can while you're all balled up. curious about the stray cat he's agreed to ferry to safety. pretty thing. shy. well-behaved.

and he thinks.

the black sea has beaches.

[tightjeansjavi]

I have a feeling Tess is gonna make sure Gwen hears how her and Joel are together (🤢🤢 lmao)

Like I would definitely be moving out of that place! Can you imagine the Joel angst if he comes home one day and all of her stuff is just gone and Tess is all smug because she finally got rid of her.

(I know Tess isn’t a bad character in the game but I like how she’s so blank that you can make her whatever you need her to be and I’m enjoying the way you’re write her because I like not liking her lmao)

I hope the next chapter is soon! I know you just posted but I can’t wait to read more. I just hope it won’t hurt too bad aw. Pls tell me Gwen is actually going to feel okay sometime while she’s with these 2 assholes lol (because let’s be honest, Joel is definitely an asshole. Asshoel. lmao)

I honestly did think of throwing that in there awhile back but with how the story has progressed, I don’t think that is going to happen! However, there’s a good chance I will end up adding in some one-shot/fillers so never say never! 😉

As terrible as Tess is in this, I don’t think she’d go as far to push Gwen out because if Gwen leaves, Joel’s gonna flip and Tess doesn’t want that to happen, she loses him if he loses you. It’s a very delicate situation. The love triangle brewing between them was an after thought and once I started, I couldn’t stop lol

You’re in luck babe, cause I cranked out chapter 8 last night like I was getting paid for it 😀 I plan on posting it sometime today, probably in the afternoon.

Gwen’s gonna be okay, I promise! She’s just doing a really good job at hiding how she feels about Joel. She’s been so fun to write honestly and chapter 7 was one of my favorites because you see her start to hold her ground with him more. (He had to go and be the dick that he is and ruin it) buttt she’s a tough cookie

[ditch-witches]

Farmer’s Son - Dean Charles-Chapman x reader

(PART ONE) - (PART TWO)

Ivanna, I love you. Thank you for always hyping up our stuff and BLESSING us with your amazing artistic talents.

request: (jfc yall)

"I would do literally anything for more farm dean (can we eventually get a cute wedding? Take it slow tho dw)”

“I would kill for farmer's daughter part 3.”

“Okay wow I love Majesty it’s amazing but can you please give us some more farm Dean!! Love y’all!”

“Aight so can we pleaseee get another part for farmer’s daughter cause I never knew I needed farmer Dean in my life prior to that”

“I NEED FARM DEAN TO BE A COMPLETE SERIES WITH MANY HOT SUMMERS AND A WEDDING EVENTUALLY”

“Please give us farm/country Dean part 3 IT MAKES ME SO SOFT🥺🥰 They need to get married at some point sksksk”

“I’m the one who requested farm boy Dean and whew boy you guys did not disappoint! IT WAS SO GOOD."

warnings: ?language? 

word count: ~4000

You furrowed your brows as you looked over the field of workers, tilling the dark earth beneath the hot summer sun. The living room radio was cranked up loud enough that the lulling tones of the singer could be heard from your front porch, mixing in with the calming noise of the wind-chime and cicadas in the trees. The scent of summer wafted through your hair with the same wind swirling through the chime, playing it as if it were a musician. The warmth of the sun settled against your exposed skin as you marched out to the field, throwing your hat over your wild hair. The cooler you were lugging behind you was nearly reminiscent of when your mother forced you to apologize to the men for your manners when now, it seemed that you could be wearing a winter coat and she’d nearly faint in embarrassment. Still, you were greeted with bright smiles and the welcoming of the refreshments. 

You tucked your hands into your back pockets, searching the small crowd of college boys almost too dirty to be recognized. The offset chorus of sentiments and thankfulness blended into the wind in your ears. “He’s not here today,” one of the boys you knew from high school piped up beside you, leaning against his trow and following your eyes towards the horizon over the field. You moved your head to look in his direction, perking an eyebrow as you did so. He ran one of his grimy hands through his sandy hair, taking a deep breath of the summer air you were also admiring a few minutes prior. 

You chuckled lightly. “Well, don’t write a novel, sparky,” you joked, making him snicker, a small gleam in his eyes as he looked at you fully this time. 

“Apologies, ma’am. Dean took up another shift at the station. He needs the money before he heads back soon,” he disclosed, his hand moving to rub at the nape of his neck. You felt your heart drop three stories into hell at his words. 

You wet your lips, searching his eyes. “Soon?” 

He nodded. “Didn’t he tell you? His mom sent him a letter or something.” You shook your head, thanking him for the information and handing him one of the drinks from the cooler, your mind racing at what soon meant. How soon? Next week? In a few days? Tomorrow? What happened to summer? You parted ways with the men, tying your hair back and deciding that waiting for him to get off work would eat you alive before you got the opportunity to figure out what was happening. 

It seemed as if your bike wasn’t quick enough to keep up with your legs and pacing heart. The vast cornfields and wildflowers you regularly would have stopped to enjoy, zipped passed your ankles alongside the gravel road into town. Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving so soon after you had so much planned for these few precious months you had the opportunity to spend with him. 

The reality of the situation was that you both were getting older. Soon, at least by your mother’s standards, you’d need to be settled and on the road to having children before your life completely passed by your ears. There were only so many summer vacations you could enjoy before you were tied into a job or a family. It was only a matter of time before you’d be looking back on these summers and wishing you could curl back up beneath the large willow trees, pressed against Dean’s side after a long day. When you were old and harsh like your mother, would you regret it if Dean wasn’t the man you were spending the rest of your life with? Did he even feel the same about you, or were you still a summer fling to him? 

Your throat tightened at that thought. Were you becoming too attached when he had his own separate life back home, with no intention of blending you into it? The idea of him with another woman that wasn’t you boiled your blood. Yet, you still skittered on the edge of whether or not your father would even allow the two of you to be together. 

Who were you kidding? You were on your mother’s timeline, it didn’t matter if you wanted to marry him tomorrow. Maybe you could convince yourself that there was still time. Your fears seemed to wash away into the cracks of the sidewalk as you pulled up to the gas station, tucking your bike into the rack beside the front door and greeting the few cars of townspeople you recognized. You were now on a mission, your mind almost blank with everything else. The handful of Cadillacs full of couples in swimsuits that you had familiarized yourself with in school attempted light conversation with you as you vaguely surveyed the station before finally spotting Dean. His dark jumpsuit was, of course, already filthy as he wiped his hands on a towel, in mid-conversation with another mechanic. Your heart felt heavy looking at him again, as if you were seeing him for the first time again. His bright eyes turned to you as if he had sensed your presence, his smile brightening at your appearance as he headed for you.

You fought your blush as you excused yourself from the group and walked to meet him half-way. His usual dapper mood was still prevalent as he stood before you, seemingly pleased that you were there to see him. “Hey, I’d kiss you but-” He began but your impatience and slightly distraught expression sent his brows furrowing. He seemed hesitant to ask you what was wrong, like he knew what you’d chased him down for. He pulled his bottom lip between his gleaming teeth, tucking the towel in his back pocket. 

“I heard you’re leaving soon,” you mumbled, fidgeting with your fingers. You wanted to reach out and touch him despite his begrimed appearance. It was almost your new normal now: not seeing him covered in dirt or grease was almost foreign to you. You fought against begging him to stay with you rather than go back again, or at least take you with him as his curious eyes blueprinted your appearance into his memory. “What kind of soon are we talking?” 

Dean sighed regretfully, looking over his shoulder and gesturing at one of his co-workers before taking one of your hands lightly and stepping into the small station. The one-room business was empty and nearly pristine, evident that only tourists passed in whereas the locals knew not to step foot near it. “I was going to tell you, I just didn’t know how to. This is probably going to be my last summer here.” You inhaled sharply, attempting to keep your noises of upset to yourself as his eyes saddened, the blue hue deepening. Is this how he felt when you left for school? At least there was a promise you’d be back. “My mum’s getting old and I’ll have to take over soon.” Your mind raced at his words. It seemed like he was finally back in your life and now he was leaving. This time for good. 

Despite your fast track mind trying to figure out how to sneak into his trunk and force him to take you with him, you couldn’t think of what to say to him. “When?” Was all you could manage. 

“Next week.” His words were soft and apologetic. You felt guilty for making him feel like this. You understood; if you were in his shoes you would be doing the same. You looked away from him, blinking towards the ceiling in an attempt to hide your blurring vision, misting by your budding tears. You swallowed harshly, stepping away from him and shaking off your sadness. “Hey,” Dean called for you gently, his hand reaching to touch your wrist to turn you towards him. The way you led into his closeness seemed to make him forget about not wanting to dirty your appearance. He settled his hands alongside your jaw, forcing you to make eye contact with him. You relaxed into his touch almost instantly, your eyes fluttering shut against the stinging tears threatening to fall. His calloused thumb brushed against your cheek. “Just because it’s my last summer doesn’t mean I won’t come back for you if you’ll let me,” his words were like a warm embrace of their own. You sighed and locked eyes with him, hoping to keep the memory of their brightness in the back of your mind. He pulled you closer to him, his lips hovering over yours with a softness like you were a rare flower he was struggling not to crush in his fist. You let your eyes drift shut against the blissful feeling of his breath fanning against your cheek before he pressed his lips against yours, the mix of sadness and worry bleeding away from your mind as the gesture seemed to tell you not to fret over the future anymore. 

The bell above the general store rang into the cool air, breaking the silence in the small shop. You untied the scarf around your head as you stepped towards the cashier’s counter, vaguely thinking of back home when you’d usually be greeted by someone you’d grown up with or someone who’d babysat a friend of yours. The man behind the counter stood up straighter, tucking away the magazine he was skimming and attempting to take in your appearance. You felt like a foreigner in the desert as you stood before him. He was rather tall, with clean overalls strapped over his shoulders. “Can I get a fill up?” You asked, gesturing towards your car parked outside. The man raised his eyebrows before nodding and following you outside. “Do you mind if I wait beside you? I’ve been driving all day,” you added as he flipped open your gas lid and began filling your car. You peered around the two of you, taking in the scenery. This part of England wasn’t much different from your hometown, yet it still felt like you had wound up in an alternate reality. 

“What are you doing across the pond, miss?” The man asked, his eyes quizzing your every move. 

You gave him a small smile, slightly nervous. “I’m visiting my boyfriend actually. He lives down the road, or so I think. I’m kind of lost to be honest...” you mumbled the last part more to yourself as you fished the small scrap of paper out of your pocket with Dean’s address scribbled down. The man gestured slightly, asking if he could take a look and you shrugged, flashing the paper to him. His eyes lit up with recognition and a small chuckle. Before you knew it, the two of you were leaning over the truck of your car with your road map spread out beneath you both, the man explaining the twists and turns on how to get to the house, and you scribbling down a few words to get you out of the woods. 

He closed your car door for you after you climbed in. “Remember, left at the fork, two rights, another left-” 

“And around the bend,” you finished with a grin to match his. “Thank you for your help.”

“Thank me with an invite to the wedding. They’ve been trying to get that boy married off for years!” He jested before sending you on your way. The run-in with the shopkeeper took your mind off the stroke of nervousness that seemed to rattle around in your chest with each turn in the road. You turned up the radio in hopes that your mind would wander away and stay there until you were in front of the man again. After Dean had left, the distance between the two of you was once again agony in a way you’d never have expected it to be on that first day of summer when you met him. You felt like a crazy person as you slowly checked off your list of directions. What were you doing? What if he didn’t want you here? What if he’s moved on? 

You finally made it past the last bend, your hands clammy as your eyes drifted between the road and the scrap of paper once again, looking for the correct numbers. The paper looked about as thin and crumpled as your mental state as you finally spotted a small house surrounded by cherry trees. A school bus sat in front of the driveway and as you grew closer, there he was. Dean stood in front of the door with a young boy clinging to his hand. Dean looked as if he were talking to an old friend, which you weren’t the least bit shocked at. His ability to hold conversations with anyone and everyone was almost annoying to you, but now seeing him like this, it was charming. Then something had been said involving the boy, who shied away, hiding behind one of Dean’s legs. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, attempting to remember who the kid could have been. Surely he wasn’t Dean’s.

Right? 

Dean chuckled and knelt down beside the kid and murmured a few words before the child nodded at him and stepped onto the bus. Dean smiled and waved at whoever the bus driver had been as the vehicle took off. You opened your door and stepped out, catching Dean’s attention. He furrowed his brows as if trying to place you in a setting so far away from what you were used to. He’d cut his hair again, his nose slightly red from the colder air, making his eyes nearly crystal. You wet your lips, unsure of your next move. “Is he yours?” You asked. It seemed like his mind had finally allowed him to recognize that it was indeed you standing at the edge of his yard. 

He shook his head. “My brother’s. First day of year one, you know.” He gestured in the direction the bus had gone with a small smile. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he stated, taking a few steps towards you. You looked at your feet mildly in embarrassment, realizing how out of left field it was to just show up unannounced halfway across the world. He leaned against your car, stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket. A flannel shirt peeked out from beneath his dark coat, you noticed. The yellow and red leaves around the two of you seemed so out of place compared to the summer flowers and bright blue skies. 

You cleared your throat. “I’m sorry for just showing up…” 

He scoffed softly, a smile creeping across his lips. “I’m not.” You forced yourself to make eye contact with him, his excited expression warming your heart and reaching your nearly frozen fingertips. He stood up and wrapped himself around you, digging his face into the crook of your neck and breathing deeply. You let the tension from the last few months evade your body as you tucked your hands around his waist, yearning to touch the softness of his flannel. You weren’t sure how it was possible, but Dean still smelled like the summer sun was settling against his skin. He moved to kiss your cheek, and you met him with a chaste kiss against his lips. You relaxed against his touch. 

“I met your friend at the gas station,” you hummed, turning to look at him. His mouth twisted into a smirk as a flash of disbelief beckoned behind his eyes. “He was very nice.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure he was.” He knotted your fingers with his and pulled you towards the small house, placing a kiss to the back of your hand as you continued up the pathway. The home spelled like apple pie and warmth that only a full house in fall could protrude. “Wait, I just remembered,” he stopped you after you both were in the house, discarding a layer or two to hang on the coat tree in the corner. You gave him a tilted expression of worry. “Are you okay with meeting my mom?” You were taken aback slightly with a grin but before you could answer, a woman’s voice beckoned from another room around the corner. Your smile widened and you nudged him in that direction. 

The woman that had called for Dean was stout, with short hair and a kind face which was furrowed in concentration as she bustled around the stove, nursing a freshly made apple pie. “How’d he do? Did he get on the bus okay?” She asked, her expressions still focused on the task at hand. Dean cleared his throat, making her eyes snap up towards the two of you as Dean stepped out of the way between you and his mother. He put a hand on your shoulder, introducing you to her with a rather proud smile on his face. Her hand was warm and inviting as she greeted you after a moment of hesitation. Her sights flashed between Dean and you, as if asking him to pinch her. She smiled brightly as Dean wrapped an arm around your shoulders, recounting how he found you digging through the trash like a raccoon, making you roll your eyes and shrug his arm off playfully. It seemed like a click of time went by before she was shooing Dean outside to join the rest of the boys gathering leftover cherries. She looped her arm around yours, dragging you towards the back porch and offering you a seat. 

You smiled to yourself, a rush of memories flooding from the back of your mind as Dean caught your eye. He played bashful, smirking at you from his position on a ladder beside a man that looked almost exactly like him. His cheeks were already a deeper red from the cooler temperature. It seemed like just yesterday you were perched on your own rocking chair, hungry to catch a glimpse of the new farmhand with dark curly hair and bright eyes. His smile was a carbon copy from the first time you met him, yet this time it seemed he looked at you with a sense of content as he watched his mother take to you so easily. “I’m not surprised you showed up here finally.” The woman broke the echo of calming silence that had settled between the two of you. You turned to her in your chair, pulling your eyes away from Dean. “He never shuts up about you. His brother thought you were fake to be honest,” she joked, making you chuckle lightly. “I’m glad you’re not,” she winked. You gave her a small smile before looking out towards the orchard again. 

“I’m sorry to impose, really,” you apologized, a pang of worry thundering in your chest. 

She scoffed. “Please! We were bound to meet sometime anyway,” she gestured towards Dean lightly. “Figured he’d ask you at some point.” Her comment was set at an ease you didn’t think your mother could ever have been at. Her welcoming calmness was comforting to you.

Still, you wet your lips cautiously. “Speaking of that, I actually wanted to talk to you,” you chewed. She put her glasses on top of her head, her eyes searching yours much like Dean’s had so many times before. “I was wondering if I could get your blessing. I want to marry Dean.” You held your breath as she blinked at you. Her eyebrow quirked up and she settled back in her chair with a sly smirk painted across her thin lips. 

“I had to ask his father to marry me, you know? Those Chapman boys,” she sighed. “Where would they be without us.” You scoffed, shocked at her statement. She turned to grin at you before answering her own question. “Probably dying alone, right?” You chuckled lightly. She patted your hand, which rested on the edge of your rocker. “From what I’ve heard, you’re perfect for Dean. I don’t think I could have picked better for him.” You sighed in relief, your nervousness and unsettled stress had finally subsided with her words. 

You waited until the sun had set, spending the day getting to know Dean’s family and attempting to understand the cherry farming business when you barely understood your own father’s crops. Dean’s nephew had nearly jumped into the house after he had finally been released from school for the day; the family members around welcomed him like he had been off to war. Members of the small community in town had shown up at the door bearing casseroles and pies, a tradition for fall nights like this one which you figured you could get used to. And before you knew it, you and Dean were perched side-by-side on the back steps, looking out over the orchard to gaze at the stars overhead. You snuggled up against Dean’s side as he looped an arm around yours, his eyes twinkling with the light from the moon. One of his thumbs absent-mindedly slipped into your sleeve to rub against your wrist. You were beat from the events of the day, or maybe just your ridiculous nerves skyrocketing up and down, but finally you could say you were at peace. You were right where you’d want to be, for as long as you could be. 

You cleared your throat mildly. “Dean, will you marry me?” You asked, seemingly into the dark void of the night, rather than to the man braided into you. He shifted slightly to look at you, making you sit up a bit straighter. 

A cocky grin spread across his face. “I thought you’d never ask,” he jested, making you shove his shoulder and send him into a small giggle fit. “I’m joking,” he breathed, pecking your lips gently. “I’ll marry you if you marry me,” he added. 

You shook your head at his petulant jinxing. “All right, then it’s settled,” you responded. 

“Is there some kind of dowry or do I take you for free?” He taunted with another giggle. 

“I take it back,” you groaned sarcastically. He laughed harder, pulling you closer to him to seal the moment in a kiss. 

