#I’ve just realized it totally sounds like I think Apple pie is just british

[undercover-grisha]

I’m obsessed with the idea of Wylan using British slang while Jesper is just like horri/terrifed

Wylan: “yeah, Chef was making apple pie today, so I stole a swipe of some squirty cream from the bowl.”

Jesper, slowly turning to look at his husband, twitching: 😀😄😀

Wylan: ???

Jesper:

Jesper: “w h a a t ? ?”

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

A View To A Winchester (Part 6)

Series Page

Summary: Julie’s starting a new life after divorce in a home with a very nice view.

A Dean X OFC story. No idea how long it will be, but I’ve got time on my hands. I got this idea staring out the view of my home office window and thinking how nice it would be to have Dean Winchester to ogle. I’m thinking it will go the fluffy route, with some angst, and maybe some smut down the line. Not sure yet.

Section Word Count:  3,787

Section Warnings: fluff, angst, R-rated language, drunk-dialing, Dean flirting/arousing/drinking

~~~~~

“I’m going to be a big tub of lard if this goes incredibly bad, really quickly.” Julie mumbled to herself in the kitchen bright and early the next morning. “I’ll eat my rejection in calories.”  

She had not slept well, despite Dean wishing her a good night. And, it had been all his fault. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. And pie.

There had been numerous Pinterest searches late into the night for tips and tricks on how to make the perfect crust. The barely used pastry cutter had been dug out of her wedding gifts box in the basement at about four am. At what was now six am, she was using it to cut the cold fats - a not-yet-tried-by-Julie mix of shortening and butter recommended by one blogger - into the flour.

Next came the slow addition of ice water and another novel ingredient, cold vodka. She had to wait an hour before even starting the dough that morning, placing a bottle of vodka in the freezer to chill. The alcohol apparently inhibited gluten formation which should, in theory, promote a tender and flaky crust. She was not a chemistry gal but she did enjoy learning how to use it to her advantage when it came to food. Forget Bill Nye the Science Guy. She was an Alton Brown, Good Eats fan.

What the hell am I doing this all for? Desperation? Thy name is Julie. What happened to telling Mr. Winchester you had lots of time to get to know him? Hitting the accelerator, baking a pie because you know he loves pie? It’s like exposing Superman to kryptonite. But is Dean Superman, and pie is the kryptonite in this analogy? Or am I Superman and Dean is my kryptonite?

“Fuck. I need sleep.”

She turned the dough out onto the floured counter. The folding was always the part that made her nervous. Her mind wandered to Dean again. Focus, don’t overwork it. Dimpling the soft, crumbling dough with her fingers brought her back to the feeling of his, dancing over her skin.

A weird, tweaked out bliss washed over her. She understood the enjoyment mom got out of cooking for others, even if she wouldn’t admit it. For Julie, it came from baking up treats for co-workers that made their eyes double in size and the occasional dinner parties with friends that ended with a multitude of compliments and full bellies. The parties I use to throw with Steve.

A flour cloud billowed from her continued kneading. Her nose tickled at the dust entering her nostrils. 

She’d lost a lot of their shared acquaintances over the past few months. Julie didn’t have it in her to compete for a mutual friend’s attention. Steve always needed the camaraderie more than she did anyway. She didn’t have the strength or inclination to work that hard for friendships that had already begun to dissolve or become distant over the last decade. The choice to not have children had put them both on a decidedly different path than all their married friends. In her honest opinion, the patriarchal society created a more obvious division between her and her female peers. It didn’t help that she was not one to offer to babysit. Let Steve be the fun uncle. Asshole.

Julie backed away when she realized the folding motion had gotten aggressive. There was no need to take her anger out on the innocent pastry. She separated the dough, formed two balls, covered them in cling wrap, and whacked them in the freezer to prepare for rolling out later. The Great British Baking Show is goddamn addicting.

But Dean. Dean’s lascivious, pornographic attitude toward food had set something off. If a cobbler or a cake could get the kind of a reaction she had witnessed from that man, she really wanted to see what a pie could do. She imagined those green eyes melting her with a gaze of adoration after her pie passed his lips.

I don’t think we’re talking about apples anymore. That mouth. Sweet Jesus. She had picked up on his affinity for lip licking and how his gaze lingered on her own mouth. Oral fixation. He has to be an amazing kisser. I bet he knows how to use that tongue. Everywhere. 

Julie shivered. She poured her second cup of black coffee and strolled to the tiny foyer. The reflection in the hall mirror under unflattering light only magnified the suitcases replacing the bags under her eyes. Her two sizes too big tattered pajamas reminded her of a potato sack. Dean is certainly going to want to get all up in this. Inhaling the aroma first, she then blew in the mug and took a languid sip. So, pie would be a good deflection from your appearance. But the friggin’ pie won’t be ready for hours. And, anyway, it might turn out horrible.

She still had to peel, core, and chop up a ton of apples for the filling. Christ, the sun isn’t even up yet. A yawn overpowered her, despite the injection of caffeine. I should try and take a nap. Her body slipped into her favorite sofa corner. Just a quick one. The mug steamed on the side table. Her lids closed.

~~~~~

Julie’s eyes shot open. Sunlight filtered through the golden sheer curtains covering the sliding doors. The mug was no longer steaming. It was quiet outside.

“Shit.” 

She unfolded out of her seat and rose to stand. Her body creaked in resistance. Discomfort in her muscles delayed their response with a stab of pins and needles. She cringed and cursed under her breath. A swish opened the curtains. Her mouth dropped open.

Lawn’s mowed. Her gaze shot up to Dean’s backyard. Impala’s gone.

“Shit.”

Phone. Julie flew to the kitchen. The phone had been used to look up the crust recipe. She swiped at the flour dusted screen. A groan. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. She groaned again at the notifications. Four messages. All from Dean.

“Shit.”

Knock, knock.

Anybody home?

Hey, Sleeping Beauty. All done with your scheduled lawn service. Was going to drop off your cake. Text me when you wake up so I can make a delivery.

Julie, I had to take care of some business. Be gone until tomorrow. I’m holding your cake hostage. In fact, I’m bringing a few slices with me for the road. Might not be much left. But, seriously, let me know you’re okay. Or I’m knocking your door DOWN when I get back.

“I missed him.” She whispered, in total dejection. She hit reply and began talking out her text. This new tick was happening every time she had a virtual conversation with Dean. “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you. I teeter between an insomniac and coma patient lately. You can have ALL the cake.”

Her heart skipped a few beats when the phone rang, displaying Dean’s name.

She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“I was thinking you dropped the phone and ran away after your text message.” Exasperation threaded through the bass of his voice. He sighed, faraway, on what sounded like his phone’s speaker. “Are you trying to play hard to get?”

“I’m still waking up.” It wasn’t a total lie.

“Hm. Pretty impressive. You slept through me knocking on the front and back door.”

“I slept through an earthquake and two aftershocks once.” She offered.

“Bullshit.” Dean stated without hesitation.

“I did.” Her defenses were up. “I was in California.” She didn’t bother to say she had been on her honeymoon.

“You should get that checked.”

“I did. I’m good. Just a sound sleeper when I actually get some needed rest. I take it you’re a light sleeper?” 

“Pretty much. I’m programmed to wake up at the slightest noise.”

“Work took you away again, huh?”

“Yep.”

She waited. “Is this where you tell me what you do?”

He chuckled. “It’s not as exciting as you’re probably imagining.”

“Try me.”

Without missing a beat, he responded, “Bail Enforcement Agent.”

“Wha-?”

“Bounty Hunter. Even though my colleagues don’t particularly care for the term, I’ve found.”

She gave it a few seconds to sink in. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Her mind replayed the conversation she overheard Dean have with his brother on the phone. He mentioned coming back from a hunting trip. “Is that the business you were in with your brother?”

“No.” He paused. “Let’s say it was bounty hunting adjacent.”

“That’s all I get, huh?”

Another chuckle. “Yep.”

“Now who’s playing hard to get?”

“Not I, sweetheart. You’ll never know what you would’ve been in for today... if you’d heard me knocking.”

She swallowed. A swooshing sound filled the absence of his voice on the line. He’s driving.

“Give me a hint?” A breathy whine escaped along with the question. She bit her lip at the accidental slip.

“Hell. I’ve got someone on the other line. Give me a minute and I’ll call you back.” He hung up abruptly.

She cringed at her reaction. Sexy. Ugh. You are so out of your league with this one. Well, no need to finish working on that pie now. She waved a hand and marched upstairs to change out of her pjs. The crust will keep.