[houseofsol]

i’m here! kinda. sorta. still waiting on the coffee to do its thing. hopefully everyone is having a good day?? it’s definitely another hot one. though unlike yesterday we’ve got a bit of a breeze to keep that warm air moving. xD not that i plan on opening up the windows. any other time and a breeze would be welcomed. but it’s going to be hot and the house already holds onto heat more than i like. i’m not about to give it more of a reason to hold onto said heat. xD at least the a/c is doing a damn good job of keeping things cool. at one point yesterday it was a 13 degree difference between inside the house and outside. xD i’ll take that any day over the damn heat. but i’m here! i think i’ve finally got a decent handle on the replies across all my blogs. i am sorry for being slow but we all know that some days you can crank out a ton and other days you can’t. xD thanks for being patient and understanding. i’m over on @cxpt today working through what i feel i can write. please don’t think i don’t like our stuff just because i’ve yet to reply to it. the longer the reply the longer it takes me to get to. xD i will get to them. it’s just taking me a lot longer than usual. also don’t forget the inbox is always open for chatting or plotting. i promise we don’t bite. ;) i’ll hop on discord in a bit. just need food first. till then we’ll be lurking about! <33

[antique-teacups]

sunshine in L.A.

A/N: kind of an original character piece but also not entirely.  i just was having a great time writing! hope you folks enjoy!

word count: 3k

There was something about her twenties that never felt quite right, worn like a sweater a size to large. She watched as her friends floated from relationships and friendships seamlessly, while she felt caught. In what exactly, she wasn’t sure. Part of her hoped with time that feeling would fade, become background static instead of pumping along with her heartbeat. Going with the current, she did exactly what was expected of her. Attended college, albeit a community college, but college none the less. Part time work covered what financial aid wouldn’t, even scraping enough together to buy a beater car.

Time drifted on and the feeling stayed, haunting and hollow. Avoiding the problem didn’t lessen its size but it never grew. In the back of her mind constantly. Social media was the worst part, watching her friends flourish and flower, while it took everything in her to remain sane and present. Two years flew by in the blink of an eye and she were left with a tiny degree she was not sure she really wanted. When the opportunity did present itself, she knew it was one she could not possibly pass up.

She knew that even in L.A these demons could surface but maybe the constant sun could choke them out. Packing her meager belongings into the back of her car, she pointed it in the direction of L.A. Whether she actually ended up in the sunshine state wasn’t the point, but rather, it was to get out. Stop the cycle before it became the only focal point of her life. It took longer than it should’ve, she passed the days slowly. Each spent behind the wheel simply heading west.

L.A. was a zoo. She worked your way through the city with fascination and hopefulness. She was certain of one thing and uncertain of many. She hoped to write but was willing to do just about anything to make money. Well, just about anything, she still harbored some self-respect.

L.A. had of a way of worming its way into your heart, no matter how shitty people made it seem. Each self-respecting L.A citizen hated the city as much as they loved it. She found a decent studio apartment, managed to get a job as a barista quickly, and spent the first month slinging caffeine in the daytime and writing into the wee hours of the morning. Cash was always tight, considering she did live in one of the most expensive cities, but there was semblance of happiness. It was clawing it’s way in on the edges of her life.

The customers were not particularly strange, at least not always. There were a couple of memorable moments, but most days passed by in monotony. She knew customers by their orders, not names. These small moments between the register and picking up their coffee offered she a small window into their world. These hints they dropped left her wondering about their lives outside their order and these four walls. Who were these people who flocked to the shop like cattle to slaughter?

She certainly played favorites, every barista did, with both customers and coworkers. There were those who made the days a little brighter. The first was her coworker James. Somewhere in his twenties like her but an old soul. He came to work in sweaters, cooper rimmed circular glasses, and disheveled hair on the daily. He was welcoming and warm and chased away some of the darkness.

The two of them became instant friends. He would wait after work to hang out, get drinks on the weekend, and spend Sunday brunch complaining about his hangover. At first, she was confronted with the concern that maybe he was worming into her life in hopes of it ending in a relationship, but as soon as she met his boyfriend Scott, that fear was put to rest. In a way, she chose the two of them as family. She spent countless hours with them, at ease with the way things were.

In James, she confided most of her fears and a lot of her guilt. The backstory of her life surprising him but explaining the front she put up. Tragedy often bores the strongest soldiers. In the year she had been in L.A, James helped her pick up the pieces and put herself together, an unrepayable favor. Thanksgiving was right around the corner and she were destined to spend it with James and Scott.

“James, I’m running to the grocery store after work and if you play your cards right there might just be a bottle of Prosecco with your name on it.” she joked over the espresso machine, a sly smile on her lips. James and her always bantered at work, often to the amusement of the customers and other coworkers.

James matches her smile, “Oh honey, you act like I would actually need to play my cards to get it, I’ve got you wrapped around my finger.” He chuckles and turns back to the drawer. The day was getting late, closing time just mere hours away. She was practically counting down the hours till she could curl up on his couch and binge “New Girl”, the new obsession for the two of them.

“I like to pretend it’s the other way around, but I would admit you are right, James. But besides that, anything else?” she asked, hardly looking at him. There was unspoken communication between you two most days, a glance could tell a story. “I was thinking pizza this fine Wednesday night. But I’m certainly open to suggestions.”

“And break the Wednesday night pizza tradition, how absurd!” James feigns hurt, a hand over his heart and concerned expression painting his face. “The table is already set, we can’t go making changes now, silly girl.”

“Then pizza and prosecco it is. Perfect.” She giggled and sent a curt nod in his direction. The entire conversation was an open invitation for him to change the plans, but he never did. Wednesday night was always reserved for the two of them. They devoured pizza and whatever show they were working on. It was sacred to them both.

The rest of the day passed quickly, the sun just barely setting when she and James locked the shop doors. A brief hug and a quick exchange of words and the two of them were off in opposite directions. A pit stop at the grocery store and then to James’ place. He would order the pizza in, as per tradition. Tasked with grabbing the drinks and whatever bits she needed, she would be to his place shortly.

Her car sat tucked in the back lot, warm from sitting in the sun. Cranking the window open once she had climbed inside, turning on the radio, she set off to the grocery store. It was smaller than most that scattered around L.A, which is why it was her favorite. She did not have to fight the yoga obsessed mothers to get through the aisles or hope the hipsters didn’t pick through the all the good stuff before she got a chance to be there. The old man, who she assumed owned it, knew her by name. Often, he would gift products just a day out of date to her. He did save your ass more than once.

“Charles, what’s the good word for today?” She asked, swinging the door open and nabbing a basket.

Smiling, he gushed, “I beat the finalist in Jeopardy today, but I’m here and he’s there,” shrugging he went on, “I put some of those cookies you like in the back, they went out of date yesterday, Dandelion.” Charles had been using the nickname since she had started coming here. She was totally convinced he had to be her guardian angel. When she asked him where it came from, his response surprised her. “Like the weed, you always come back. You are full of fire and strong. I can see it.” She felt partial to this grocery store. She ended up here for a reason.

“Great, I was craving something sweet all day. Remind me, I have got something for you in my bag before I go. Don’t worry, nothing poisonous.” Jokingly she added.

Charles had a love for Jim Harrison. Often when she was browsing at old bookstores or garage sale’s she would stumble across one for him. He probably owned nearly every single book published by Harrison, but always acted thankful and surprised when she presented him with another. She wanted to make sure he knew how much she appreciated him in a way of more than just saying thank you.

She scanned the aisles looking for the familiar packaging of her favorites. She hardly noticed the boy till she had practically run into his back.

“Another one in Charles good graces, a rare species.” He teased.

Chuckling, “That must mean there are people on Charles bad side, which I highly doubt.” He was home strung, as far as she could tell. Clean cut and not looking for a lot of attention, judging by his all black attire. “I’m assuming you’re one of the lucky ones, too.” She implored.

“Thankfully, I have managed to make my way into one of his chosen few. Even without it, I would still come here. This is the only grocery store where I don’t have to cross my fingers and hope all the good stuff isn’t picked over. Charles seems to have a force field to keep this place hidden. Certainly, the best kept secret of L.A.,” he pauses, searching your face, “you work at the coffee shop on Sunset, Eight-Fold Coffee, right?”

“Guiltily is charged, Mr. iced latte with almond milk,” tapping your temple, “steel trap. I only know people’s drinks, not their names, sorry. I was wondering if you looked familiar or if it was just the lighting.”

Extending a hand, cheekily responding, “David. The name’s David Dobrik, or iced latte if you please.”  His smile was easy and charming, you couldn’t help but stare. His entire posture oozed ease, you couldn’t quite decide if he was trying to flirt or simply be friendly. Of course, that wonderful friend called self-doubt started to crawl its way into your chest, so it was time to go.

Flashing him what you hoped was a friendly parting smile, “Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. It was nice finally meeting in more than just an ‘iced latte with almond milk’ kind of way. I’ll see you around. I have promised the roommate a night in and if I don’t come through, the world might stop turning.” Turning on her heel, tossing David a small wave, she headed for the register. All the things she needed forgotten.

She set the single bottle on the counter and wait for Charles to ring it up. Silence elapses, you lost entirely in your own thoughts.

“Dandelion?”

“Huh, what?” she missed what he asked, cheeks flushing at him catching her in dreamland.

“Lots on your mind today?” Charles inquired, a knowing look on his face.

Smiling and rolling her eyes, “I respect the fishing for a morsel of mind but maybe when inquiring minds aren’t near.” she winks. Digging in your bag, she pulls the book for him, Returning to Earth, out. “I found it at a garage sale this weekend and thought you could add to your collection. But this one, is to expand your horizons.” She pulls The Pleasures of the Damned by Charles Bukowski out. “I’ll need it back but keep it as long as you need, I know where to find you. See you around Charles.” She pays and get ready to go, sneaking one last glance in David’s direction. Grabbing onto her bag with the prosecco and cookies tucked in, she heads for the doors. One last look to the aisles and she can see David still tucked amongst them, scouring for something in the sea. A shake of her head and she is out the doors.

Tossing the bag in the passenger seat, she meanders down the streets towards James. A stampede of thoughts about David comes and goes. It was just mutual acknowledgement that the two of them did in fact kind of know each other. Yet, she found herself wondering if she should tell James about him, see if he had any insight on the guy. The thought felt foolish considering it was just a run in at the grocery store, nothing more.

Charles knew more about her then he let on. He knew her heart was kind but had been through a lot, he knew you were loyal and strong, but he knew also knew when her heart would tell you who to let in. David did not need much from that grocery store, mostly some alone time. His inquiring mind also wanted some more information on the barista who stole his breath away. As he left that day, Charles told him something he would carry with him for a while. “People like her, they guard their hearts, but hers is golden. It won’t always be shut.”

Opening the door to James and Scott’s apartment, she could smell the pizza. Her mouth was already watering. James rounded the corner into view between the small kitchen and living.

“I was beginning to wonder if you bailed.” He poked.

“On you, never.” Rolling her eyes.

“I am almost flattered.” He made for the bag in her hand, noticing the cookies right away. “Charles treats you like your one of his own grand kids. One of the people placed on that golden list.”

“About Charles coveted list, I ran into a guy from the coffee shop. David? Iced latte with almond milk, dresses like an unemployed ninja. Do you know anything about him?” She asked trying to keep the hopeful tone from her voice.

James searches her face before continuing. “A sudden interest in a customer, more like prominent interest. I’ve noticed the favorites you play with him.” He flashes you a joking grin. “I don’t know much about him honestly. I’ve heard whisperings from the other baristas that he has some youtube channel, not much else. He seems nice.” Bumping his shoulder with hers, “It wouldn’t hurt if you tried to be friends with him. It’s not a crime to branch out. I would not be insulted if you did. I worry that maybe you don’t because I take up a lot of your time.”

“Certainly not, you take up a perfect amount of my time. I just, remember how hard it is for me to be friends with people, I guess. I am a lifelong hermit. Plus, if he’s doing that whole ‘social media career’, he might not be the kind of friend I want.” Socializing was never her strong suit and if David’s preferred choice was blasting his life across the platforms, maybe she would take a pass.

The two of you vegged out on the couch way past what was a reasonable time, both scheduled to open tomorrow. He was on her mind all night, the little she knew about him had her mind doing circles. He seemed innocent enough, a good guy if Charles liked him.

 The sun shown through the windows all morning, bringing a warming light to the coffee shop. All day you hoped he would pop in, yet, it went unanswered. Clocking out, she nabbed her notebook and a mug of coffee, making her way to the bank of windows along the window. She tried to keep her mind from wandering, yet it seemed impossible. Perhaps she scared him off.

“I figured you were a writer. Nobody suggests poetry books, Bukowski especially, unless they are a writer. Or terribly sad, but judging by the notebook, I’d say the first.” David said, standing next to you bathed in the afternoon sun. He looked as though he just woke up but in a delicious way. His hair was messy and his eyes warm. She could not help but bath in the light emanating from him.

A small smile spread on her lips, “You’re a fan?”

“I saw it on Charles counter on my out yesterday. A simple Google Search did the trick. Guy seems kind of dark for you.” A blush plays on David’s cheeks. “I was hoping to run into you today. Listen, me and my friends are going to this party tonight, would you be interested?”

“Uh,” glancing behind the counter you see James shaking his yes vigorous, “sure, why not?” It seemed in David’s presence, the hole in her chest seemed to lessen some.

[thorsstorms]

Abroad part 10

(Chris Hemsworth x Reader)

Summary: Being the Hemsworth Kids’ Nanny, you were vowed to keep it strictly professional for their sake, but do the stolen glances go unnoticed between you both?

Word count: 6k ish idk 

Warnings: The lot y'all. Fingering, unprotected sex (y'all wrap that shit) 18+! VEGAS BABY.

A/N: if you want to be tagged, PLEASE SEND AS AN ASK. 

Masterlist

“India, I don’t want to say it again.” Her wet swimsuit was still on the floor in the upstairs bathroom, just as it was thirty minutes ago.

“Put the tablet down and do what she says or I swear you will not see that thing for a week.” Chris rounded the kitchen corner to eye her, watch her huff and throw it down on the couch and slowly walk for the stairs.

Today was not her day. She had been defiant since the moment she woke up, crying because she didn’t want to eat breakfast, sad that she doesn’t have the sandals that she likes in California, heart broken that the shirt she wanted was in the washer. It was enough to drive you crazy for the day.

You threw the blanket you were folding on to the back of the couch and sat down next to one of the boys who was making seemingly a million little paper airplanes. His fine motor skills weren’t very sharp, so the edges were very crooked and not creased, but he didnt care. His little fingers did what they could to keep him entertained.

Sasha was your saving grace compared to the other two. He was easy to please, and compliant, the easygoing child, much like you were.

Chris had been seated at the kitchen table for the past hour on his laptop trying to memorize maps and try to plan out what we were going to be doing. He had been watching travel sites for information, trying to track how long the drives were from each stop. It sounded like too much work honestly, you were a road trip veteran. You learned to go with the flow, it is hard to follow a timeline, but you left him to it. He had ever done this across the states, you had.

By some grace of god, Elsa was going to be flying into LA and was going to stay with the kids. Back months ago, you both had this time planned for Paris, the kids were going to fly out of Paris with their mother to Spain and spend two weeks with them while we were all in Europe.

This ment begging Chris for an extra night in Vegas. Originally only staying one night at the Mirage because it seemed the most kid friendly to you. You on the spot asked him to cancel those reservations and book two nights at Paris instead. It was your absolute favorite hotel of them all, and was home to your favorite restaurant that looked over the Bellagio fountains. He had never been, so either way he didn’t care but you were determined to show him the best time possible.

Plus you had a surprise in mind, located in Treasure Island, and maybe another in the Venetian. You were going to have to be sneaky about it, deciding to call Gen later in secret and make sure it would be okay, she would get it setup for sure.

“Go fly one of these at Papa, tell him to get off the computer and come play with you,” you whispered quietly in Sasha’s ear. He turned to you with a mischievous smile, starting to giggle and cover his mouth to stay quiet. He picked a few up off the floor and one from the coffee table and started to tiptoe across the room, moving slowly like he was a spy. Your gaze shifted between Chris and the creeping ninja on his way to attack.

He was sat hunched over the computer with his hand covering his chin, eyes scanning the screen.

“Papa!” Sasha’s high pitched voice broke the silence, pelting all four airplanes like they were baseballs at his head. “Come play with me!” He jumped suddenly at the sound of his voice, watching the paper fall on to the keys.

“Play with you? You want me to come play with you?” He rose from his seat as the boy slowly nodded his head, ready to dart in the opposite direction to get chased. You watched Sasha dart around the room, Chris on his tail, Tristan running to you to take cover.

Later that night he was stuck back at the laptop after the kids were in bed. Sat against the headboard looking for hotels around your hometown regardless of the fact that you had told him there was no way your mother was going to allow that. He was afraid of intruding on her since you insisted it be a surprise. A compromise was reached when you agreed to call her in the morning and tell her that you were coming again, but only her.

Trying to pack the last of the clothing proved to be a bigger job than you had anticipated. Everything was washed and the kids were finished, but you swore he had brought his entire closet with him.

“How the heavens did you fit all of this in here in the first place!?” Trying to opt for a new way to arrange the luggage.

“I told you I would do it, just leave it be!” He pulled his eyes away from the screen, watching you surrounded by clothing on the floor.

“Really? If you packed this, nothing would be folded and there would be no order to anything. Then I would lose sleep over it.” It ended up working by putting all the shoes in a duffle bag, yours included, then putting some of his things in your two bags. Remaining in control of all the little things was what kept you sane. You ignored his continued obsession over the computer screen and resorted to pulling through drawers to make sure everything was out and your weren't leaving anything behind when you both left in the morning.

Inside a drawer of the dresser was two scripts that had been sent to him, some other paperwork, and a manila folder. You grabbed them all out, knowing they would be forgotten if you didn’t, and tossed them all on the top of the closed suitcases, not knowing where to put them at the moment. You watched as the papers slid off the top of the suitcase to a sloppy pile on the ground. You had always had an amazing aim.

The papers were gathered in a pile and you sat down to try and straighten them out and shove them all in the folder when a certain few words caught your eye.

“MARVEL TWO FILM CONTRACT”

The stapled papers got singled out on the carpet in front of you, flipping over the next 10 pages, seeing zero signatures. The contemplation zoomed through your brain, whether you should even be snooping or not. You continued anyway, hyper focused on the documents in hand.

Not a single pen mark was on any of the papers besides the last, signed fresh by Kevin Fiege in black ink, dated almost four weeks ago. You tried to conceal the confusion, silently covering your mouth and glancing back up to him, who was not paying a lick of attention to you.

Why had he not signed it yet? Did he not want to finish this? Its only two films, much smaller than the last.

“Chris,” your voice was quiet and trying to gain the courage to ask, but heard easily over the sound of the fan in the room. You were met with a hum, not looking your way yet. “Are you- do you not want to do this?”

As if he suddenly knew exactly what you were talking about, he shut the computer and sat up, staring at you on the floor with the other papers in a pile. The sudden urge to defend your curiosity took over.

“I-I wasn’t snooping, I promise. I was just, you were going to forget this stuff and, I pulled it out. It-They fell.” Your words were having trouble making it out to make sense, though he didn’t move from his spot to grab anything from you.

He took a deep breath, running a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He motioned for you to join him on the bed and you followed quickly, bringing the papers with you.

“I didn’t sign them yet.” He said, pulling the paper from your grasp flipping back a few pages. “The filming period is 18 months- maybe longer, due to start in November.” He pointed out a section on the fourth page, stating the filming period and locations. You still didn’t understand. So what? You knew he had done more rigorous work in the past, what was two more movies, and then being done with it?

“Do you not want to do this?” You asked again. Your question remained the same.