Minutes ticked by. He got busy with work. Bounty hunting? She finished changing and pounced onto her bed, landing on her stomach. Her head shook. It’s an actual thing people do. But he could be lying, leading me on with some absurd and inflated story to see what he can get away with. She’d been that naive with men before, believing what they said at face value. Because, if she wouldn’t flat out lie, why would someone else? Life experience was a hell of a teacher. It turned her hard and cynical and untrusting.

Ten minutes turned into thirty. She browsed through social media apps on her phone. Every second increased her agitation. My window of opportunity has passed.

Over the next half hour, she applied some makeup and gave herself a pep talk in the mirror. “You are channeling all of your pent-up energy, attention, and sexual frustration into this one man. Not healthy. I mean, yeah, the sexual frustration part is totally understandable. But…” she trailed off and stared at her reflection.

Don’t want to get your mind off a messed-up relationship with a quick hop in the sheets. Take care of you. Remember? That was my mantra when I signed the divorce papers. Christ, the single hardest thing I’ve probably ever had to do. And, I added my name to that document like John Fucking Hancock. 

She nodded.

“Go out. Get some air. Run some errands. Just be. And be okay with that.”

Julie attempted to make herself believe her words as she went about her day.

~~~~~

Her mom had called to check in while she was out. So had her brother. Kelly, her co-worker, had texted about a project due the next day, bright and early Monday morning. Julie had taken off that upcoming week and wouldn’t be in the office to help. Kelly needed a pep type. Julie didn’t have the strength for a talk. 

Nothing major was planned for her staycation. The only thing she’d sort of been forced into by her old friend, Karen, was to host a mini belated housewarming that Friday night. Aside from the food prep and cleaning, nothing was on her to-do list for days. Now, she debated if she should just hop in the car and go somewhere. Anywhere, to get away from the temptation that was Dean Winchester. With her mother back home, she didn’t have anything keeping her tied to the house. Except the possibility of a very bad decision clad in plaid.

She returned home with a bottle of wine and a bottle of bourbon, the latter item she never drank. Wandering down the aisle of whiskeys in the liquor store made her think of Dean. He seemed like a bourbon guy, or a man that would appreciate the drink. The clerk had recommended the bottle with an unassuming label filled with a beautiful amber liquid.

Not depressing at all. It was six pm when she strolled up the steps to her bedroom. Her hands balanced an open wine bottle and foil wrapped hazelnut chocolates stuffed into her drinking glass. She tipped the glass and dumped the chocolates onto the bedspread.  Let me not be that pathetic and put some clean pjs on at least. The plan was to settle in for an 80s comfort movie marathon. She’d started with “The Goonies”, then “The Dark Crystal”. She had polished off all the chocolates, wrappers littering the bed, and was almost through “Labyrinth” and the wine when the phone lit up.

U up?

Ten o’clock and Dean was messaging. The alcohol buzz and trippy Henson atmosphere contributed to her out of body feeling. She watched her fingers tap the phone icon and dial his number. 

“Sorry about not calling you back earlier. Got a lead on my skip and had to jump on it.” His voice was super close, husky and low.

“Were you on a stakeout?” A throaty laugh in response to her question ignited a full body tingle. It started at the top of her head and worked its way down to the tips of her bare toes. She muted the television, sank into the pillows, and focused on the ceiling. And Dean’s voice.

“Not quite. I found out he was backtracking to visit his girlfriend. I beat him there, talked to her, explained his situation, and how bad it could really get if he kept running. She convinced him to turn himself in.” 

Julie’s tracking was fuzzy on the details. “Is he handcuffed in your backseat now? Or, your trunk?”

“No. Already dropped him off at the police station.” 

“Where?”

“Poconos.”

That was well over two hours from Pike Creek. “Long way for a fugitive.”

“Not really. Just another Sunday drive for me.”

It sounded too quiet on Dean’s end. “On your way back?”

“I was.” He sighed. “But then I decided to stop at a bar. Had a few too many. So, I’m crashing at a classy motel, stone’s throw away from said bar.” 

“Hm. I should be crashing soon, too.” Julie slurred.

Another long pause. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yep.” She popped the “p” out of her mouth with pursed lips.

“Huh. Sounds like you’ve been at it for a while.”

“The almost empty wine bottle would agree.”

He tisked. “Drunk. And I’m missing it.”