“(Y/N) it’s not that I wouldn’t want to do the movies, of course I would want to do them. But it’s a very long filming period. Two big movies back to back again. I filmed Ragnarok, then Infinity war, and Endgame all back to back and was pretty much gone for a straight year and a half. Almost two.” The longing feeling that would take place inside yourself during that period was treading up lightly. He hadn’t been legit filming the entire time you’ve been with them. He had just finished. But it was his job, and he built this character into something far deeper than expected. The obligation to finish the story was far greater than the obligation to be selfish and not do two last movies, at least that is what you were thinking.

“I don’t understand.” The air was starting to hang heavy over your confusion.

“Doing something like that again, being contractually bound to it, it was hard on the kids. Me being away for long periods of time. It was hard on me. It was- It was hard on my marriage.” Finally understanding where this was going. You stayed silent, thinking about it. The timeline matches up, something you had never thought about before. You never pried him for answers, you figured he would tell you if it mattered. This was him telling you. Now, it matters to him. “It is not that I don’t want to do the movies. It’s just the rough draft of the schedule that- that stresses me, I guess.”

“You’re job is not easy.” He put the papers aside on the nightstand. “I can’t tell you what to do. But if I could, I think I would tell you to sign them.” He leaned back on the pillows while you put the laptop on your nightstand and adjusted the blankets. “I think that you can pull this off. It’s just two more years and you can take off as long as you’d like. You have worked like crazy these past couple years. Cranking movies out, one after another. You’ve made your mark Chris.”

You paused to let him speak. To tell you that you don’t know what you are talking about or that he just doesn’t want to do it at all. But he didn’t speak. He laid in contemplation, staring at the ceiling and listening to your words of encouragement.

“Don’t worry about the kids, don’t worry about me. You can be selfish about this, finish what you started.” He laid still in his quiet thought. It became clear to you that he had thought about this for a long time, even still didn’t feel like he knew the correct decision. He thought of you, what kind of future would take place if he signed and if he didn’t. He decided himself he wasn’t willing to put everything on the line with you, but that was where he wasn’t thinking clearly.

The silence swallowed up the room, suddenly making you understand why he was so hesitant.

“I’m not Elsa, Chris.” His eyes snapped quickly to you, daring you to continue. “I don’t-I don’t have a modeling career to run towards. I’m not… taking the backseat for you to do this. I like to think I’m sitting in the front seat, ready to grab the wheel for you.” Your silly analogy lightened his mood, but it was true. It was different.

“You think I should sign them.”

“Do the damn thing.” He still didn’t move. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything but-”

“You are not pressuring me, I’ll do it. You are right.” He stood up grabbing a pen from the bedside table. You started to panic, definitely feeling like you had just guilted him into it.

“Are you sure?” You watched him with bright eyes. He deserved to let himself do this. He would never forgive himself if he didnt.

You felt almost a sense of pride as you watched him sign the last page, ignoring your further questions, standing almost naked with only boxers on, almost 11PM.

“Don’t move! Freeze! I want to take a picture.” Of course he didn’t listen and stood up straight. “Say cheese!” He smiled silly and held up the paper showing his signature.

~

“Woah.” We were coming up on the strip and could see it from the highway. “Which one is Paris?”

“I’m gonna take a guess and say the one with an Eiffel Tower attached to it,” you said, looking at him like he shouldn’t be driving if he couldn’t see it from here. The drive had just reached over four hours. Four hours of you talking about Vegas and stories from the last two times you had come, trying your hardest to leave out the surprise. He’d see it for sure when you got there.

His restlessness was rubbing off on you. Turning onto the south side of the strip, you watched as he admired Luxor and your other favorite, New York New York, through the windshield. Arriving farther down the strip, you eyed the big sign attached to Treasure Island. Granted, it was still another two blocks down the strip but honestly. He seemed oblivious to it, eyes attached to the Bellagio fountains and trying to pull into the valet at Paris.

How the fuck did he not just see that? Surely he knows about it. You decided to not say anything just yet, proceeding to follow directions that Gen had given you both. The luxury of not having to lug your own bags around the hotel entrance and through the casino to find your room had never been presented to you before. Questioning him as he left the keys with Valet without grabbing the bags, waiting for security before going inside. Oh, right.

You walked with two security guys that worked for the hotel, weaving through the hotel to the check-in desks, greeted by a manager. He was promptly handed two room cards, and a hotel brochure.

As soon as you entered the room you went straight for the window to see the view. He gave his thanks to security and shut the door behind him, following you to the window. The giddy smile across your face couldn’t help but spread to his. His arms wrapped around you, resting his head on top of yours. You leaned back against him, relaxing into the enveloping warmth of his embrace.

“Thank you,” you looked out at the view from the room, feeling excited to get out there.

“For what?”

“Just being you, I guess.” You leaned over in his arms and he met you for a kiss. He was gentle and unrushed. You had hoped he would mellow out once you got on the road.

You turned in his arms pushing him across the room till he hit the bed and sat down.

“Just being me, huh?”

“Oh shut it,” wishing he would wipe the smirk off his face. You straddled his lap, throwing your arms around his shoulders, his coming to your hips. He welcomed your kiss, wrapping yourself around him. His smirked disappeared as you both deepened the kiss, his tongue poking around yours. He left gentle kisses across your jaw, pressing hard against your pulse point sending a shiver down your skin.

A knock at the door interrupted your trance, Chris pulling a way and placing a small quick kiss at your lips.

“I love you,” he said quickly going to stand up to open the door. You locked your limbs around him, locking your ankles behind his back while he stood up.

“Oh c’mon, really?” You pouted, clinging to him. He chuckled and unwrapped your feet setting you on the edge of the bed, reluctantly letting go.

You quickly fingered through your hair to make it look somewhat presentable as your bags were piled in the room off a trolly. You immediately went for clothes and a makeup bag. There are so many bags, surely you do not need all of these for two days here.

“Hey woah, don’t we get to finish what we started?” He walked up to you taking the makeup bag out of your hands and setting it on the desk. Before you could answer he had grabbed the bag of your thighs, hoisted to his waist, walking back to the bed, your arms reflexively going around his shoulders. He started to nip at your neck, sitting back down and rigorously trying to go back to what you had started.

“Wait,” you choked out, trying to remember what you were going to say. “I- I made us dinner plans.”

“You did?” he spoke softly, lightening up on his assault.

“Mhmm,” his hands left your hips, pulling under your shirt and running up your exposed skin. His lips found yours for just a moment before you pulled off of him. A groan erupted from his throat as you slipped from his grasp.

“Princess,” His voice carried a coarse, impure ring to it.

“Just have some patience,” your voice was definitely lacking the conviction it needed. The thought of making him wait was almost detrimental to your will, always ready to give in. With only two nights to show him Vegas, you wanted to do something before dinner as well.

You went back for the makeup bag and a black and floral jumpsuit, after all, you can’t wear a dress on a gondola! You hadn’t gotten to do them yet but you were determined to this time around. Through The Venetian they had a gondola river flowing in and out of the casino and hotel, surrounded in an Italian setting and a guide, it looked amazing and romantic and you couldn’t wait to show him.

“Can you wear your blue button down? It shows off your ocean eyes, I like it,” you disappear into the bathroom, whisking away the blush of your confession. Too forward of a request? Hopefully not. The mirror in the bathroom was something to be admired, excited to do your makeup. Getting dolled up sounds so amazing, it was a rare occurrence these days.

“Okay so, we are gonna go to the Venetian. It is down just two blocks. I’m just, so excited!” He eyed up and down the street, admiring the detailed tall buildings, the dancing fountain across the street. So much for the blue shirt he looked so handsome in, you knew he was going to have those obnoxious sunglasses covering his eyes till the sun went down.

“But what are we doing? Just walking?” He fell into step next to you, clasping your hand to keep close through the crowded sidewalks.

“We are going to go on a gondola ride and pretend we are in Italy!” You couldn’t wipe the smile of your face.

“Holy shit,” he said quickly, halting his footsteps in place, almost tugging you backwards. Both of you getting dirty remarks from those behind you. Your heart felt a quick jolt at the thought of people recognizing him and ruining your evening, maybe even the days here. You quickly tugged him forward telling him to keep walking before he draws attention to himself, not bothering to mask the urgency in your tone. You looked up ahead knowing he finally saw it.

“Is that-no way! That’s me!” You shook your head, lugging him along behind you trying to keep up with the pace of everyone else. He kept talking to himself, saying how in the world he didn’t know about it, trying to ask you questions about it. You skipped the part about telling him you had gone a few years ago, though surely it would come up tomorrow.

You answered all he needed to know while you both were in your own little world, floating through the hotel. The detail and styles of the build captured his eyes. The body language he showed was taken back at the extravagance of the hotels, each having a strong thematic presence.

He admired the posters at the entrance of the wax museum, walking to the counter for tickets, thanking heavens there was no line or crowds. He made fun, taking selfies with almost everyone of them. Kissing Dwayne Johnson, laying with Hugh Hefner, standing even taller on his tippy toes with an annoyed look next to Captain America. You indulged yourself, posing with Khloe Kardashian who almost towered over you as Chris did. You got close with Channing Tatum and Bradley Cooper, making him take your photos. Needless to say, you both probably had way to much fun, spending way too much time in each themed room.

An amazing idea popped in your head as you entered the main gala, telling him you were going to play a game of freeze. You positioned him down the couch from Will Smith, on hand on his knee.

“Don’t move!! When the next guests walk through I’m gonna act like I’m taking a picture with you. You can not move! Or it won’t work!” He was on board almost immediately, ready to scare the whoever dared to get close. You moved away from him to check it out, starting to hear chatter coming up the escalator from the outside.

“Oh my goodness don’t move! I’m gonna video!” You whispered to him, running the Brad Pitt, pretending to be interested with him.

You watched from the side, trying your hardest not to reveal him from laughing. If you started laughing, he would to.

The onlookers drifted from each wax figure at the entrance, spotting a perfect seat between Will and Chris.

“Ooo! Take one of me here too!” The woman handed her company an Iphone, skipping to the couch. You watched with wide eyes as he looked like he was about to burst an eyeball from not blinking or breathing. He snuck a small, quick blink, making it difficult not to pee yourself from holding in the laughter. The man slowly lowered the camera, tossing her name into the air to get her attention. He ignored her questioning reply and walked a bit closer, eyeing him.

“What?” She asked him again, ready to pose for the picture, both her arms around their shoulders. As soon as her arm landed she jumped away, Chris screamed at her to scare her and she screamed back profanities, clutching her chest.

The eruption of laughter continued, yours probably obnoxiously ruining the video you were trying to hold steady.

You kept it going as he greeted them both, being the best he could be before you ended it. You approached the couple as they all calmed down, automatically being put in charge of taking photos for them.

You listened as Chris asked them nicely if they could hold off on posting anything for a day or two, asking to enjoy his time here with you, drifting his arm around your back. You blushed from his stare as they nodded in agreement of his explanation.

The four of you ended up snaking through the themed rooms together. You left your separate ways after you airdropped the video to her, reviewing it all together again to catch his blinking.

On the way back towards Paris, you passed through the mall to hit a couple stores, buying too many brushes and a few Jeffree lippies at Morphe. You followed him into Swarovski, refusing to allow him to inform you of the prices of the wrist watches he was admiring.

Dinner was more than what you expected. Gen had come through with the the string pulling. The manager offered you both free wine tasting while you had a stunning table, privately seated along the balcony. The fountains to keep you both entertained for the time being.

“I am genuinely lost for words.” The dessert was sat down on the table, but his eyes were on you. The dark sky and lowlit balcony did the most to hide your rose blush, but you both knew it was there.

“Well I’m glad you like it,” the glass of Sangria seated on the table top had become increasingly attention-grabbing under his stare.

“Come here,” the legs of his chair scratched across the ground as he scooted back from the table. His hands secured around yours, bringing you to sit on his lap, stealing the glass from you and setting it on the table.

You observed his movements with curiosity until he met your lips for a thank you. His hands keeping you from sliding from his grasp. You leaned into his chest, grazing his neck with your fingertips to savour his slow moving taste on your lips. The certain kiss that no words are needed, or exchanged. Striving to accept his appreciation, overjoyed with the romantic atmosphere that was created for the evening. He was quick to create a bliss in you that had you forgetting to breathe, forgetting to act appropriately in public, regardless of the needed privacy.  

“I love you,” his promise was whispered against your lips. The kind of moment where your thoughts flash through your mind erupted in your head. Regardless of any crush, or any love you had thought you felt before this moment, it was fake. It was swept away in the wind. Any charm that was presented to you in the past, it was weak. Any humor you found in someone else, it was paled in comparison to the joy he was always radiating on to you. Any soul crushing want, it was ignored and invisible until your eyes settled on him.

“And I love you.”

After a few minutes, you both decided it could be time to leave. Before you could exit the restaurant, you were met with the same hotel manager that gave you the room cards from earlier. She stood strict with two men from security with her. She spoke about offering security if you chose to remain in the casino for the evening.

You stayed stiff, almost behind him as you glance towards the entrance of the restaurant, where two more guards were trying to escort a few photographers out of the casino.

“We can keep professional photographers out, but guests with cameras are a different story.” She gazed between you both with sympathy. Before he could even turn to look at your reaction, you informed her that you would stay for the rest of the evening. It was only almost 10PM.

He didn’t know, but Gen was smart enough to assign you with security for all day tomorrow. Going to S.T.A.T.I.O.N. was the given reason, but also so you could explore further. You obviously didn’t expect to be walking the streets all day long, so nothing of it was much of a surprise to you, just an inconvenience.

Between walking to the room, you admired him as he stopped and took a few photos with people. They were all polite, waiting patiently as he made his way around the group of about 10. There were not many instincts to go in the opposite direction like the first time you ran into this problem with him. Granted it was still kind of weird, but more admirable.

As soon as you got into the room and started to pull off jewelry, you heard him shutting the door behind you, “So, do we get to finish what we started yet?”

You couldn’t hide the laugh that started, “Hmmm… Shower first?”

He groaned, saying he agrees only if he can shower with you. You were not one to say no, after all. He walked straight in there, stripping clothes as he walked across the room. You of course had to grab all the essentials into a bag first to carry in there. There was no way you were going to use that shampoo, soap, and face wash they provide. Before walking into the already steamy room, you gathered his scattered clothing and threw it in the corner on top of his bag. Messy clothing happened to be one of his downfalls.

You placed all your clothing on the counter top before opening the shower door, greeted with a stupid youthful grin, happy he got his way.

“You really are just a big child, you know that?” You switched him spots so the water trickled over you, wetting your hair and warming your skin. You reached for the face wash first, turning away from him when you washed it away and caught him fixated on you.

His fingers working diligently through your hair with shampoo. You didn’t even have to ask. The friction against your scalp was worthy of a licensed masseuse. You held back a groan when he lifted his touch, turning you with your eyes closed so the water could flush the product away. The silent minutes turned softly intimate as he brushed the warm rain back from your face, reaching for the other bottle.

You felt his lips press firmly against your forehead, a gesture that warmed you apart from the water. You leaned forward into his abdomen so the fall of the water hit lower on your back while he ran conditioned fingers through your hair.

The raw intimacy that encompassed him was overbearing. It was almost as if he could feel his heart swell while you display yourself for him to care for. It wasn’t just a wash in the shower. It was the unspoken, ‘I trust you,’ that captured his attention. He remembered the days that you would shyly bare yourself to him and not accept his need to be near you and touching you.

Your tapping fingertips against his back broke him from his thoughts, silently instructing him to continue playing with your hair.

“Okay lean back,” his soft voice broke the silence. You held onto his arms as his hands worked against the waterfall to drain the conditioner from your hair, eventually letting go to wipe your eyes when he slowed to a stop.

You reached for your own body wash, spreading it across his chest and up to his shoulders. “My turn,” you told him.

He waited patiently, zoned in on your expression and touch while you ran your soapy digits across his skin. The pure contentment and innocence of it was driving him almost wild, running down his sides, down his arms, your fingers dancing slowly across his neck.

He quickly returned the favor, the length of his hands covering your back quickly, drawing down your backside and thighs, causing bumps across the surface of your skin to rise. You leaned into him again as he planted soft kisses across the back of your neck while his hands reached the insides of your thighs, squeezing gently causing you to almost lose your footing.

“Your skin is so soft Princess,” his whispers sent shivers down your spine and straight to your core. One hand left the party and traced up to your chest before wrapping around you there and the other finally ghosting over your clit. You jumped slightly in his hold, gasping at the contact.

His fingers slowly circled the nub, painfully, agonizingly slow while he listened to your labored breathing, a soft whine escaping you. Your brain starting to short circuit while you tried to hold on to every ounce of pleasure he would give you. You kept a steadfast grip on his forearms, trying to grind into his touch, a motion to beg for more that ended up driving against his hardening cock behind you.

You stilled hearing his voice in your ear. Two fingers teased your entrance, circling it and dipping his fingertips in to dance around lightly. The slow torture was enough for you to be letting out a quiet plea for more.

They shoved in, stretching you out on his fingers. Your balance almost gone if it weren’t for his arms holding you up. He quickly started to pulse around, tracing inside your slick heat untill the moans withered out to silent pants and your hands gripped his arms almost to tight.

Your eyes clamped shut as a wash of pleasure rolled through you, your walls squeezing around the intrusion while it dragged on till he slowed.

Hot kisses were placed over your neck and shoulder while your breathing was slowing, trying to gasp through the humid air. He was speaking praises in your ear, how good you were cumming around his fingers, letting him bring you there.

His hold released from you, quickly turning off the tap and grabbing for the white fluffy towel to dry you off and haul you out of the shower.

Before you could get a word out he was pushing you backwards out of the bathroom, straight back into the bed. No words needed to be spoken anyway. It was at the point where he just wanted you to feel what he could give you. Feel his love for you, outside of spoken words but through his actions and intentions.

His love ment pushing you to bliss 3 more times with a slow and deep rhythm that had you clawing from the sheets, pillows, to him arms in attempt to ground you from his onslaught. With tears peddling against your will when he thrust into you so deep and hard when you hit your last high, eyes almost blacking out for your overexertion and voice straining from an uncontrolled vocal response. The light headed dizzy feeling you get when he finally blows a load deep inside you after rutting against you for his high when he knew you could take no more. Proclaiming his promises against your neck while burying himself in you, that you knew deep down were not just from a sex high.

His fatigue ridden body laid tilting across you, trying not to crush but muscles shaking in place, refusing to cooperate enough to move farther away.

When you finally came to, almost clear headed enough to fully form a sentence, meaning your muscles lost the strained twitch and your eyes could open enough to focus on surroundings, you found him with a slower breathing pattern than your own, admiring you as if he hadn’t just done so for the past hour.

He brushed away tear marks and messy hair from your skin while you sported red swollen lips, blown out eyes, and deep red marks across your breasts to compliment your skin, courtesy of his attempt at showing affection and appreciation. The sight was a treat for his own to view, but was nothing compared the to the fucked out leaking mess he left you with on your bottom half.

You watched with lost eyes, not enough energy to stop him as his fingers gently ran up your mess, cleaning, gently pressing his seed filled fingers in. Your pelvis shook at the intrusion even though you were almost numb to his touch. The thought of his actions was enough to kick start your belonging underneath his bearing weight.

He pulled away, sensing your wariness, to treat your new marks across your chest to a soothing aftermath. Your arms gaining strength to redirect his lips again, timidly to your own. A soft press of his kiss was meticulous to avoid any more torments of your skin.

“All mine Princess.” A careful watched teetered over your expression, touch ghosting over your jaw as you nodded and rasped an ‘I love you,’ that was returned before you could even finish speaking the familiar the words.  

“Don’t move baby, I’ll be right back.” He pulled from your weak hold and came back a minute later with boxers, he put use to a washcloth, and gifted you a clean t-shirt of his that you gladly slipped over your shoulders. You immediately nested through the blankets curling into his arm as a pillow.

“Aren’t you gonna play with my hair?” You asked, closing your eyes.

“Whatever you want.”

Taglist: @keithseabrook27 @odinson-barnes@jonsnowisthesexiestbastard@weekendswithnewtmas@innerpaperexpertcloud@toomanyflowerboys @thefashioncomplex@basmaraafat@imaginationintowords@taketimeandappreciate@superheroesaremytea @vampiregirl1797@ynm1505 @danathewitchywoman @aestheticallynon @thorfanficwriter @disaster-rose @cap-just-said-language @xmarveled

[honeylikewords]

Do it. You know you want to. You know you want to make headcanons about this man. This man played by Oscar Isaac. This man played by Oscar Isaac who is made out of cake and dreams. This man played by Oscar Isaac who is made out of cake and dreams and who, despite being the main protagonist, has a whole canvas of life to paint a story for. *i place a paintbrush into your hands and curl your fingers around it* Paint is a portrait, Master of the Arts. ;)

Don’t tease!

But, I suppose I must... for I love Santi deeply and I want to tell his story! So, here I go! 

Despite being a very handsome man and his teammates frequently making comments about his informant being “attractive women” and calling said informants “his girlfriends”, Santiago has never actually slept with or wooed any of his informants. He treats them exactly the same way he would treat a male informant; with sympathy, kindness, and firmness when necessary. He doesn’t believe in using sexuality as coercion, especially against women. It makes him feel gross, uncomfortable, and disgusted to imagine doing that; he considers it a form of predation and would never behave like that.

Santi also loves working with kids and teenagers. He’s very sensitive to the needs of children and always treats them in a friendly, almost fraternal or fatherly manner, and wants to have kids of his own, one day. Once out of the forces, he takes a job working with kids, either as a social services worker or a teacher in some variety, possibly a counselor (as I’m discussing with @regrettablewritings ). He’s very fond of kids and they’re often very fond of him; he’s playful, fun, and empathetic. 

Santi loves chocolate, especially chocolate that’s a little bitter or has some spice in it, like chiles. He’s not super picky about his chocolates, but when his sweetheart surprises him with a whole selection of dark, artisan chocolates, he’s over the moon, kissing her cheeks and cooing about how kind of her it is to give him something this rich! He offers to share with her (he’s fond of sharing, he finds it very intimate, and he’s not a very selfish man by nature), and if she agrees, he’ll enjoy feeding her bites of the chocolates and taking some himself, asking her what she thinks with every bite.

Growing up, Santi loved his parents. His father was very supportive of him, if a little harsh sometimes, and his mother was the kindest woman he ever met. His father was Mexican-American, and his mother a Columbian immigrant to the U.S., and while never especially rich, they were happy and loved each other very much. Both parents were very influential in forming Santiago to be the compassionate, intelligent man he is today. Despite both of them passing when he was relatively young, he remembers them very fondly and keeps their memories alive in the work he does for other people.

Santi is great at soccer. He’s very light on his feet, fast, and playful, and despite his knees having a bit of trouble, he still loves to have a good game every now and then with the local kids or with his friends. He watches big games on T.V. every now and then and has favorite teams, even owning a few jerseys himself. 

Around the house, Santi tends to wear pretty relaxed clothes. Jeans if he’s going out, a button-up over a t-shirt, things like that, but if he’s just at home, it’s exercise shorts and a t-shirt. Or boxers and a t-shirt. Or boxers and an old soccer jersey. He’s not picky. It just has to breathe and be comfy for him.

Santi sleeps in just his undies, or nude, if he can manage it. I’m sorry.

On that note, Santi also likes hot weather but with the air conditioning cranked to max. He’s pretty used to the heat and finds it kinda relaxing. If the weather is cold or snowy, he gets put off and cranky. He HATES being cold, but doesn’t mind the chilly feeling one gets from going from sweating to icy air conditioning blast. He finds that stimulating, but finds the regular cold groggy and gross. It makes him super grumpy if he gets snowed in.

Not to do That Dumb Fanfic Trope(TM) but he also regularly switches between Spanish and English, especially in the company of people who do speak Spanish. He prefers Spanish to English if he’s with people who also speak Spanish, but doesn’t mind using English if the people around can’t keep up or don’t know Spanish as well. He also knows some amount of Portuguese, but uses it less often.

Santiago does, actually, want to get married and have a family. He’s a little shy about it with his team, but when Fish got married and settled down with babies, Santiago was secretly jealous. He told himself he wasn’t, but then he’d lay awake in bed during those rainy Columbian nights, staring at the ceiling fan, thinking about what it would be like to have a soft little lady here in bed beside him (though he imagined the bed somewhere back in the U.S., maybe Florida), their baby either in the room over or still in her tummy. He imagined being retired, working somewhere he could help people, wearing a gold band around his finger, introducing people to “Mrs. Garcia”, holding his baby in his arms. He’d roll over and go to sleep, pretending that wasn’t what he’d spent the last hour daydreaming over, but every time he’d see a father cheering in the crowds at a son’s soccer game or a mother outside a shop kissing her baby’s cheek, his stomach would knot and he’d get that voice in his head saying “When’ll it be our turn?”

Santi sometimes fidgets with the necklace he wears, especially when he’s reading. He winds it around his fingers or taps the charm at the end of it to his lips, humming a little. When the clasp glides over the ridge of cartilage at the back of his neck, brushing his scar, he’ll shiver and note the sensation. Though he no longer feels the scar, he’s still aware of it, and the area surrounding it is sensitive to him because of that awareness.

In a similar vein, he likes when his sweetheart lays him on his stomach and kisses his bare back, especially following the white-pink line down his neck and spine, the scar that glows against his gold-tan skin. He gets happy little shivers whenever she does that.

Santi doesn’t watch much T.V. and prefers music as background noise. That being said, he can’t sleep if things are too quiet, so he always has something running, especially when he moves back to the U.S. and gets an apartment in a quiet, normal neighborhood. Everything’s so... calm. And silent. It makes him tense. So he plays the T.V., radio, or music at all times, even as he’s sleeping. When he goes to sleep, he sometimes turns the T.V. on to some boring show he doesn’t care about and calmly falls asleep to the familiar sounds of bickering voices and cars.

On that note, Santi loves Metallica. He loves all the big 80s rock bands, especially metal ones, but Metallica is his favorite. 80s music, generally, is something he enjoys, though, so he’s happy to jam to anything with a strong bassline and some good ol’-fashioned synth.

Despite loving and being comfortable in the heat, Santi hates sweating and feeling stinky, so he bathes religiously. He’s very particular about his grooming, keeping himself clean-shaved, his hair handsomely done, his skin well-washed, exfoliated, moisturized, and SPF’d. It’s not that he’s vain, but rather that he’s meticulous and cleanly, and he likes to take these moments to have some quiet self-care. He’s always so busy and lived a very hard and harsh life, so taking the time to zone out and just clean himself up feels good. Dude’s not ashamed to pop on a face mask and clear his pores out. It’s self-love, baby. Even veterans can do it. Plus, everyone should wear SPF every single day, and Santi is very firm about that! Especially in intense climates like Colombia!

Santi gets bored at the movie theatre often. He finds movies largely disinteresting, and if his partner wants to go see a movie, he’ll just sit there the whole time rubbing up on her, touching her arms, stroking her face, kissing her hands, massaging her thighs. It’s not that he’s trying to Get It On in the theatre, just rather that he’s bored and he loves her, and it’s nice and dark and quiet so he can just revel in the sensation of touch, watching how her skin reflects the light of the screen. Sometimes, he doesn’t even see the movie at all, not one second of it, his focus so solely on her. He doesn’t mind; she looked so pretty all engrossed in the movie, and with her head tilted like that, he had good access to her neck to leave kisses and little bites here and there. Very enjoyable, ten stars out of ten.

Santiago has the best relationship with Fish, then with William, then with Tom, and then Benny, in that order. Fish is his closest and oldest friend-- they knew each other as young men in high school and enlisted together-- and met William very early on, bonding the most with those two out of everyone. While all of the brothers of his team are very dear to him, he sees Fish and William the most regularly, and values their input on his life the most. 

Santi is a good dancer, but never shows it off except at home, listening to his records with his beloved. There, he’ll shake his hips and snap along, shimmying to the tunes like there’s no tomorrow, swaying with his lady love. It’s adorable.

Santi’s necklace was previously his mother’s, and he can’t bear to not wear it. It upsets him not to have it on, and if he thinks he’s lost it, he’ll start having a panic attack. Luckily, he’s never lost it, and it’s made it through hell and back with him. He hopes one day to pass it on to his child, too.

Never in his life would Santiago ever have a social media account. Texting? Sure, fine, he can do that. But posting stuff? Personal stuff? Pictures of himself or others? No way! He’s very private and secretive, despite what others may think. He’s not one to keep up with other people’s lives, either; if he wanted to know, he’d ask them, call them up, text them. So he’s off the grid, internet-wise, and plans to stay that way.

Santi’s hair started greying very early. His first greys showed up when he was about 20, and now he’s very salt-and-peppered. For a while, he tried dyeing his hair, but found it too finicky and stressful. Besides, he grew into liking his looks, and maintains a very youthful appearance even with the greys. And, lord knows, the grey is pretty darn sexy, so he keeps it, now. Especially after his sweetheart spent a long night kissing him and telling him how gorgeous all those silver streaks are. “Like comet-light,” she giggled, kissing his cupid’s bow. “I mean, I can’t believe how stunning you are...” “Right back at you, darling,” he murmured, lips to hers.

Santi also loves getting massages. His poor back and legs ache all the time, and his neck is so sore, so when his sweetie gives him that good, deep, untensing massage, her thumbs really digging in and undoing all his knots, cracking those tired joints, he lets out happy hums and sighs. “Oh, that’s the ticket,” he’ll purr, sometimes complimenting her in Spanish and cooing about how relaxed he feels.

On a different note, Santi is always the one who drives. He hates being in the passenger seat. He’s a terrible backseat driver and actually gets stressed out not being in control of moving vehicles. It’s a vet thing he doesn’t like talking about too much, but he feels like he has to be behind the wheel in order to keep everyone safe. 

Santi likes being the big spoon a lot, but doesn’t mind being the little one. He’d prefer to be the big one, but if he’s feeling sensitive or needy, he’ll curl up in his lover’s arms and feel safe and ensconced, wrapped in her love and protection. She’s not gonna leave. She’s there for him. And he’s happy as can be!

Okay, this got... longer than I anticipated. But my heart is full of love and I cannot control myself!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

#1yrago My RSS feeds from a decade ago, a snapshot of gadget blogging when that was a thing

Rob Beschizza:

I chanced upon an ancient backup of my RSS feed subscriptions, a cold hard stone of data from my time at Wired in the mid-2000s. The last-modified date on the file is December 2007. I wiped my feeds upon coming to Boing Boing thenabouts: a fresh start and a new perspective.

What I found, over 212 mostly-defunct sites, is a time capsule of web culture from a bygone age—albeit one tailored to the professional purpose of cranking out blog posts about consumer electronics a decade ago. It's not a picture of a wonderful time before all the horrors of Facebook and Twitter set in. This place is not a place of honor. No highly-esteemed deed is commemorated here. But perhaps some of you might like a quick tour, all the same.

The "Main" folder, which contains 30 feeds, was the stuff I actually wanted (or needed) to read. This set would morph over time. I reckon it's easy to spot 2007's passing obsessions from the enduring interests.

↬ Arts and Letters Daily: a minimalist blog of links about smartypants subjects, a Drudge for those days when I sensed a third digit dimly glowing in my IQ. But for the death of founder Denis Dutton, it's exactly the same as it was in 2007! New items daily, but the RSS feed's dead.

↬ Boing Boing. Still around, I hear.

↬ Brass Goggles. A dead feed for a defunct steampunk blog (the last post was in 2013) though the forums seem well-stocked with new postings.

↬ The Consumerist. Dead feed, dead site. Founded in 2005 by Joel Johnson at Gawker, it was sold to Consumer Reports a few years later, lost its edge there, and was finally shuttered (or summarily executed) just a few weeks ago.

↬ Bibliodyssey. Quiescent. Updated until 2015 with wonderful public-domain book art scans and commentary. A twitter account and tumblr rolled on until just last year. There is a book to remember it by should the bits rot.

↬ jwz. Jamie Zawinski's startling and often hilariously bleak reflections on culture, the internet and working at Netscape during the dotcom boom. This was probably the first blog that led me to visit twice, to see if there was more. And there still is, almost daily.

↬ Proceedings of the Athanasius Kircher Society. Curios and weirdness emerging from the dust and foul fog of old books, forbidden history and the more speculative reaches of science. So dead the domain is squatted. Creator Josh Foer moved on to Atlas Obscura.

↬ The Tweney Review. Personal blog of my last supervisor at Wired, Dylan Tweney, now a communications executive. It's still going strong!

↬ Strange Maps. Dead feed, dead site, though it's still going as a category at Big Think. Similar projects proliferate now on social media; this was the wonderful original. There was a book.

↬ BLDGBLOG. Architecture blog, posting since 2004 with recent if rarer updates. A fine example of tasteful web brutalism, but I'm no longer a big fan of cement boxes and minimalism with a price tag.

↬ Dethroner. A men's self-care and fashion blog, founded by Joel Johnson, of the tweedy kind that became wildly and effortlessly successful not long after he gave up on it.

↬ MocoLoco. This long-running design blog morphed visually into a magazine in 2015. I have no idea why I liked it then, but indie photoblogs' golden age ended long ago and it's good to see some are thriving.

↬ SciFi Scanner. Long-dead AMC channel blog, very likely the work of one or two editors and likely lost to tidal corporate forces rather than any specific failure or event.

↬ Cult of Mac. Apple news site from another Wired News colleague of mine, Leander Kahney, and surely one of the longest-running at this point. Charlie Sorrel, who I hired at Wired to help me write the Gadget blog, still pens articles there.

↬ Ectoplasmosis. After Wired canned its bizarre, brilliant and unacceptably weird Table of Malcontents blog, its editor John Brownlee (who later joined Joel and I in editing Boing Boing Gadgets) and contributor Eliza Gauger founded Ectoplasmosis: the same thing but with no hysterical calls from Conde Nast wondering what the fuck is going on. It was glorious, too: a high-point of baroque indie blogging in the age before Facebook (and I made the original site design). Both editors later moved onto other projects (Magenta, Problem Glyphs); Gauger maintains the site's archives at tumblr. It was last updated in 2014.

↬ Penny Arcade. Then a webcomic; now a webcomic and a media and events empire.

↬ Paul Boutin. While working at Wired News, I'd heard a rumor that he was my supervisor. But I never spoke to him and only ever received a couple of odd emails, so I just got on with the job until Tweney was hired. His site and its feed are long-dead.

↬ Yanko Design. Classic blockquote chum for gadget bloggers.

↬ City Home News. A offbeat Pittburgh News blog, still online but lying fallow since 2009.

↬ Watchismo. Once a key site for wristwatch fans, Watchismo was folded into watches.com a few years ago. A couple of things were posted to the feed in 2017, but its time has obviously passed.

↬ Gizmodo. Much has changed, but it's still one of the best tech blogs.

↬ Engadget. Much has changed, but it's still one of the best tech blogs.

↬ Boing Boing Gadgets. Site's dead, though the feed is technically live as it redirects to our "gadgets" tag. Thousands of URLs there succumbed to bit-rot at some point, but we have plans to merge its database into Boing Boing's and revive them.

↬ Gear Factor. This was the gadget review column at Wired Magazine, separate from the gadget blog I edited because of the longtime corporate divorce between Wired's print and online divisions. This separation had just been resolved at the time I began working there, and the two "sides" -- literally facing offices in the same building -- were slowly being integrated. The feed's dead, but with an obvious successor, Gear.

↬ The Secret Diary of Steve Jobs. Required reading at the time, and very much a thing of its time. Now vaguely repulsive.

↬ i09. This brilliant sci-fi and culture blog deserved more than to end up a tag at Gizmodo.

↬ Science Daily: bland but exhaustive torrent of research news, still cranking along.

The "Essentials" Folder was material I wanted to stay on top of, but with work clearly in mind: the background material for systematically belching out content at a particular point in 2007.

↬ Still alive are The Register, Slashdot, Ars Technica, UMPC Portal (the tiny laptop beat!), PC Watch, Techblog, TechCrunch, UberGizmo, Coolest Gadgets, EFF Breaking News, Retro Thing, CNET Reviews, New Scientist, CNET Crave, and MAKE Magazine.

↬ Dead or quiescent: GigaOm (at least for news), Digg/Apple, Akihabara News, Tokyomango, Inside Comcast, Linux Devices (Update: reincarnated at linuxgizmos.com), and Uneasy Silence.

Of the 23 feeds in the "press releases" folder, 17 are dead. Most of the RSS no-shows are for companies like AMD and Intel, however, who surely still offer feeds at new addresses. Feeds for Palm, Nokia and pre-Dell Alienware are genuine dodos. These were interesting enough companies, 10 years ago.

PR Newswire functions as a veneering service so anyone can pretend to have a big PR department, but it is (was?) also legitimately used by the big players as a platform so I monitored the feeds there. They're still populated, but duplicate one another, and it's all complete garbage now. (It was mostly garbage then.)

My "Gadgets and Tech" folder contained the army of late-2000s blogs capitalizing on the success of Gizmodo, Boing Boing, TechCrunch, et al. Back in the day, these were mostly one (or two) young white men furiously extruding commentary on (or snarky rewrites of) press releases, with lots of duplication and an inchoate but seriously-honored unspoken language of mutual respect and first-mover credit. Those sites that survived oftentimes moved to listicles and such: notionally superior and more original content and certainly more sharable on Facebook, but unreadably boring. However, a few old-timey gadget bloggers are still cranking 'em out' in web 1.5 style. And a few were so specialized they actually had readers who loved them.

Still alive: DailyTech, technabob, CdrInfo.com, EverythingUSB, Extremetech, GearFuse, Gizmag, Gizmodiva, Hacked Gadgets, How to Spot A Psychopath/Dans' Data, MobileBurn, NewLaunches, OhGizmo!, ShinyShiny, Stuff.tv, TechDigest, TechDirt, Boy Genius Report, The Red Ferret Journal, Trusted Reviews, Xataca, DigiTimes, MedGadget, Geekologie, Tom's Hardware, Trendhunter, Japan Today, Digital Trends, All About Symbian (Yes, Symbian!), textually, cellular-news, TreeHugger, dezeen.