The back of her hand pressed against the warmth of her cheek. “You’re partaking in this event virt-,” the train of thought left the station without her. “Not missing it. Did you take the drinking party back to your room?”

“I did. Always keep a bottle of Jack in my trunk.” 

“We should toast, then, to drinking alone… but, not.” Julie sat up and took a swig, even if Dean wasn’t going to do the same.

She didn’t know how much time passed before he asked in an even, steady tone, “You wanted a hint, earlier, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“Julie?” His voice teased out her name, soft and slow.

She battled to focus. “Yes. A hint would be nice.”

“How about a confession?”

Electric currents pulsed under her skin. “A confession would be even better.”

“Okay. I should’ve told you this that first day. But... I’ve been watching you… spying on me… for a while.”

Her posture straightened, bolting upright from her reclined position, now stiff as a board. “I-I…”

“Don’t try to deny it.” Silence. “I noticed you one morning, a couple months back. I was in the kitchen, fixing some coffee. When I looked out the window, you were staring into my backyard, then over toward my house. I just chalked it up to you being a hot, nosy neighbor. And, honestly, I didn’t mind the view. Business casual looks very good on you.” 

A distinct sip filled her ear, followed by a smack of his lips. Those perfect lips. Julie chose to focus on the fact that he used the word “hot” and not “creepy”.

“But then, you did it again the next morning. You were wearing that dark blue sweater. I was jealous of that sweater, the way it hugs those curves of yours.”

In the effort to stifle a swoon, her mouth let out, “I’d trade places with that red plaid flannel of yours any day.” 

He cleared his throat after her admission. “Should I keep confessing?”

“Please. Go on.”

“I could tell you were looking for me, in particular, not just inspecting my property for things to complain about. Call it a hunter’s instinct. You’d seen me before, hadn’t you?” 

“Yes.”

He didn’t exactly chuckle that time. It was a short, almost sweet little laugh. “So... every morning when I was home, I’d wait for you to do your search. I’d batted around the idea of coming out one day to say hi…”

“Why didn’t you?”

“What was I going to say? Hi, I’m Dean. I’m a low-rate bounty hunter with a couple hundred dollars to my name, a shitty little house, and a drinking problem?” He sighed into her ear. “You saw something that interested you. But I do better sticking to the surface level, remember? I know how to work with what I’ve been given. Not much beyond that.”

She wanted to berate him for talking about himself that way. But all she could manage was to ask, “So, you have been playing hide and seek with me?”

He chuckled. “I guess.”

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with all of that ridiculous behavior. I can usually keep my voyeuristic tendencies to a minimum.” Words tumbled out, sarcastic and apologetic.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. My backyard view was made much nicer. And you gave me the opportunity to get to know you.”

Julie scoffed. “How could you get to know me that way?”

“This is where you’ll probably get irritated.”

She waited.

“I used my skills and resources to do a little digging on you.”

She laughed out loud. “Did you bounty hunt me?”

“Kinda.”

“Interesting. You’re lucky I’m drunk right now, because I find it highly amusing.” And pretty damn hot. She sipped. “What’d you find out?”

“Basic stuff. You’re an accounting manager at a bank in downtown Wilmington. No speeding tickets, pretty straight and narrow. You went to school at University of Delaware - nice GPA. Got married about ten years ago…” his voice trailed off.

“You found out all that stuff even before we met?”

“Yes. And I apologize. But I wanted to get to know my pretty Italian neighbor that liked me, too.”

Too. He could have just ended that sentence with “liked me.�� “Those are just facts. You don’t get to know someone from a distance.”

“I’ve gotten to know some things. I know when you’re deep in concentration you bite the inside of your cheek. And, when you get frustrated, you scrunch up your nose. You do that a lot when you’re on a work call, heading into the house after a long day. I’ve even seen you skip, sometimes, when you come home on a Friday. Just a few feet or so, when you don’t think anyone’s looking. When you leave the house every morning, you test the handle of the sliding door twice to make sure it’s locked. Your hairstyle of choice is a ponytail. But, on the rare occasion when you let your hair down… well, I’m glad you wore it down last night. And, that I got the chance to touch a few strands. Soft as I imagined.”