Dead: jkkmobile.com, Business Week Online, About PC (why), Afrigadget (unique blog about inventors in Africa, still active on FaceBook), DefenseTech, FosFor (died 2013), Gearlog, Mobile-Review.com (but apparently reborn as a Russian language tech blog!), Robot's Dreams, The Gadgets Weblog, Wireless Watch Japan, Accelerating Future, Techopolis, Mobile Magazine, eHome Upgrade, camcorderinfo.com (Update: it became http://Reviewed.com), Digital Home Thoughts (farewell), WiFi Network News (farewell), Salon: Machinist, Near Future Lab, BotJunkie (twitter), and CNN Gizmos.

I followed 18 categories at Free Patents Online, and the site's still alive, though the RSS feeds haven't had any new items since 2016.

In the "news" folder, my picks were fairly standard stuff: BBC, CNET, digg/technology, PC World, Reuters, International Herald Tribune, and a bunch of Yahoo News feeds. The Digg feed's dead; they died and were reborn.

The "Wired" feed folder comprised all the Wired News blogs of the mid-2000s. All are dead. 27B Stroke 6, Autopia, Danger Room, Epicenter, Gadget Lab, Game|Life, Geekdad, Listening Post, Monkey Bites, Table of Malcontents, Underwire, Wired Science.

These were each basically one writer or two and were generally folded into the established mazagine-side arrangements as the Age of Everyone Emulating Gawker came to an end. The feed for former EIC Chris Anderson's personal blog survives, but hasn't been updated since his era. Still going strong is Bruce Sterling's Beyond the Beyond, albeit rigged as a CMS tag rather than a bona fide site of its own.

Still alive from my 2007 "Science" folder are Bad Astronomy (Phil Plait), Bad Science (Ben Goldacre), Pharyngula (PZ Myers) New Urban Legends, NASA Breaking News, and The Panda's Thumb.

Finally, there's a dedicated "iPhone" folder. This was not just the hottest toy of 2007. It was all that was holy in consumer electronics for half a decade. Gadget blogging never really had a golden age, but the iPhone ended any pretense that there were numerous horses in a race of equal potential. Apple won.

Still alive are 9 to 5 Mac, MacRumors, MacSlash, AppleInsider and Daring Fireball. Dead are TUAW, iPhoneCentral, and the iPhone Dev Wiki.

Of all the sites listed here, I couldn't now be paid but to read a few. So long, 2007.

https://boingboing.net/2017/12/29/my-rss-feeds-from-a-decade-ago.html

[faithers10911]

Love Triangle (Part 1/??)

Summary: Loosely based off the song Love Triangle by RaeLynn, a story of how your daughter is stuck in the middle of you and Bucky’s torn relationship and how she is desperate to live in a happy family. 

Warnings: Angst, swearing, broken family

Word Count: 1,476

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter

A/N: This will be my first series here, and I really hope I can keep it going and that you guys like it.  This is going to be a roller coaster of emotions and I really enjoy writing this.  So with that being said I’ll try to post a new part as often as I can crank them out, and as always I love feedback and thanks for reading!

“Sweetheart! Come on get your stuff together your dad will be here soon!” You lean against the stairway rails and yell up to your daughter.  You hear the little pitter patter of her feet as she rushes around her room and then comes down the steps with a smile on her face.  

That little girl was everything to you, your entire world revolved around her.  From pancake breakfasts to kisses goodnight, she had you wrapped around her finger there was no denying that.  

Sometimes you wonder what she thinks of all this.  It couldn’t be easy for her to not see her dad for two weeks at a time.  To only be with him for the weekend, but that’s how things ended up after you got divorced.  One of you got to be with her all the time and one of you got two weekends a month.  

“Momma, do you hate daddy?” Emma’s sweet little voice asked you a question that you hadn’t really prepared to answer.  Of course you didn’t hate him, but it was more complicated to explain to a five year old.

“No, of course I don’t hate daddy sweetheart.”

“Then why can’t you look at him whenever he comes to pick me up?” She climbs up onto the stool by the kitchen island.

You take a deep breath and run your hand over her long brown hair.  “That’s kind of complicated sweetie, I’ll explain when you’re older.”

“I wish you loved each other like Tommy’s mom and dad.” She looks sadly into her cereal and moves her spoon around.

“I’m sorry sweetheart.” You frown and run your hand down her back gently.  “Mommy and daddy just didn’t work out the way Uncle Steve and Aunt Peggy did.”

“It’s okay mommy, I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“Don’t worry about me baby girl, you could never make me sad.” You promise her.

You hear the crunch of your gravel driveway as his car makes its way towards your house.  You grab all of Emma’s things and head to the front porch as she excitedly bounds out the door.  He parks his car and as soon as he is out and shutting the door, Emma takes off running.  “Daddy!”

He catches her as she jumps into his arms. “There’s my girl.” He hugs her tightly to him.

You watch them and smile a little as you sip your coffee.  He is good to her, you can’t deny that.  But there is always this worry in the back of your mind that he’ll take her away from you.  

“Come on go get your stuff, I have a great weekend planned and we don’t want to waste any time.” Bucky kisses Emma on the forehead and sends her back over to you.  He looks up towards you and the house and you quickly look down at Emma’s bags, avoiding his eyes.  

You crouch down and hand Emma her teddy bear along with her duffle bag.  “Be good for daddy sweetheart, I’ll see you Sunday night.” You pull her tightly into your arms and hold her close.  

“I love you mommy.” She whispers to you and takes her things as she runs back to her dad.

You smile and watch her climb into the backseat of his cherry red convertible Camaro.  He wasn’t always the best at keeping a job, or doing well for himself back in the day, but now Bucky Barnes was a completely different man.  She yells for you as they drive away, waving at you frantically as they disappear down the driveway.  You head back inside and sigh as you sit down at the dining room table.  Whenever Bucky picks Emma up you start to think to much, to try to get your mind off it you call Steve.

“Hey sis, what’s up?”

“Bucky just picked up Ems.” You say.

“And you’re thinking too much again?” Steve asks you, he knows you too well sometimes.  “Why don’t you come over?”

“Okay, thanks Steve.” You hang up the phone.

Bucky’s POV

As I drive down Y/N’s driveway, my whole world in the backseat, I look at her and wonder what I did in the world to deserve such a beautiful daughter when the same world tore apart my relationship with her mother.  

“What do we get to do today daddy!?” Emma yells from the back, her little figure bouncing up and down on the seat.  

I laugh as I watch her in the rear view mirror looking like a complete angel.  “Well that my sweet little girl is a secret.”

“Aw come on daddy! Please, please can you tell me?!”

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll tell you, but only if you can count to 50.” I know this is easy for her, but I can’t bear to see my little girl sad, so I make her an easy deal.

She easily counts from one to fifty and gives me a big grin.  “Now tell me!”

“Alright sweetheart, I thought first we’d grab some breakfast, then head to the zoo and maybe see a movie, how’s that sound?”

“Amazing!” She squeals.  

We head to a little diner not far from downtown.  After we order our food I give my little girl a smile.  “How’s your school going?”

“It’s good, pretty easy stuff, I think I’m too smart for kindergarten daddy.”

I laugh and give her a smile.  “That’s my girl.” I look down at my hands and then back up to her before I ask my next question, “How’s your mom?”

“She’s good.” Emma says while coloring on the paper the waitress gave her.  “She works a lot.” She shrugs.  

“Is everything okay?” I ask her.  

She shrugs again, seeming to get quiet all the sudden.  “I wish that you and mommy loved each other.”

Her words break my heart.  I hate seeing her so upset, but I don’t know what to say to her.  Things weren’t how they used to be with Y/N, they were far from how they were when we were together and that was mostly my fault.  Or at least I blamed myself for losing her.  “I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know you felt this way.”

“I went over to Tommy’s house and I saw the way that Uncle Steve looks at Aunt Peggy and I wish you looked at mommy that way.”

“I used to look at mommy that way, things changed.” I shake my head.  “I’m sorry Emma.”

Regular POV

“Thanks for letting me come over Steve.” You say to him as you sit down at their table.  

“No problem Y/N, what’s on your mind?” Steve asks you.  

“I don’t know, I still can’t look at him, it’s been four years Steve, and I can’t even look him in the eyes.” You shake your head.  “He’s her dad, I should be able to at least talk to him, but something is just weird in the air between us, something in my chest is just holding me back.”

Steve sighs.  “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“I think that you have that feeling because you’re scared that maybe if you look at him you might realize that you still have feelings for him.”

His words take you by surprise and cause your head to snap up to look at him.  “You’re kidding right?”

“No Y/N I’m not, that pain in your chest when you see him drive off with her, that hesitation to fucking talk to the guy, that’s fear.  I know what happened between you, I felt both of your pain, you’re my sister and he’s my best friend.  I know how in love you used to be with him.  I don’t think it ever fully went away and you’re afraid that if you let yourself be normal with him, things will get weird.  Because sis, even if it’s deep down you still love Bucky.”

You swallow hard, not sure how to respond.

“I understand that you don’t want things to get complicated because of Emma, you don’t want to hurt her if things don’t work out, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

You shake your head.  “How things ended Steve, I don’t think things are ever going to work out the way that Emma wants.  It’s just too hard.”

“You need a break, why don’t you bring Emma over here Monday night for a playdate with Tommy and me and you can go to a movie or something, get your mind off things, I’m sure Peggy won’t mind.”

You nod.  “I’d like that.” Letting out a deep breath you feel relief for a moment, but that feeling in your chest still lurks.  

“Good, now go home, get some rest and just don’t think about him.”

If only it were that easy.

[letsprayitwritesitself]

groundhog dave part 5 - morning four

Cautious optimism characterised Davey’s fourth February 2nd. It was a damn shame that he had woken up in the suffocating perfumed hotel room, drowning in an overstuffed floral duvet, to the sounds of an aggressively beeping alarm clock, considering how the night before he had fallen asleep in Spot’s arms, face nuzzled into neck, spaced out and high - but it signalled something. It meant that he was right, and that everything else was wrong.

He stared at the ceiling and tried to debate his next steps. He had to think of this logically, particularly if he was going to try and make real sense of this... situation. 

First things first. Test the waters. Get some coffee.

He sat up and pushed the duvet aside, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His room, chilly during the day thanks to the antiquated windows allowing breeze to sliver in, somehow turned into a microwave in the mornings, radiators blasting through and cranking his body heat up to eleven. He had kicked off his lounge pants in the night and they sat in a sad pile at the foot of the bed. He sat in a t-shirt and briefs, staring down at the carpet. 

Heads turned in the dining room when Davey entered wearing just that.

They turned, however in that very understated and totally silent way that meant that while nothing would be said when he was in the room, as soon as he left the conversation would explode in a muted murmur over why on earth that producer fellow thought it was appropriate to show up without getting dressed. Nerves twisted tight in Davey’s stomach as he walked in, nodded good morning at Mrs. Bloom, and headed over to the coffee station. It was painfully awkward, almost crippling, and he fought hard against the impulse to a) run away and b) apologise, instead standing tall, pouring himself a big cup of filter coffee and picking up two croissants. He held one between his teeth and carried the other with the cup of coffee, back up to his room. Mrs. Bloom, eyes trained on the pale expanse of thigh suddenly presented to her, cleared her throat and started to speak.

‘Mr. Jacobs, I don’t know how you do it in the city -’

He breezed past her, wincing to himself at the rudeness. That didn’t feel good, he noted to himself. Whatever he did today, he couldn’t be an asshole for no reason. 

Back in his room he sat at the diminutive desk and pulled out his laptop. One five minute dither over how to title the document (”Plans For Weird Repetitive Day” “Day of No Consequences Plans” “What the Fuck is Fucking Happening”) later and he started to consider what he could do now he was faced with that lack of consequences. 

Smoke freely. It was a stupid thing he had picked up in college - when term papers and reading had stacked up alongside his shift work and grad job applications, he had found that the only respite was those snatches of five or so minutes where he was forced outside. You could eat, drink, socialise, whatever, while studying in the library, but you couldn’t smoke, and he’d found that doing it was the one way he got real breaks. It was a shocking habit, he knew, and dumb as hell, which was why he had tried his best to stop since graduation, but if he ever found himself stressed, or scared, or sad (or frustrated, or drunk, or around other smokers) then it was one he dipped back into, often with a low surge of worry in his stomach that he ignored. Now, however? His reliable lack of hangover suggested that he could put whatever he wanted into his body and the next day it would be gone.

On to the next thing. Eat whatever I want. Again, his life as a producer in Philly wasn’t exactly conducive to a healthy lifestyle, but he tried. Tried to grab vegetables with his bags of pasta and pizza rolls, and tried to drink water instead of just coffee. But now he didn’t have to worry. If this was going how he thought it was he wouldn’t get fat, or diabetes, or have all his teeth fall out.

Treat yo self. A tight budget meant that he had to know where every last penny in his bank went or was going, but surely if he spent it it would come back, would reset in a way? It was the beginning of the month, that sweet spot between pay day and rent day, when he could pretend the money in his account was all for him - he could blow it all. And yeah, the day would start again and anything he bought would be gone, but maybe even the sensation of buying stuff, being so recklessly generous with himself, would be enough.

He stared at the word doc, quizzical. His list so far was just stuff he did anyway, but stuff he wanted to be able to do without the guilt. He needed to step it up. What was he actually afraid to do?

Flirt with people. He felt dumb even typing that, god, it looked adolescent and reductive blinking in front of him, but it needed to be stated. Twenty-six, moderately successful (if that wasn’t too generous a term), lonely as hell. He should be flirting with everyone he met. But putting himself out there was scary. Was scary. 

Tell people the truth. Each word appeared on his monitor painstakingly. He didn’t need to be an asshole, but what if he didn’t hide how he felt? Like if something seriously made him unhappy or uncomfortable - instead of just taking it, say. Or even in a positive light - usually he wouldn’t like to give someone like Jack the satisfaction of a compliment, but, hell. Honesty for everyone. Even if it did get erased overnight, at least it would show him the short term consequences of speaking up.

Ask people for the truth. Oh boy. Being real with people had to be a two way street, right? Sure, it wasn’t socially acceptable to assume that people were always telling white lies, and thus ask for the real truth, and most people probably wouldn’t want to be asked or answer - but he could press for answers if he knew that the day was going to disappear. Then he would know what people thought of him, he would have a kind of power, and he could start to do the day better. He could hack his life!

He tipped the last gulp of coffee down his throat and stood up. There was a glimmer of temptation to head down to the square as he was, underwear and t-shirt, but he wasn’t quite prepared to risk hypothermia, even if he would probably wake up fine the next day.

There was a tiny shred of doubt that he ignored as he stood in line at the diner on his way to the broadcast. He knew that the day had repeated over and over and over, but who was to say that it was going to happen again? What if today was today? And tomorrow came, and he had blown his pay check, said awkward stuff to people, smoked like a chimney and died of a sugar overdose? 

He tried to analyse his resistance to this doubt... Maybe he could (should?) do fun stuff despite the risk. Because the doubt made him want to do the day as he had the first time, moody, mellow, waiting for it to be over - but was that then just his life? How tragic was it, if that was his normal? Maybe he could do this stuff even knowing it might go wrong. Maybe that was why this was happening.

‘Morning... sunshine?’ Jack’s eyes widened as Davey appeared bearing a tray of takeout coffee and breakfast (three dollars each for coffee and five each for food, by no means an extortionate amount but still an expense he couldn’t ordinarily justify.)

‘Morning guys!’ He offered them the tray. ‘There’s donuts too, Crutchie, in the - there.’ He smiled back at Crutchie who nodded gratefully if slightly confusedly, and leaned forward to grasp the paper bag tucked under Davey’s arm.

‘Thanks Davey, what’s the occasion?’ Jack popped the top off his cup and inhaled the warm scent. 

‘You have to ask?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re celebrating Groundhog Day,’ He eyed Davey with a suspicion that was part light-hearted and part, well, earnest.

‘Why not?’ 

‘I just... Hey, I’m not complaining, of course, specially not if there’s food involved! But you seemed so... blech about it before, right?’

‘I’ve been infected with the spirit of the season!’ Still an expression of confusion stared back. Davey took a deep breath in. Tell people the truth. ‘Look. I know I was an asshole yesterday. I could have just sucked it up and had a positive attitude about this but I sulked like a little kid. So this is me saying, y’know... Well done for coming to Buttfuck PA, now let’s do a killer broadcast, alright?’ 

Jack stared at him for a few seconds, a look of reticent fondness appearing on his face, and Davey looked back, tense, nervous that Jack was going to shoot him down, or see through him. Eventually Jack’s expression broke into a grin and he lifted his cup in a mock toast. ‘Alright!’ 

It felt kind of good to be in as high spirits as Jack and Crutchie were, even if he was buoyed by a completely alien reason. The bandstand music was only slightly torturous, the ceremony only vaguely unbearable. Jack and Crutchie didn’t need to know that Davey was only happy because of the prospect of a day crammed with unapologetic hedonism - as far as they were concerned he was actually fine with being here. 

And maybe he was, just for this day. 

He’d smoked a couple of cigarettes on his way to the square from the diner and so had lingered outside before heading in (again, he wasn’t interested in being an asshole for no reason, and smoking in the middle of a crowd was a clear asshole move.) He had peered into the square, noting that through the masses of people, if he concentrated, he could pick out Jack and Crutchie waiting for him, chatting away, cheeks red, demeanours chirpy. Jack would say something, gesture in some way, and Crutchie would fall about laughing, under his spell, something Jack would watch and then join in with, eyes crinkling, teeth bared in a frankly dazzling smile. 

Who was this guy?

They had of course had those two nights at the bar, drinking and talking the way semi-new colleagues do, but he still didn’t really know Jack Kelly any deeper than the surface. They had only really talked about work, their degrees, and Philly, still too much strangers to each other to get into the good stuff. 

Ask people for the truth. 

Crutchie obviously adored him, along with everyone at the station (and apparently a handful of people in the square who Davey saw approach Jack to engage in what looked like flirting but of course could have just been innocent, flirtation apparently being Jack’s standard setting.) And Davey was resistant to his charms, but then, on a day with no consequences, he could actually let himself be taken in by Jack, knowing that if the weatherman did turn out to be vapid or shallow, he could revert to the previous day’s reserved disdain.

He was going to figure out Jack Kelly.

(part 6 afternoon four imminent)

[doomedandstoned]

Sand In The Blood

A Conversation With John Garcia

~By Lara Noel~

Let’s talk about your new album, “The Coyote Who Speaks in Tongues.” This album has moved me so much. I feel like I’m sitting in a living room just listening to you play. It’s so far removed from everything that you’ve done. Very touching.

Thank you for those very kind comments. I appreciate that. Lara, this record is not for everybody. I’ve gotten some comments and criticism about the different takes of "Gardenia" and "Green Machine." It’s not for everyone, but Ehren Groban and I certainly enjoyed making this record. We had a blast. Half of the fun is turning these songs from one end of the spectrum into the complete opposite. That was the really enjoyable part, but it was challenging.