He’s imagined that. She had no witty retort for his monologue. He’d knocked every ounce of air out of her lungs. Her entire body was hot and charged from his confession. He’d examined her, been allowed access to her quirks and habits in high definition, and this Adonis of a man sounded downright intrigued by all of it.  Holy shit. The stalkee has become the stalker. And, I’m finding the table turning extremely hot right now.

“Julie, I know you’re not perfect. But whatever asshat of a man let you slip away… I don’t think he had any idea what he had to begin with.” He cursed under his breath. “I shouldn’t be saying all this. Making more of a mess of things.”

“No, you’re not.” She swallowed. “How ‘bout that hint?”

“About what I was going to do if you opened the door earlier today?”

“Yes.”

“Give you back half of your cake and ask you out on a proper date. Whatever the hell that is.” It almost sounded like a low, throaty growl escaped his lips. “But that was earlier today. If I had come home tonight and knocked on your door… I don’t know if I could’ve behaved myself. I would have slammed back too many shots when I got home to work up the nerve. Plus, the adrenaline from the hunt has me riled up.”

God. That voice. She crossed her legs to restrict the pulsing in her core. “What does misbehaving look like?”

The silence stretched out to an excruciating span. “We goin’ there?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her head was spinning. She didn’t really know where “there” was.

“Loose lips...” He mumbled. A noisy gulp of liquid followed. The faraway slam of a glass came next. “Well... my misbehaving hands would end up all over that rosy skin. Every inch.”

She bit her lip and held her breath.

“God.” He groaned, his voice not as close now. “I’d like to say I’d be able to take my time. But it might have ended up hard and fast on the floor.”

An instinctive, quite loud gasp escaped from Julie. She slapped a hand over her traitorous mouth.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Dean fumbled over his words. “I shouldn’t have… first, I’m telling you I’ve been investigating you… then, I’m talking about ways I’d… it’s just... it’s been a while.”

Julie exhaled a breath. “I pushed you into sharing. When you say ‘a while’...”

“Since I moved to Delaware. Two years.”

The statement woke her from the orgasmic lullaby. “Bullshit. 

He laughed. “Not exactly something I’m proud to share.”

“What the hell are you saving yourself for?”

Without a beat missed, he responded, “You, apparently.”

He stunned her again.

“This has been… well, I don’t know what this has been… I’m going to let you go before the conversation crashes into the point of no return.”

“Dean…”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

“I’ll expect the rest of my cake returned… as soon as you get back.” 

He laughed. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Part 7

Series Page

[oftripps]

“ –– wow. ”  it’s not so much a critique as it is a g-rated expletive. tripp forces a smile mid-chew and blinks. “ my tastebuds are screaming. gah–– uh, singing. singing. ”  he avoids swallowing and as ring-decorated fingers snag a napkin, wide eyes drifting to the tabletop as a small jingle breezes past tensed lips. “ ~ allergic to mushrooms ~ ”

or, alternatively: this is somethin’ new! the caspar slide pt. 2 !! & this time, it’s ‘bout to get funky !!  so i’m linc and this is tripp and he’s........ a trip, honestly, so let’s just... yeet on into this ––

( joe keery + 22 + muse 12 ) isn’t that phillip joel “tripp” goodman over there? i heard he joined faction: one after they got back to west ham. it’s funny, ‘cause they were only on the service trip because HIS BANDMATES DUPED HIM INTO THINKING THE SIGN-UP WAS FOR A WOODS-THEMED OPEN MIC GIG. hopefully they fit in there – they’re JAUNTY but also OUTRÉ. oh, i’m sure they’ll be fine.

out the door !  ( tripp goodman: a roadmap )

look up townie family in the dictionary and you’ll find a portrait of the goodmans directly beside. these folks have a looooong flippin’ legacy here in lil’ ole west ham, kansas. it all started with montgomery goodman, a good man, who helped west ham’s founders break ground on this midwestern charmer several centuries ago. and now, the goodmans still live on the same property –– a refurbished farmhouse ( now closer to mcmansion ) surrounded by five acres of roooooollin’ hills. once upon a time, they were farming folk. now, theresa and joel goodman run the town’s one and only veterinary clinic. 

honestly, growing up? tripp was a problematic kid. he’d take in frogs from the woods and start his own frog hotels. he’d sneak pets from the clinic to school who “ needed help learning their numbers ”. in class, he’d flick sunflower seeds at the backs of his peers’ heads and, when threatened with discipline, claim he simply “ wanted to see if they’d grow  ” .  so no, to answer your question–– tripp never really saw the real wrath warranted by his rulebreaking.