A lot of journalists today have asked me, “Well, why did you do it, is it because you’re getting older?” No, it’s not about getting older, it’s more about a challenge. I just wanted to do it. There’s no long, drawn out, Jim Morrisonesque, super philosophical answer. All the minor and major imperfections in this record -- the breathing and the strings hitting the neck -- it’s not perfect on purpose. That was our plight. We wanted to do something, like exactly what you said, in your living room. That’s what we did, we sat in his living room in Palm Springs and practiced this record. When we went on tour and played some songs acoustically, we had a couple drinks on the plane from Germany back to home and said, “Why don’t we just record this thing and release it?” It was totally unexpected, and that’s exactly what we did.

It's not rocket science, it's just balance.

I love that. As an artist, you have to continually push yourself. I can only imagine how challenging it was to be able to pull off the Kyuss songs acoustically. It’s so refreshing to hear them played this way. I have to say, when I heard "Gardenia" played acoustically, it brought me to tears.

That’s very kind, too kind. Thank you so much. Again, these are cover songs. Brant Bjork wrote "Green Machine" and "Gardenia." Scott and Josh wrote "Space Cadet." I just happened to play in the band and sang the original tracks. Some journalists will ask, “Well, why did you do it?” It’s because I wanted to revisit some of these songs. I think Ehren also played a tremendous amount of respect to these songs.

I am curious as to how you came to pick the tracks for this album?

Pretty much through trial and error. Some songs worked and others didn’t. We had about maybe 17-19 songs we were planning to do. Not all of them worked, but we’re used to that. Some songs lend themselves to acoustics and some just don’t. It was as simple as sitting down in his living room, like we were talking about earlier, going through the emotions and working them out. We were planning on doing some Hermano songs. We tried them out, but they didn’t work. Ehren and I had wrote a few songs for our upcoming record: "Kylie," "Give Me 250ml," "The Hollingsworth Session," and a few other ones. You have four Kyuss songs, some live tracks, and a few new ones that were written specifically for the upcoming electric record and this acoustic record. So, essentially just trial and error and us having fun. That was the enjoyable part of working it out -- song selection, how they lend themselves to acoustics, and then how they don’t. Simple stuff. No long, drawn out, philosophical answers, sorry. Just working it out and having fun.

This is a very personal album, not what a lot of people were expecting, but I think it speaks for itself very well. As for this upcoming record, you’re going back to electric. Can you tell us any more about the project?

Ehren and I are working on the electric record and close to being done. Hopefully, it’ll be released by the end of this year or the beginning of the next. I was hoping to have everything released last year, but between work, family, kids, this and that and everyone’s schedules, it’s tough. We’re focused on the electric record and taking it one step at a time.

There are going to be new songs, like "Kylie" and "Give Me 250ml" -- the electric version and an acoustic version -- along with some new tracks. We’re not going to have any Kyuss tracks on this sophomore record. They’re going to be all original and 99.99% all songs that Ehren, the band, and I wrote together. I expect it to be harder, faster, heavier, meaner, and better than the first electric record. I’m really looking forward to it.

Lara, I still enjoy playing. I still enjoy writing. All of my spare time is devoted to it. It’s hard when you have a full time job and two kids. I love my family more than anything in the world. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a family guy. It’s tough trying to get the time to get into the studio, let alone record the thing. We’re working hard on this and hopefully it comes out beginning of next year, end of this year.

Between day jobs and family, it’s so hard. It’s remarkable that you can put this volume of work out. It’s not easy, especially as you get older. People question what you’re doing as an artist and whether it has to do anything with your age. I don’t think it has anything to with age. It’s just a progression of self.

Totally agreed, and you’re right, it is remarkable to be able to do the shit that we do: hold down a full-time job, be a father, be a husband, then trying to record on top of it, and achieve a balance. Hopefully having everything play out right, having enough steaks in the freezer, being happy with what I just got done creating with Ehren. I don’t claim to be any Jim Morrison, by any means. I just take it one day at a time.

My kid’s happiness is very important to me -- my kid’s education is extremely important to me -- as is my wife’s happiness and our overall well-being. Family life in and of itself is a very welcoming full-time job that I love to do. Trying to find that balance between, work, family, music, and keep everyone happy, including myself -- you’re right, it’s tough. It’s a remarkable balance of power that you have to be able to do and manage. Sometimes I overthink these conversations, when all it's simply that you have to be dad, be a husband, and keep yourself happy. It’s not rocket science, it’s just balance.

How do you find yourself creating that balance?

Lara, it’s a lot hard work, but you manage. It’s day-to-day life. You work hard at your day job and you want to do well at your career, you want to be a good dad, and this is just something they don’t teach you in high school. Either you’re into it or not into it. Either you’re a fucking bum and you don’t have that drive to get up and go to work and provide for your family, or you do have that drive. Again, they don’t teach you in high school how to be a dad, you either have it or you don’t. I’m fortunate enough to care about my family, care about my kids, care about their education. I’ve had a job since I was practically seven years old. I work for a living. That’s what I do. I’m not a full-time musician. As much as I’d like to be a full-time musician, I’m not. I help run an animal hospital alongside my wife in Palm Springs and we love our jobs.

Just let the song breathe.

It’s all about balance and the drive to have a good life, to just thrive, really. It’s not something I overthink. It’s who we are -- not just me, but my wife. We just keep moving and grooving, rocking and rolling. We work hard, we play hard. That’s what we do, because it’s a necessity. Everybody’s different. Everyone’s kids learn differently. We get moms and dads who say, "Well, my kid did this at this age," and so forth. That’s fine. Everyone has their own plight in life and we’re no different. It just so happens that I’m a normal dude, normal guy, with an extraordinary career -- one, being able to work with animals, and two, talking to Lara on the other side of this line about something I helped create. I’m very lucky and blessed, to be quite honest.

It’s beautiful how devoted you are to your family. When you’re on the road and doing what you’re doing, how does that affect your family life?

Lara, it’s definitely hard. When I leave, Wendy is the true hero here. She’s the one behind the scenes that keeps everything moving and grooving. When I’m gone, she has to make lunches, drop the kids off at school, and go run the animal hospital, then come home and make dinners, do the showers, and the homework. She’s got the hard job. My job is easy. That’s the balance of her and my family allowing me to do this, and it has to make sense in every way. The finances have to make sense. Emotionally, it has to make sense. Physically, it has to make sense for these old bones to hop in a van and go tour Europe for two or three weeks and have it not take a toll. I miss her and she misses me, but she handles it in spectacular fashion. She’s tough and the real hero behind the scenes. She’s tough and she’s mean. I would not want to meet her in a dark alley, because she’s really a bad ass.

You know they say that behind every good man is a good woman.

That’s true. 100% true. In my case, there’s no doubt or question that she is the real deal. I’m extremely lucky to have her, as well as the kids. The kids are very unimpressed with what I do, which is totally cool. Wendy and I never forced anything down their throats when it came to music, sports, or anything. Whatever they’re into, we nurture that. If Madison wants to listen to Taylor Swift, I crank it up. If Marshall wants to run around the block 150 times because he needs to get his wiggles out, then he’s going to run around the block 150 times. We nurture every bit of it. It’s fun being a dad. We try to enjoy life to its fullest extent because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

You have to live everyday like it’s your last, because there are no certainties in life. I firmly believe in that.

Yeah, agreed 100%. Again Lara, I’m just really lucky to even be talking to you about some of this stuff. It’s a pleasure. It’s an honor. I never used to be this way, but I’m thankful to have the opportunity to talk about something I helped create with this acoustic record, and again, I have to give credit where credit is due. If you’d be so kind as to let your listeners and readers know about Ehren Groban, because he is a force to be reckoned with. He’s a great songwriter, great musician. He’s a little bit of a wild card, but that’s why we like him. He’s a great guy and super talented. Kind of an untapped diamond in the rough that we found here in the desert. He’s a bad-ass.

How did the two of you meet?

I was introduced to him by one of my producers, a guy by the name of Harper Hug. We sat down at this little bar called Melvyn's in Palm Springs, had a beer and martini. I told him I was looking for a guitar player, and the rest is history. He’s actually a really sweet guy who will do anything for anybody, for me, and for my family. Literally, I can call him after I get off the phone with you and say, “I need some help,” and he will be here in thirty minutes. That’s the type of guy he is. He wants to work. He wants to be a musician. He wants to tour, no matter what. He's a local dude. That’s what I wanted, someone local that I could work with, not somebody in Florida or New York. I wanted someone I could work with after work. He and I will get together in his rehearsal place in Palm Springs. We’ll sit down and have a vodka cranberry, shoot the shit for two hours, then start writing. Ehren’s laid back and will shoot the breeze with the best of them. Again, I don’t think he gets enough credit for what he does for me and the whole John Garcia band. Can’t talk highly enough about him.

I'm just a normal guy with an extraordinary career.

This album that you just put out, is this the first time you two have worked together on a project?

We worked together a little bit. He helped do the first electric record and that was kind of the beginning of the relationship. This one is basically him and I working very closely with one another and a direct product of our relationship. I expect our song writing process to continue to thrive, now and in the future.

It’s very evident on this album that you put out. You can feel that energy completely. Like we you said, it’s not for everybody, and it’s not perfect, but that’s what makes it so special.

That’s right. It’s not perfect on purpose -- that was completely intentional. I could have sat in the studio for another six months and gotten rid of all the noisy picks and hum bars, all the major and minor imperfections. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t have the time to do that. I didn’t have the finances for that. We went in and -- boom -- knocked it out last summer in Palm Springs. I love it for that. I absolutely love it for that.

It’s a comforting album and, again, so personal. The acoustic deconstruction of the songs we're so used to hearing plugged-in is fascinating and beautiful. I’m curious as to whether you wanted them to sound this way originally?

Not really. I didn’t know how "Green Machine" was going to turn out. I had no idea "Gardenia" was going to turn out this way. No idea "Kylie" was going to turn out the way that it turned out. That’s the beauty about going into the studio. Intentional things you want to project and hear don’t always turn out the way you want them to. Sometimes songs that you think aren’t going to come out well end up coming out better than expected. That’s what I love about being in the studio and having the red light on, recording—go. Well, how is this going to sound?

We had three guitars, so we kept it very simple. We had a six-string steel, a twelve-string steel, and a six-string nylon, that’s it. We had some percussion in there with Greg Saenz. We had Mike Pygmie doing some bass, and an incredible keyboard player who came in and knocked it out of the park, guy by the name of Ronnie King -- a desert local, a desert legend, really. Everybody wanted to be involved in this project, everybody wanted to be there. It wasn’t like I had to force anybody or pay them and say, “Hey do me a favor and do this.” They all wanted to be a part of this project. I’m very lucky to have a crew like that. They surprise me.

No long, drawn out, philosophical anwsers. Just working it out and having fun.

To answer your question, we had our vision. The vision was: keep it simple. Do not overplay these. Let’s keep it simple and minimize everything. Pull the reigns back, including me. Don’t fill up the song with vocals. Don’t fill them up, just don’t do it. You’re going to ruin the song. Just let the song breathe. Let’s let that solo play out a long time. It’s supposed to stop here, but let’s do it one more time. Let’s let the music breathe and speak for itself. That was our plight. Ehren was a part of that. I was lucky enough to have these guys be a part of this vision that Ehren and I shared. We were lucky to have Steve Feldman work at the desk. Robbie Waldman oversees everything and is executive producer for all of this, as well as a performer. This was really cool and I had such an awesome time doing it. This past summer, my son was in there, my daughter was in there. There was a beautiful pool and Jacuzzi at the studio. Robbie Waldman had a beautiful place.

Since then, Lara, the studio is shut down, believe it or not. This was the last record that was done at that studio. When that studio opened up, Chris Goss from Masters of Reality, who is now one of the producers for The Cult, opened that studio. I was the first person to play in the vocal booth of that studio, and now, become the last person to sing in that studio. What an amazing space that place was. Now it’s for rent. It’s a bit emotional for me, because I loved that place so much. Ian Astbury did his solo record there called ‘Spirit Like Speed’ and the bands The Flys, Queens of the Stone Age, Fu Manchu -- so many bands that have done so much in that studio. I was the first and the last to sing in the place. Again, very emotional for me but I’m happy the record came out the way that it did. Just a really cool experience to be a part of that at Unit-A Recording Studio in Palm Springs.

That’s pretty incredible. Just hearing that makes the album all the more special.

Yeah, I dig it. Again, it’s emotional. I talked to Robbie Waldma when he came by the clinic the other day with his cat, and we were shooting the breeze. It’s just a bummer for me. If I had enough bread myself, I’d open that place back up again. It’s just a shame, but life goes on. We’re probably going to be recording in a studio in the desert. I’ve yet to find out exactly where, but we’re working on it.

Any tours coming up before you’re done recording the new album?

Ehren and I are going to go over to Europe in March, just him and I for an acoustic run for a couple weeks. Then in April, the whole band is going to go over to Europe and test out some new material, try it out, and get our sea legs back a little bit. When we get back, we’re hitting the studio in the summer of this year and recording the record. Then come June, Slo Burn is going to do a few shows, just for shits and giggles. We’re going to go over there, play a couple shows and have fun. Just three tours for this year. Maybe hit the studio this summer, but besides that, just enjoy life. So it’s all coming up quickly. Ehren and I are getting together again very soon to start rehearsing for the acoustic tour and then Slo Burn will get ready for that little run. So just moving and grooving and rocking and rolling with nothing else planned.

Well we wish you’d come up the West Coast so we can see you.

It would be nice to tour the United States. I’d love to be able to tour the United States but unfortunately it takes a toll where now I have to pay to play in the United States. Lara, it has to make sense in every single way. A lot of musicians will shy away from talking about finances. Twenty years ago when I was single and didn’t have a care in the world, I could do these things, but when you have two kids and a wife, a house and this and that, send your kids to college, you just can’t take off and bail. Unfortunately, the United States doesn’t make sense financially for me to be able to perform.   Over in Europe it does make a little more sense. I’m not saying I’m making a million dollars by doing these tours, nor have I quit my day job by any means, but it makes more sense to go over and tour Europe. I’d love nothing more than to do a West Coast tour, and maybe in the future I might be able to do it. In the meantime, we'll just be here in the desert, taking it from there.

Follow John Garcia.

Get His Music.

[5hfanfiction]

Come Back, Be Here - Chapter 1

“I told you all we would have a music test today so let’s cut the groaning, yeah?” The young brunette chuckles to herself.

“Yes, Mrs. Cabello-Jauregui.” A few of the students mutter. The teacher would be lying if she said hearing her hyphenated last name didn’t make her heart jump out of her chest every time it graced her ears. Three years of dating and one year of marriage later and anything related to the green-eyed girl still makes her heart race.

Camila sits down at her desk after handing out the tests to her students and monitors the 7th graders sitting in front of her. A faint buzzing sound coming from her desk drawer catches her attention, but she doesn’t make a move to reach for her phone because she knows that some of her students would take that as their cue to lean over and get answers from the person next to them. She would do the same thing in middle school as soon as her teacher looked away, but she is not having it in her own classroom.

The young teacher spends the next 30 minutes watching her students struggle and listening to them sigh. Her lips form a slight smirk at the dramatic students before her. They all act as if she has not been telling them they were having a test on this exact day for the last couple of weeks. In attempt to diminish her boredom, the brunette finds herself actually counting the number of sighs she hears. There is an average of about 5 a minute. She is about to count the next minute, but the abrupt opening of her classroom door breaks her from her thoughts and almost makes her fall out of her chair. Before she can get a word out to the culprit who is interrupting her class, the culprit who clearly overlooked the “do not disturb” sign on her door, she sees her favorite pair of green-eyes staring into hers.

Her heart flutters for a second, but then she notices that something is off. She can tell the minute their eyes lock that something is wrong. Lauren quietly walks over to her wife and starts to gather up her belongings. Camila opens her mouth to object.

“Lauren, what are you doing?” She whispers as she watches the green-eyed woman stuff her purse and her cell phone into the bag with bananas on it that she retrieved from her shoulder. One that obviously belongs to Camila. She focuses her attention back on her students and they are all looking at her and Lauren with furrowed eyebrows. The brunette knows that her own expression mirrors those of her students, but she doesn’t know what to tell them. She is just as confused as they are.

“Come with me.” Lauren finally speaks up, her raspy voice laced with something that raises the hairs on Camila’s arms. Fear. The green-eyed girl quickly slings the bag back over her shoulder and grabs her wife by the arm. A little too tightly for Camila’s liking, but she is still too shocked and confused to speak up. Before Camila can protest, she is already standing in the empty hallway that smells like puberty and gym bags. Lauren finally lets go of her arm and continues to walk to the end of the hallway toward the door, but Camila doesn’t take a step forward. Her eyes continuously dart between her wife and the door to her classroom.

As soon as the green-eyed girl realizes her wife isn’t following her, she spins around and crosses her arms. “Camila, c'mon.” Lauren runs her fingers through her thick curls and sighs.

“Babe, I’m teaching. I’ll get fired if I just leave.” Camila whispers as she places her hand back on the doorknob. She watches the green-eyed girl’s eyes soften as she makes her way back to the younger girl.

“I know baby, but it’s an emergency okay? We have to go. I’ll explain everything in the car.” Lauren states calmly as she gently tucks a strand of brown hair behind Camila’s ear.

“No explain now, Lauren. This is my job we are talking about.” The younger of the two crosses her arms hastily. Lauren just huffs and in one swift motion she slings her wife over her shoulder and starts to make her way to the exit at the end of the hallway.

“Lauren put me down!” The petite brunette bangs her fists into her wife’s back, but stops after Lauren makes no move to put her back on her own two feet. When the older girl finally reaches the passenger side of her Jeep Cherokee, she puts the brown-eyed girl down and opens the door, effectively trapping the still frazzled girl between herself and the car door. Lauren raises her eyebrows and patiently waits for her stubborn wife to get in the car. Lauren usually finds the brown-eyed girl’s stubbornness amusing, but today she is too worried to even be the slightest bit amused.

“Get in, Camz.” Lauren states sternly. Camila opens her mouth to protest, but Lauren beats her to it. “Now, Camila.” Lauren isn’t usually this stern with her wife, but her protective nature is taking over. Camila searches her wife’s eyes for some clue as to what is going on. “Karla Camila Cabello Estrabao get in the car now.” Lauren grits her teeth and Camila finally surrenders after the use of her first name, which she despises. The young Cuban knows its serious because Lauren has only called her by her full name one other time.

Senior year of college.

The two had gotten into a heated argument and Camila stormed out of Lauren’s apartment in search of the nearest bar. She managed to get drunk off her ass and Lauren found her and tried to get her to leave the bar. Camila argued and yelled while Lauren just listened and tried to keep Camila from falling off the bar stool. The two went back and forth for a solid half hour, with an occasional butt in from the bartender, which angered Lauren to no end. It went on and on, Camila trying to convince the bartender to pour her another drink and Lauren telling him she will break his fingers if he does. It only ended when Lauren used Camila’s full name, which managed to sober the younger girl up very quickly.

The young brunette runs her fingers through her brown locks and slides into the Jeep. Lauren lets out a breathe she didn’t even know she was holding and the young teacher does the same because it’s official…

She’s so fired.

Lauren slides in the driver’s seat and cranks up the car. She backs out of the parking spot quickly and drives away from the school. When they make it on the road, Lauren reaches over and interlaces her hand with her wife’s. She brings their hands up to her red lips and places a tender kiss on the back of the hand that fits perfectly in hers.