in fourth grade, he chose the saxophone as his required instrument. he caused such a commotion in his house, that his parents asked his teachers to suggest something quieter. the viola. the flute. the clarinet. the piano. instruments came and went,;instruments were quickly mastered and abandoned. because dear lord, how many times could they listen to the spongebob theme song played on woodwind ?!  on strings ?!  once middle school rolled around, little phillip joel knew his way around a whopping total of six instruments, a tally that would only grow in the coming years. eventually, his parents caved and allowed him to keep playing, so long as he respected instrument curfews. they gave song requests to avoid hearing the same pieces on repeat: the goodman household was probably the only one blessed with an oboe-and-beatbox rendition of under the sea. young phillip joel’s take on the issue was simple: not all heroes wore capes.

( tw: domestic unrest, mentions of violence ) theresa and joel split when tripp was 9. just seven months later, tripp’s mother moved in with her girlfriend: tripp’s guitar teacher, ms. lillith. tripp didn’t mind ms. lillith. she was chill. he came to find out she could knock back a chocolate milk almost as fast as he could, and she liked her grilled cheeses with swiss only. his best friend became a thirty-six year old woman who happened to be his mother’s girlfriend. and that was fine. he could dig it. but joel goodman? oh no. his family name was tarnished. the scandal was too much to bear. joel sued for full custody and nearly made it, thanks to hometown politics and loyalties. but then he made one fatal mistake: he crossed his own son.

at 10 years old, fifth grade phillip joel returned home to his father’s after school with three fingernails painted effervescent blue. sidney frasier made me so cool, he gushed as he put his colored nails on proud display. dad, aren’t i so cool?  the next day, his dad enrolled him in the town’s peewee football program. he returned home from his first practice with a black eye and a split lip. from a ball, the coach insisted. hit the poor fella square in the face, real strong. phillip joel put up a fight against football; it wasn’t for him. it conflicted with music practice. couldn’t he just play music with ms. lillith instead?

the custody battle persisted. they settled on a parenting schedule. joel contested, consistently, months later. and so the cycle persisted up until phillip joel’s 12th year, when he was knocked out cold on the football field. the broken ribs came from hefty tackles. bruises from the fall. concussion from the impact. but theresa spun it to her advantage: joel had since started coaching the middle school team. this was an instance of parental neglect. and, when the courts didn’t comply, she instructed her son to jump down the stairs. one broken ankle later, and joel goodman was accused of child abuse. his word against his injured son’s. the maneuver won theresa full custody. phillip joel has yet to forgive himself.

after the custody battle’s conclusion, joel stayed in town: but phillip joel didn’t want a thing to do with sharing his name. his mother still scolds him as phillip joel, but to everyone else, he became tripp –– inspired by his knack for, you guessed it!, tumbling over his own two feet.

in high school, tripp was the class clown. always smirking, always grinning, always ready to catch someone off guard. he became a pivotal part of west ham high’s jazz band, and even formed a small group with a few buds: face. they played some school events: homecoming, pep rallies, prom. garage-baked young rock, their songs often preached meetings under bleachers and high school never ending. 

in senior year, the band saw a reboot: and after assuming a more indie, spacey sound and a nifty new name –– 1757. –– they saw a rise in local celebrity. coffee shops commissioned them for jam nights. they played on the local radio. so they collectively decided to stick around and see how far they could ride this west ham fame train. with tripp as their frontman, they always leave a memorable impression: he’s not exactly the most run-of-the-mill performer.

1757.’s sound is reminiscent of LANY: i’ve reblogged a few tunes onto tripp’s blog for reference. he’s v much a paul klein / matty healy vibe. big into music. big into losing himself in it.

so what was he up to before the service trip? playin’ tunes. working part-time as a waiter. and brainstorming ways to get out of going on this trip, as soon as he realized his stupid bandmates lied about the form he signed. an open mic in the woods ! pah !  he should have known. but the concept sounded pretty flippin’ cool.

wear our shades on our nose, 'cause we're cool like that ( tripp goodman: the man, the myth, the ledge )

oh god, he’s  w e i r d .  he believes in goblins and ghosts and aliens ( oh my )!

still VERY VERY close with his mother. v broken up about not being able to get through to her, because it was about to be his parents’ wedding anniversary and they were going to anti-celebrate it with big slices of oreo cheesecake and setting things on fire.

how he feels about coming home to west ham: post apocalyptic version.

uhhhh... can he please get a waffle? specifically a cinnamon raisin waffle with extra cinnamon and a shit ton of syrup? actually. syrup with a side of waffles?

why he was banned from his personal twitter.

“ do you even lift, bruv? ”  * proceeds to pick up a teacup & lift his pinkie like a true knock-off british monarch, shitty accent included *

listens to wham! and glam rock. unironically.bluetooth speaker mounted on his bike. no helmet! like an absolute boss. he knows!! wild!! shades on. it’s 2am. it’s dark. but true swag obeys no clock.

catch him biking everywhere stranger things style, actually. his bike’s name is milo because he can roll on for miles. mess with milo and he’ll fuck u up. aka find out if you’re lactose intolerant and slip heavy cream into your meal.

has a strong vendetta against blue doritos. which might take root in some horrific experiences involving cheez wiz, cool ranch, weed, and the new york subway system at 4am on a tuesday. spring break freshman year of college. oof.

he has a lil drawwwwl. tease him about it. he’ll probably blush.

stress-hums chili’s babyback ribs without realizing. catch him singin’ that about to be murdered.

weapon of choice: kindness.

actual weapon of choice: baseball bat.

he will write little jingles to keep morale up. “ so we’re trapped / cash us inside / how bou’ dat ? ”

has a passion for introspective literary quotes. but... has somehow managed to learn each and every one wrong.

friggin’ loves superheroes even though he can’t be bothered to watch the films? he just… always used to get made fun of for liking comic books even though he never read them? “ arachnid man is uh...  heh. he’s pretty dope, huh? ” he embraces the falsehood. someone call him on it.

9/10 times if he’s in the gym, it’s just to eat his donut and watch pay-per-view movies on the bike for free.

apple pie can absolutely be breakfast if you try hard enough. jeez. get with the times, man!

he had a legitimate pet rock before going on this service trip. but has no idea where that bugger’s gone. probably got fed up with tripp serenading him with “ we will rock you ” at all hours of the night.

lawful good. will wave other drivers on forever.

got into an accident on his bike once. bitch broke his arm and he just kept on smiling.  “ no you have a nice day! and uh.... hey. mind if we like... call an ambulance? ”

low key feels like he’s the reason his parents’ marriage crumbled. low key guilty about it. low key wonders if maybe he lived up to his father’s expectations, he might have saved them a lot of grief.

give benny goodman by saint motel a listen and tell me that’s not his soul in audio form.

known for slightly hyperbolic storytelling.

pansexual as heck. falls in love. hard. it’s a mess. he can’t hide it. hence the shades.

he has brilliant hair. and it’s immortalized in his high school yearbook.

is hellbent on being a source of positivity in this terrible situation. can he interest you in a meme in these trying times? how ‘bout a granola bar? maybe a good ole game of mash?

he’s convinced this is an elaborate prank. or a social experiment. maybe aliens. but let’s not question it too much, let’s just.... have a good time? hakuna matata? no worries? lol where the twizzlers at?!

leaves a voicemail for his mother every morning and every night. maybe he cries. maybe.

he has one ear pierced because like.......... senior year of high school, he wanted to feel more cool.

allergic to mushrooms, shellfish, eggs, and harbingers of doom.

he truly boggles minds. just.... v out there? v spacey. he closes his eyes and drifts about on stage, fingers dancing on the keys, body moving in eclectic ways. he says “groovy” and fuckin’ means it. he dresses in prints inspired by grandma’s carpet. lots of half-buttoned flowy shirts, boots, tailored statement pants, dangly necklaces. he’s got his hands full of rings –– they symbolize milestones. and some are just, like... pretty. and one’s his mother’s old wedding band.

where the hell are my friends !  ( wanted connectz. )

i was gonna do a whole section on this and got lazy but like.... anything. all the things. good, bad, ugly, beautiful. hurt him. make him suffer. but also support him a bit.

i imagine he’s got a solid squad goin’. he’s in faction one too, so... hmu for those.

i feel like he’d be pretty chill with the greeks? yeah bro, he parties. he’ll chill. he’ll crack open a cold one and pretend to understand what those letters on your jacket mean! pie-apple-fate-uh? cool stuff !

ride or dies. pls.

he needs someone to like....... melt his heart. maybe someone unexpected.

thisssss got long & disorganized but yes! let’s plot! let’s do this thang! #hype!!