Camila smiles, momentarily forgetting about the predicament she is in. “What’s going on, Lo?” She finally speaks up.

Lauren tenses and sets their intertwined hands in her own lap. “You remember that bombing in Rome that happened yesterday?”

Camila nods her head.

“Well there’s been a terrorist attack in Florence and everyone is suspecting that  Venice will be next. About 100 were killed today and I don’t know if they will come here, but after what happened in Florence, I’m not taking any chances.” Lauren feels Camila tighten her grip on her hand and she absentmindedly rubs her thumb over the back of the now clammy hand that is tightly gripping hers. “I’ve been texting and calling for the past hour trying to get in touch with you, but I couldn’t. Then I remembered you were giving a test and wouldn’t answer so I left work and drove to get you.”

Camila starts to ask where they are headed, but then Lauren takes the exit that leads to the airport. “Babe, I doubt we can get a seat on an airplane, let alone two. You know everyone will be panicking and trying to buy tickets.” Camila studies her wife’s features and watches Lauren’s mouth tug upwards.

“You forget I have connections. Don’t underestimate me, Cabello.” Lauren takes her eyes off the road for a second and locks them with the chocolate ones beside her. She offers Camila a wink before turning her attention back to the road before them. Camila’s heart flutters, just like it always does when it’s around Lauren.

“That’s Cabello-Jauregui to you.” The younger girl teases back, trying to lighten the mood in attempt to stop her hands from pouring sweat.

They finally pull up to the airport and Lauren jumps out as soon as she brings the Jeep to a stop. She retrieves the banana bag that belongs to her wife and the suitcase from the trunk. She can’t help but feel grateful that their house is between her work and Camila’s school so she was able to stop by and throw some clothes and necessities into the bag and suitcase.

Lauren hands the banana patterned bag to it’s rightful owner and rolls the suitcase behind her. She takes her wife’s hand in hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. The airport is as Camila thought it would be: packed. The trembling brunette follows the taller girl in front of her as they make their way through the airport.

After quickly making their way through security, Lauren’s eyes scan the signs up above their heads for directions on how to get them to Gate 113. A couple of turns later and they are finally standing at the gate that Lauren was told to go to. She asks Camila to stay back with their belongings as she makes her way up to the front desk. A younger blonde in a vest and tie looks up at her and offers her a somewhat wavering smile. 

“My name is Lauren. Lauren Cabello-Jauregui. I’m a friend of Vero’s.” She states while wiping the sweat, that is accumulating on her palms, on her denim jeans.

She intently watches the lady before her scan her eyes across the computer screen. “Ah yes. She called a little while ago. your plane boards in 5 minutes. Did Vero tell you the predicament?” The woman’s eyes flicker to the brunette guarding the bags.

Lauren’s heart sinks even further to her stomach and she swallows the lump that has set up camp in her dry throat. “Yeah.” The older girl sighs and offers the blonde in front of her a slight nod. “Did she tell you the plan?”

“Mhmm. Everyone on the staff knows so you’re good.” The woman hands her the boarding passes and Lauren thanks her before making her way back to the sitting brunette who is nervously bouncing her left left leg up and down. She stuffs the envelope with her name on it in the front pocket of her leather jacket and squats down in front of brown-eyed girl who holds her heart. She sets Camila’s envelope on her lap while placing her own hand on her wife’s knee, to attempt to stop the bouncing, and the other on her cheek. Lauren’s thumb caresses the tan skin beneath it and watches as Camila’s eyes flutter closed.

“Everything’s going to be okay.” The green-eyed girl promises. She’s not sure if she’s trying to convince Camila or herself though.Camila nods and leans into her wife’s touch. Lauren’s heart soars and breaks all at the same time.

“I love you, baby.” Lauren smiles lovingly at her beautiful wife. “So much.”

“I love you too, Lo.” Camila responds, her eyes looking adoringly into her favorite pair of green eyes. The younger girl quickly closes the gap between the two of them and captures her wife’s lips in hers. She brings her hand up in between them and rests it on Lauren’s cheek, her thumb stroking the porcelain skin beneath it. The kisses they share are soft, yet filled with so much emotion. The green eyed girl swipes her tongue across Camila’s bottom lip and the younger girl grants her wife access to explore the familiar territory. Lauren breaks the kiss when a voice comes over the intercom and announces that their flight is boarding.

“That’s us.” Lauren stares into the brown orbs that she loves so dearly while trying to memorize every aspect of them. Like how they look so tenderly at her and how the light reflects off of them and brings out the specs of gold in her irises. She leans in and plants another quick kiss on Camila’s plump lips before slowly standing to her feet and pulling her wife up with her.

Lauren places her hand on Camila’s lower back as they make their way to the boarding entrance. Camila hands her pass to the man and then walks a little ways down the ramp in order to give Lauren room to scan her boarding pass. Lauren hands hers next and the man looks up at her knowingly. His lips form a sad smile as he hands the green-eyed girl her boarding pass back. She offers him a nod and walks down the ramp to where her wife is waiting patiently. Lauren urgently reaches for Camila’s hand and leads them the rest of the way down the ramp to the entrance of the airplane, her heart beating faster with every step she takes.

On cue, Lauren hears a voice call to her. “Miss!” The man yells after her and she turns around, as does Camila. “Your boarding pass didn’t scan properly. Can you please come back out here so I can re-scan it?”

Lauren feels Camila tighten her grip around her hand and the older girl turns to her wife. “I’ll be right back, okay?” She offers the handle of the suitcase to Camila. “Go ahead and get situated and everything. I’ll see you soon.” She bites the inside of her cheek in attempt to draw blood. A sick attempt to stop herself from crying. An even sicker attempt to inflict pain on herself as punishment for the pain that she is about to cause Camila.

“Hurry back, Lo. I’m tired and I need a shoulder to sleep on.” Camila stands on her tippy toes and places a gentle kiss on the green-eyed girl’s lips. Lauren tilts her head to deepen the kiss, in attempt to prolong it as much as she can. The man behind her clears his throat and Camila pulls away before Lauren can protest.

Lauren momentarily intertwines their hands and leans in to place a quick kiss on her wife’s nose. “Love you, baby.”

Camila giggles and returns the gesture. “Back atcha, green eyes.”

Lauren reluctantly retracts her hand and follows the man back up the ramp. She turns around one last time in hopes to catch one more glimpse of her beautiful wife. The older girl watches as Camila steps onto the plane. A light chuckle escapes her lips as she watches the girl struggle to get the suitcase over a crack. The chuckle turns into a sob as soon as Camila vanishes from her sight. She finally allows the tears to spill over the rims of her eyes and race down her cheeks.

There was only room for one on the plane. When Lauren called Vero, she did the best she could, but everything was already booked up. Lauren blamed herself. If she had just turned on the television sooner or just walked out into the art studio sooner and seen the panicked customers then maybe she would be on the plane with her wife right now, listening to her soft snores while she slept on Lauren’s shoulder.

When Vero informed her that she could only get one, she knew she’d get her wife on that plane no matter what it took. Vero helped her devise the plan and told her that she informed the flight attendants and pilot to not stop the plane or let Camila off no matter how much she pleaded or begged. 

Apparently it was a damn good plan because the plane with the love of her life on it just tore away from the boarding ramp, effectively tearing Lauren’s heart out of her chest.

The brunette manages to drag her body back off the ramp and to the window overlooking the runway. She studies the plane as it slowly drives by the window that she is standing at. Her eyes scan each of the round windows of the plane until they finally land on her favorite brunette.

Even from this far, she can see Camila’s tiny fists desperately banging on the circular window. Lauren allows another sob to escape her red stained lips as she watches her wife try to shatter the glass that separates the two of them.

The glass may not be shattering, but Lauren’s heart sure is shattering into pieces.

Pieces that she knows Camila will only be able to put back together when they reunite. If they reunite.

She places her shaky palm on the glass in front of her as the fresh tears trailing down her cheeks hit her already damp shirt. The green-eyed girl watches Camila mimic her action as she places her palm on the small window in front of her that she was trying to shatter just a second ago.

Moments later, the plane takes off down the runway and Lauren’s whole world comes crumbling down around her.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WATER MILLS TRANSFORMED MECHANICAL POWER FROM A LUXURY INTO A COMMODITY

A lot of the change was due to legislation, of course, big companies won't be able to develop stuff in house, and that anyone else who did was a crank. Ronco. I've seen the lever of technology grow visibly in my own time. Startups are that constrained for talent. Doing breadth-first search weighted by expected value. Whereas fundraising, when it's going well, can be quite the opposite. Where are the imaginative people? Most days his stack of window air conditioners could keep up. Otherwise we don't care. That's what I did be satisfied by merely doing well in school.1 It's worth studying this phenomenon in detail, because this is an example of such a UI to work from: the old one.2

Northern Italy in 1100, off still feudal.3 A good metaphor here. And when I wasn't working at my day job I'd start trying to do real work. You can of course lower your price if you need to go running, but once I do, I enjoy it. To start with, most big companies have some kind of philosophical statement; I mean, that's probably smaller than the chance that I'm imagining all this anyway. Needless to say, my imitations didn't say anything either. But think about what's going on, instead of just doing the default thing. American politicians later become famous for.

I've said applies to ideas in general. I'm 23? Could Americans have nice places to live without undermining the impatient, hackerly spirit you need to pay for kids. The Lever of Technology Will technology increase the gap between rich and the poor, not increasing it. He made cars, which had been a luxury item? But seeing what startups are really like will at least show other organizations what to aim for. I mentally decrease my estimate of the probability that the company will be a minority squared. Hardy said that's what got him started, and I can tell, the first is mistaken, the second outdated, and the people you'd meet there would be wrong too. If you want to do something internally, like talk to their partners, or investigate some issue?

Both make it harder to seem good without actually being good is an expensive way to seem as if they used the worse-is-better approach but stopped after the first stage and handed the thing over to marketers. Wealth is the underlying stuff—the goods and services we buy. When watches had mechanical movements, expensive watches kept better time. That doesn't seem so challenging. What if they start to talk about average quality, because that's fundraising. Otherwise we don't care. You won't even generate ideas, because you can't get the smartest people to work for an existing company for a couple years before starting your own company during that time too. When someone's working on a problem that seems too big, I always ask: is there some way to bite off some subset of the problem, then let your mind wander is like doodling with ideas. How about writer?

If you wait till a startup is obviously a success, it's too late.4 Big companies also lose because they usually only build one of each thing. Obviously it's not the experience itself that's valuable, but something it changes in your brain is learning that you need to do this. Traditionally phase 2 fundraising consists of presenting a slide deck in person to investors. Indeed, the same term was used for both products and information: there were distribution channels, and TV and radio channels. No, except yes if you turn out to be hard, partly because as money people they err on the side of solving problems by spending money, and then 3 once the company is clearly succeeding, raise one or more founders focusing on the company during that time too.5 When do you give up?6 As this example suggests, the rate at which it changes is itself speeding up.

Behind every great fortune, there is a huge variation in ability between competent programmers and exceptional ones, and while you can train people to be competent, you can't train them to be exceptional.7 Unless you're Mozart, your first task is to figure that out. Another classic way to make something people want. The main cost of starting a Web-based startup is food and rent. There are a handful of investors who will try to lure you into fundraising when you're not. Too hard to bother trying. It seems as if it must have been made by a Swedish or a Japanese company.8 In those businesses, the designers though they're not generally called that have more power.

Those are pretty expensive. Number two is good investors. Such customs evolve with glacial slowness. Something similar happened with blogs. Newton's slavery consisted of five replies to Liege, totalling fourteen printed pages, over the course of a year. Most people I know drive the same cars, wear the same clothes, have the same kind of office or rather, cubicle with the same furnishings, and address one another by their first names instead of by honorifics. Seventeenth-century England was much like the third world today, the standard misquotation would be spot on.9 You'll need an executive summary, it will always be undervalued by large organizations, because the school authorities vetoed the plan to invite me. The US has less than 5% of the world's population will be exceptional in some field only if there are still one or more founders focusing on the company during fundraising, growth will slow.

Notes

In 1995, but the median tag is just feigning interest—until you get a good open-source projects now that VCs miss. Cost, again. It seems more accurate metaphor would be worth trying to focus on at Y Combinator is we hope visited mostly by technological progress to areas where you wanted to make money from writing, he found it easier for some reason, rather than doing a small business that isn't what they'd like it that the lack of results achieved by alchemy and saying its value was as much as Drew Houston needed Dropbox, or that an idea where there were some good proposals too. Or worse still, has one booked for them.

Apparently the mall was not drinking that kool-aid at the end of the reason this works is that it makes the business spectrum than the founders. Some find they have raised money at first had two parts: the attempt to discover the most successful companies have been doing so. Their inexperience makes them overbuild: they'll create huge, analog brain state. It was also obvious to your instruments.

But one of the world.

Some introductions to philosophy now take the line that philosophy will suffer by comparison, because the proportion of the world, and the Origins of Europe, Cornell University Press, 1973, p. Siegel points out that trying to make your fortune? Sheep act the way I know, the more powerful, because a it's too obvious to us.

More generally, it seems a bit. Maybe it would not be to diff European culture with Chinese: what ideas did European culture with Chinese: what bad taste you had in high school junior. To be fair, the computer world, and when given the Earldom of Rutland. So during the war it was because he writes about controversial things.

So managers are constrained too; instead of using special euphemisms for lies that seem excusable according to certain somewhat depressing rules many of the more powerful than ever. But there seem to someone in 1880 that schoolchildren in 1980 would be vulnerable both to attack the A P supermarket chain because it consisted of three stakes. If you really have a quality that feels a bit misleading to treat macros as a general-purpose file classifier so good that it offers a vivid illustration of that.

San Jose is a matter of outliers, are available only to the point I'm making, though, so they'll understand how lucky they are so different from money raised in an urban context, etc, and for filters it's textual. Professors and politicians live within socialist eddies of the things we focus on the dollar.

It did. In fact the less educated ones. You can still see fossils of their upbringing in their lifetimes.

One implication of this process but that's the situation you find yourself in when the country it's in.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell, Jason Freedman, Geoff Ralston, Ken Anderson, Robert Morris, Mitch Kapor, Jared Tame, and Aaron Swartz for inviting me to speak.

[virtualfaceengineer]

The 2-Minute Rule For Brain Training

Mind Coaching Workout routines Wager you considered brain schooling exercise routines intended some thing like memorizing the NYC mobile phone directory? Very well, you will find memorization instruments out there that could be portion of your brain education workouts, but today Mind training has a lot more to try and do with neurogenesis and neuroplasticity, two a short while ago found capacities from the human brain. Until finally about 12-fifteen years ago, not a soul understood that we human beings grow new Mind cells and that is the procedure described through the time period neurogenesis. Those people new cells mature day-to-day, if we bring them into a hospitable natural environment, which implies we're attending to exactly what the authorities are contacting the pillars of brain Exercise.https://excellent-brain.com/ A lot of People industry experts are indicating that the new neurons migrate to your hippocampus, a vital A part of the memory preserving circuitry of your brain. 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[plxyboi-blog]

Massachusetts Daily Collegian | Matt Shadeed will not slow down

New Post has been published on https://healthy4lives.com/massachusetts-daily-collegian-matt-shadeed-will-not-slow-down/

Massachusetts Daily Collegian | Matt Shadeed will not slow down

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Matt Shadeed’s weight room is governed by a few non-negotiables.

It’s July, a sweltering summer day in Amherst, and the Massachusetts football team is three days out from fall camp. After some light work on the turf, the UMass defense has a quick lift to finish out the day, but before things get rolling, somebody shouts, “hallway!”

Non-negotiable number one: attitude and approach.

“Everybody’s got stuff going on,” Shadeed says. “Academics, tutors, training room appointments, practice, meetings; when these doors open, we want you to attack it like it’s the most important thing in your life. Because when everything you have on your schedule or your task list or in your daily life becomes the most important thing you have to do, and you knock it out with this ferocious attitude and this hair-on-fire work ethic and energy and enthusiasm that pours into other people, all the stuff that you think is so hard to do and complete that can be overwhelming, they become very simple.

The entire defense tears out the double doors on the near side of the weight room, shouting and jostling and slapping the door frame on their way out. Out of sight, somewhere through the halls of the glistening FPC, they start to chant, the din growing louder and louder.

Peyton Ryan, by trade the UMass women’s soccer team’s starting goalkeeper who moonlights as a strength and conditioning intern, knows what’s coming, thus she provides the warning; “you might want to take a step back.

A few seconds later, the Minutemen come charging through those same double doors into the weight room, a mass of bodies at full sprint, converging at the one open area at the center of the room. It’s a literal mosh pit, with Chief Keef’s “Love Sosa” blasting through the sound system, and at one point linebacker Tyris Lebeau is raised above their heads — this apparently happens a lot — never breaking rhythm or stopping the dance, and his teammates nearly hurl him into the HVAC system that crisscrosses the ceiling.

They return him to the Earth, and the moment Matt Shadeed calls them to gather, they gather. He runs through brief instructions for the day — he says they should know today’s workout by heart, anyways — and every point is met with a collective, emphatic “yes sir!”

Non-negotiable number two: enthusiasm.

“Everything we want to do in that room and in this program and in this building and in these kids’ daily lives revolves around enthusiasm, and we say it in all caps,” Shadeed says. He shouts the next word. “ENTHUSIASM! Because when you’re enthusiastic about things, it’s the measuring stick of how important something is to you. If you attack this piece of your day like it’s the most important thing on your agenda, you’re feeling great about yourself, your confidence is high, now you move to the next thing, you carry that energy with you into the day.”

Shadeed breaks the huddle, and before they get going, one player screams in his face and shoves him into the wall. Shadeed shoves back, screams back, and they jostle and shout as the players start to mob him, smiles all around. It’s the time of their lives.

They break into three groups and receive a bit more individualized instruction from the other strength and conditioning coaches in the room — Clayton Kirven, on loan from the hockey team, and Joel “the Wiz” Reinhardt, Shadeed’s lead assistant — while the man himself wanders over to the iPhone hooked up to the sound system. The moment Kirven and Reinhardt are finished, Shadeed cranks the volume back up to 1; Waka Flocka’s “Grove St. Party” hits the speakers and the madness resumes, the sound shaking the walls.

Non-negotiable number three: body language.

“That’s part of our environment, body language has to be at a premium all the time,” says Shadeed. “You saw that in there: nobody’s sitting down, nobody’s standing around, no hands on hips, nobody’s feeling sorry for themselves. We don’t do that, we don’t believe in it. Body language screams what you believe inside your heart, so if your body language looks like crap, I’m uninterested, this isn’t that important, I’m just ready to get it done and get out of here, well that’s not going to help us win football games. That’s a non-negotiable, we don’t talk about it, we don’t negotiate, we don’t talk, it just is what it is.”

Are the guys locked into the workout? Absolutely. Does the dancing ever stop? Not really. Shadeed moves counter-clockwise through the weight room at a brisk pace, stopping briefly at each station to coach one guy through a set, to tweak a little technique, to make sure the morale stays up. It’s chaos, but it’s calculated chaos, of which Shadeed is the composer.

Even when he pauses for a teaching moment Shadeed never stops moving, never stops coaching, never stops shouting. He’s a ball of energy with seemingly no end, even when the workout draws to a close and he’s rapping every word to Meek Mill’s “Dreams and Nightmares” as the players grab a protein shake on the way out.

It’s 45 minutes of pure, unmitigated lunacy, and it’s exhausting to watch from the outside, let alone to coach and control.

As the defense exits, Shadeed starts tidying up some of the equipment. The offense will be in in a half hour.

Collegian File Photo

Somewhere between a South Carolina Krispy Kreme and Columbia Metropolitan Airport, Shadeed’s phone buzzes.

The Baylor women’s basketball team is hours removed from a blowout win over No. 18 South Carolina in December of 2018 — the Lady Bears would go on to win a national title a few months later — and the team is on the way to the airport, fired up after coach Kim Mulkey treats the team to celebratory donuts.

Shadeed flips his phone over and sees a text from Walt Bell. It’s one line: “Are you out of the football strength coach life forever?”

Bell and Shadeed met at the University of Southern Mississippi, the former a wide receivers coach and the latter an assistant strength and conditioning coach. It was Bell’s first full-time job, Shadeed’s second; they were only together for a season at Southern Miss, 2011, with Shadeed spending two years at Ole Miss and Bell heading to North Carolina. By 2014, they’d reconvened at Arkansas State, and within two seasons Shadeed had made a lasting impression.

It was the culture piece for Bell, the way that culture improved with Shadeed’s presence. How they worked, how they carried themselves — he just had a way about him.

“I think more than anything else, just watching so many kids have such exponential growth in their lives in terms of how they did everything was unbelievable.” Bell says, “Especially at Arkansas State, how many of those guys flourished, so many kids that we had been told couldn’t do this or couldn’t do that, they were ‘bad kids,’ just how many of those kids flourished under coach Shadeed was incredible.”

Bell moved on to Maryland and later Florida State, and Shadeed eventually ended up at Baylor, but Bell always had one name in the back of his head for what he calls the most important hire for a football coach.

“Every step along the way. That’s something that we had talked about, like hey, if this ever happens, if I’m ever fortunate enough to become a head football coach, you’re the guy I want,” Bell says of Shadeed. “It’s been in the plans for a long time.

“I would not have taken the majority of jobs in college football if he wasn’t coming.”

When Bell sent that text, he was on the verge. Within 24 hours, he’d be named UMass’ head football coach, and he had to know Shadeed was coming with him.

“I forget the exact wording,” Shadeed says, “I think I said ‘nah, what you got?’ And we started talking from there.”

Shadeed has a different sort of energy, an infectious presence, the kind of coach that enters a room fired up and has a way of spreading that feeling. After that workout in July — and after most workouts, really — he’s somehow above even his own baseline energy, talking at a million miles an hour and never pausing for a breath, speaking without commas in his sentence structure.

“How you do anything is how you do everything,” he says, “So when you get up in the morning and you rip the sheets off and you crank the shower up and you brush your teeth like it’s the most important thing in the world and somebody’s going to pay me a million dollars if I brush my teeth better than I ever have, well, then, get after it. If you really love what you’re doing, and you have a platform to inspire kids like we do every day, I mean, come on. How can you not be fired up to do this?”

Once Shadeed read that text from Bell, the only other person left to convince was another person he met at Southern Miss: his wife, Emily.

Matt and Emily only met briefly at Southern Miss, the age gap putting things on the backburner for a bit. Matt was a senior, soon heading off to LSU as a strength and conditioning intern, and Emily — she was Emily Lee then — was a freshman, aware of him but not hooked quite yet.

It took a few years, a handful of mutual friends reconnecting them soon after Emily graduated in 2012. They both have friends near Emily’s hometown of Ocean Springs, Mississippi, a beach town in Jackson County on the Gulf Coast, and a night out with their collective group did the trick.

Matt’s notoriously bad with his phone, more of a face-to-face type of guy, someone who struggles with the daily expectations of texts, FaceTime calls, phone conversations — but he couldn’t get off the phone with her.

Work is Matt’s holy ground, and he adheres strictly to a routine; in bed by 9 p.m., ready to rock at 4 a.m., but Emily was keeping him up until midnight.

“I’m just like ‘what is wrong with me?’” he says. “I never go to bed this late, but I’m going to bed this late for her.”

Matt was an assistant at Ole Miss at this point, between stops at Southern Miss and Arkansas State, and sometime after that first meeting post-graduation — Emily thinks it was the following weekend, Matt’s convinced it was the weekend after that — he made the five hour trip from Oxford, Mississippi to Ocean Springs, nearly the length of the state, to take her to dinner.

“And knowing now what I know about their lives in the football world,” Emily says, “how they have no time and the time that they do have they just want to sleep, the fact that he drove five hours just for dinner… it was good. Long-term, I think it worked out okay.”

They went to dinner at Chef Scott’s Sushi in Ocean Springs, about a mile from the beach, the food gone in 30 minutes but the conversation taking another three hours. The post-dinner activities? Two hours of laser tag.

They were engaged by July of 2014 and married by May of 2015, and it wasn’t long before they were expecting their first child. Emily’s pregnancy wasn’t so smooth as her due date approached, dealing with preeclampsia — high blood pressure, a pregnancy complication that can be potentially dangerous for both the mother and the child — having to be induced three weeks early, with a grueling 23-hour labor in front of her in February of 2016.

“I don’t know if I would’ve made it out alive without Matt, and that is no exaggeration,” Emily says. “I feel like every woman says this, like ‘I wouldn’t have survived if my husband wasn’t there,’ but I really don’t know how I would have done it without him. He just was always by my side, rubbing my back, asking what I needed, and he just handled it with such grace. It was really a good insight to how he was going to be as a father and as the leader of our family, he just took control in the room and took care of me, took care of the baby afterwards, but that’s just Matt.”

Emily calls the whole ordeal “dramatic” as she sits on the steps up to the bleachers at McGuirk at the end of practice in early September. The Shadeeds’ son, Bear, scurries across the turf, his father in tow, Matt clearly not the one deciding where they’re headed. He’s three-and-a-half now, a week away from starting preschool — Emily says she’ll start crying if she talks about it too long — a little blond firecracker of a kid who’s become a staple at practice.

“He’s ready, he’s more than ready,” she says. “I think he’s bored at home with me, and he’s getting to that age where he’s just ready to spread his wings, and it’s time.”

Emily’s a bit of a stay-at-home mom during the week. She’s a wedding photographer, with a majority of her clientele still based back in Mississippi and she heads back down about once a month to shoot a wedding — it’s a nice little setup, she can bring Bear with her and leave him with family in Ocean Springs for a couple of days — but she’s full-time mom while she’s in Amherst.

She didn’t really need much convincing in the end, with the opportunity to join Bell in building a program from the ground up an exciting prospect for her husband. A self-proclaimed “beach baby,” Emily’s spent most of her life in Ocean Springs or elsewhere down south, so she’s not exactly accustomed to snow.

Soon after he was hired, Matt came up in December to get settled and figure out their living situation, with Emily and Bear staying with family in Mississippi until February. Matt packed up the entire house in Waco, Texas, on his own in six days — the concept of paying movers seems insane to him — and drove a Penske truck all the way up to East Pleasant St. in Amherst.

“I’d rather just do it and get a semi-workout and put some cash in my pocket instead of paying somebody $8,000 while I sit on my couch and watch a movie for three days,” he says, a hint of incredulity in his voice, as if hiring movers is an absurd idea. “Just give me six days, I’ll work twice as fast and twice as hard and I’ll get it done and I’ll save the money, so I just did that. I was literally in Waco after Christmas for like six days, by myself. I’d get up in the morning, eat, move, move, move, move, move, eat lunch, move, move, move, move, move, eat dinner, move a little bit, and go to bed.”

Thom Kendall/UMass Athletics

A few weeks later, Matt finished up a Friday session in the weight room in late February and flew from Hartford to Atlanta to meet up with Bear and Emily — Matt’s father had helped them make the trip from Mississippi — to make the drive up, packing Emily’s Chevy Tahoe with whatever was left, plus Bear and the dogs: Addy, their pitbull, and Blue, their choc lab.

They made about seven hours of progress on Saturday and decided to stop early and find a hotel somewhere in Tennessee, Bear and the dogs getting a bit cranky with about 11 hours to go. They left at 8 or 9 a.m. on Sunday, and then the snowstorm hit.

“We were going 35 on the Interstate the whole way,” Emily says. “I’ve seen snow before, just like skiing with family growing up, but nothing like this. And we couldn’t stop and get a hotel because he had workouts at 6 a.m.”

They pulled into Amherst around 4 a.m., and after quickly unloading a few things, Matt took a brief shower, drove the Tahoe to the FPC, took a half hour nap in his office, and ran lifts at 6 a.m., with every ounce of energy and intensity as he always does.

“And we crushed it,” he says.

They’re settled now, and a little over nine months since that text from Bell, Shadeed’s role has continued to grow within the program — Bell calls him a great communicator, a great motivator and above all else, a great teacher. Bell talks a lot about what Shadeed does outside the weight room, beyond the programming and the technique and the nutrition.

“To me, that’s what sets Matt apart,” Bell says. “Weights are weights — every team in the country lifts weights, every team squats and bench presses and deadlifts and cleans, everybody runs, everybody gets tired, everybody goes in the weight room and works hard. Do the kids maybe do it with the intent, the attitude that’s required to improve? I think that’s where, on top of just the physical act of lifting weights, where Shadeed does a great job. But the culture piece is just as important.

“I see his job as 50-50 job: 50 percent of his life is dedicated to growing our bodies and physically developing them, and the other 50 percent of his job is to develop the mindset of our football team, and I think that’s where he excels.”

Shadeed seems wired a bit differently than the rest of us; where there should be blood running through his veins there seems to be some mixture of caffeine, beta-alanine and positivity, and Bell says he’s never seen his strength coach have a bad day. He’s never down, never reserved, never pouting, never complaining — it’s full go from the moment he walks into the FPC before 5 a.m. until he’s on the drive home after practice.

Bell says Shadeed’s biggest qualities are “two-fold: number one, he’s incredibly positive, he’s got a great attitude, and I think hopefully over the next two, three, four, five, six years that that starts to rub off on people in this building; number two, he’s incredibly mentally tough. I’m sure that in here, and in here,” Bell says, tapping his head and his heart, “I’m sure at some point he’s having a bad day, but he’s never going to let it show. He’s an incredibly mentally tough guy, he’s going to bring it every day, and that inspires me.

“There are days where as a football coach, you haven’t slept very much, you don’t sleep well, you don’t feel good, and he’s out there running around like a madman in practice, and you have no choice but to either match his effort and intensity, or look in the mirror and know that you let the team down because you didn’t bring it the way he did.”

A few days after the season opener against Rutgers, Shadeed sits in his office adjoining the weight room at the FPC, a UMass football t-shirt beneath a UMass football sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, traditional strength coach attire, an hour before the day’s first group lift. One of the players had just left Shadeed’s office after a long chat — he’s feeling iffy about his major and doesn’t want to get stuck on the wrong path — the sort of conversation he’s having more and more.

Those moments mean a lot to him; teaching moments, building young men, making an impact off the field and outside the weight room. Fatherhood has made him especially aware of that, his time with Bear shifting his perspective.

“I think I’m a little slower to be firm in certain situations, like dropping the hammer firm,” Shadeed says. “I feel like I’m much more empathetic, much more patient, much more careful of not so much the message but my tone. Just being aware of the time that I’m spending with guys, not on the floor or in practice or on the bus, because we get so much time with them, but like you just saw right here. [A guy] comes in and sits down, hey I need to talk to you about something. He’s stuck in a major he’s not sure he really wants to follow through with, and he comes to me for help.

“That type of stuff, really making sure that I’m not missing those opportunities and making sure that I’m here for it. Having a kid, it just makes you more aware of it, you know?”

Collegian File Photo

Having Bear was a bit of a reaffirming of purpose for Matt. He’s always been so career driven, so focused on “climbing that mountain,” as Emily puts it — once Bear came along, the career remained of utmost importance, the drive never changed, but there was suddenly that same focus on family.

“It’s been amazing,” he says. “I’ll tell you what: if you thought you had purpose in your life without it, you just double down on it, man, it’s crazy. Knowing that there’s a little set of eyes on you, watching your every move, that wants to be just like you, and literally depends on you to survive, it’s pretty special. Getting up in the morning and seeing him passed out in his bed with his little PJ Masks toys and he’s got his stuffed animals and I’m like, that right there is why I’m going to go to work today and try and be great.”

“It’s so great to have an opportunity to be able to do a lot of the same things we do with these guys, to be able to do a lot of the same things we do with these guys, to inspire and enrich and teach and grow young men, obviously 18- to 22-year-olds here, in my house it’s a three-year-old, but it’s a lot of the same principles, same methods. It’s really cool, man, it’s been quite the rewarding process.”

He shoots a quick text to Emily; it’s been a couple of weeks since she called the first day of preschool bittersweet, and today’s the day. Matt and Emily had picked up Bear a couple hours earlier, and she’s holding up surprisingly well. He’d been asking how she was throughout the morning, reassuring her that it’d be alright, and it was. The preschool staff told the Shadeeds that their son was running around on the playground all day, such a happy, energetic kid, which sounds about right.

“I’m just so proud of her.” Matt says. “We’ve been doing this thing by ourselves. Her family’s in Mississippi, my family’s in Alabama, it was just me, her and Bear. I’m working as a strength coach, you’re putting in long hours every week of the year, and she has been a staple in raising him. Three and a half years, it’s basically been him and her, him and her, him and her — nobody to be like hey, he’s having a bad day, or I need a breather, or I need to grocery store can you watch him, it was just her. So I’m just excited that she has some time to just be a human now. She has 12 hours a week now and she doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Over the next few weeks Emily and Matt will meet plenty of other parents and have to explain his name again, something they’re used to — a child named Bear doesn’t come along as often as an Emily or a Matthew — and not particularly shy about. It’s not a family name, he’s not named after legendary Alabama coach Paul “Bear” Bryant, a common question in Matt’s home state of Alabama. They couldn’t agree on a name for months, with Emily’s preference for a non-traditional name making things a little bit tricky. She’d love a name and he’d shoot it down, he’d love a name and it’d be too standard, and it took months to reach a resolution.

Emily has no clue where the name came from. They were sitting on the couch, Emily four or five months pregnant, and the name just came to her. Emily and Matt remember all of their major stories almost identically, and they both recall Matt’s reaction: “are you serious?”

“And I’m like here we go again, another name he doesn’t like,” she says. “And Matt’s like, ‘are you being serious? Bear?’ I’m like, ‘yeah,’ and he goes ‘I love it. That’s it. That’s the name!’”

They can’t imagine him having any other name, and to an outside observer it fits. He’s Bear, always has been, always will be. He’s always running around during practice, crashing into tackling dummies and trying to scale fences. His best friend in the world is Emma Paschall, Luke and Lauren Paschall’s three-year-old daughter, and the two are attached at the hip during practice.

“[Emma and Bear] actually didn’t even really meet until February and they’re already like brother and sister. They fight like brother and sister and they play like brother and sister,” Emily says. “They see each other every day because of practice, and when they’re not together they ask about each other the whole time. He’s asking about Emma the whole day, Emma’s asking about Bear, ‘are we going to see Bear today?’ They’re so funny.”

Emily comes to practice with multiple shopping bags filled with toys — Bear and Emma love the toy trucks, and spend most of their time playing in the gravel under the stairs at McGuirk. They rarely leave each other’s sight, and routinely come running onto the field after practice wraps, their fathers often giving chase.

“Together, they’re a fearsome twosome,” Bell says. “They get after it, they like to have a good time.”

When practice ends, Matt Shadeed the coach gives way to Matt Shadeed the dad, as he chases Bear around the field before they meet Emily, Lauren and the other wives behind the south end zone. Matt will chat with some players as they leave the field for the day, but his focus has shifted for the rest of the night.

“I think the biggest thing when you see him with Bear — when he’s with Bear, he’s with Bear,” Bell says. “He’s 100 percent invested, he’s playing with Bear, it’s dinosaurs, there’s Octonauts, there’s PJ Masks, their building blocks, they’re wrestling — I think he has a great way about him to compartmentalize the task at hand, and when it’s time to be a dad he’s an unbelievable dad, when it’s time to be here he does his job a million miles an hour.

“Maybe we have a bad day at the office, he’s going to go home and he’s going to have a smile on his face and he’s going to have a great time with Bear and Emily.”

Emily grew up in a broken home, her father absent from her life, and finding the right man to raise her children was really important to her. Matt’s been that: dedicated, caring, loving and enthusiastic beyond reason.

“I am so lucky to have him as a husband, and I truly mean that, but Bear is so lucky to have him as a father,” Emily says. “I’ve always thought the greatest gift I could give to my future children was to marry somebody who was just going to be a really great dad, and Matt has just exceeded all my expectations. I truly couldn’t pick a better man on Earth to be a father.”

Matt has one real flaw as a parent: he cannot stop buying toys for Bear, and it’s driving Emily insane.

“I threaten him before he goes to the store, like I will take the credit card away if you buy Bear one more toy,” Emily says. “He has a problem. He can’t stop buying toys, especially Legos. He’ll go to a gas station and come back with a Lego set, like ‘oh the gas station had these by the register.’ He has a Lego problem.”

Bear’s going through a big Octonauts phase at the moment, a British children’s cartoon about undersea explorers, so the toy collection has had some recent non-Lego additions. Still, Emily’s about three Lego sets away from losing it.

“Listen, if we’re out, and the Legos look good, and you want some Legos bro, and you want to build because that’s something that we can do together and we can bond, I want to do that,” Matt says. “It’s not like we’re aimlessly walking through Walmart and cleaning up the store every Friday, but if we’re walking through there and he’s well-behaved and he’s had a good day — something about the Legos man, it just calls me over there, and we’ve got a fairly serious collection at our house. Legos are actually relatively cheap, you can buy the bags with the little sets for like $3, so we tend to hit some Legos if we go to Target.

“But yes, I have a slight problem.”

Thom Kendall/UMass Athletics

Back in April, on a freezing spring day in Amherst, two big red circles — think giant hula-hoops, big enough to fit 15-20 players — were set out on the sidelines, one on each side of the field.

Every now and again a whistle would blow and the players had to sprint to one circle or the other, with up-downs the consequence if they didn’t do so correctly.

What does “correctly” mean? Nobody really knows. It didn’t seem to have that much to do with how quickly anyone got to the circle, and the theory among the assembled media was that Bell, in his fourth or fifth official practice in charge, just wanted to see who’d do it without being told why.

As the routine wears on, some players start to lag behind, and a bearded figure comes flying across the turf. It’s nearly two hours into practice, temperature dipping below 30 degrees with the wind chill, and he’s in shorts and a longsleeve t-shirt, knees coming up high, arms pumping, at a dead sprint and screaming.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” he shouts. “Move! Move! Move!”

How anybody could possibly have this much energy at the end of practice in freezing weather is unclear, but that’s Matt Shadeed.

“You’ll hear him say it: if it’s not worth overdoing, it’s not worth doing,” Bell says.

“How you do anything is how you do everything, and he only does things one way.”

Amin Touri can be reached at [email protected], and followed on Twitter @Amin_Touri.

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