#Palm House San Francisco

[bay-views]

[imperialgoogie]

The House of Googie in The Land of Googie

In June and July this year, I travelled to the United States for a four-week holiday to celebrate my 30th birthday. In that time, I took in the sights of San Francisco, Los Angeles and Southern California, Las Vegas, and the Grand Canyon. It was my first time stateside, and I'm not exaggerating when I say the entire trip was incredible and I wish I could have stayed even longer. It's such a beautiful part of the world.

Why is this relevant? Southern California is the birthplace of Googie, and if there's one thing I love, it's Googie. With my good friend and fellow vintage enthusiast KoHoSo's help, we travelled around greater Los Angeles and out into the Mojave Desert in search of old signs and architecture. We were very lucky to find no shortage of beautiful mid-century delights, some in better conditions than others.

As if that wasn't enough, on the day before my birthday, we headed to Palm Springs, the mid-century Mecca. To see so many Mid-Century Modern and Googie houses and stores was just a pure delight, and it was so nice to see the city embracing the aesthetic. The fact it's out in the desert with all the beautiful plants accenting it just makes it even better.

For my birthday, we did a road trip along the old Route 66 from San Bernardino all the way to Santa Monica, with a few deviations along the way. The trip took far longer than any of us had expected, and while we ended up thoroughly tired by the end of the day, I got to see some great sights, and no shortage of Googie delights along the way.

Of course, it wasn't enough; no amount could be. I hope I'll be able to return again soon to take in more of California's gold. Finally being able to behold authentic Googie for myself is an experience I'll cherish forever.

I apologise for the quality of some of the photos, sometimes the photos were taken at the last possible second as we passed. I'm sure you'll enjoy them all the same.

Alternatively, KoHoSo has some more photos on his Flickr if you're interested. They're not as Googie-focused as this post, but you can see some more of the places we went to, with some explanations added in. Trust me, the foot photo is relevant.

Long live Googie.

[bullet-prooflove]

5500 Follower Celebration: Save Me San Francisco - Gibbs x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @ilovemark1951 @love-affair-with-fandoms @clarasmoon @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

Companion piece to:

Right Here - You come home to find Gibbs waiting for you on your doorstep.

Revelations - Gibbs is surprised to discover a connection between you and Mike Franks.

Haunted (ft: Mike Franks) - Mike reflects on your prior history.

Lilies - Gibbs knows you're not fine.

Closure - Gibbs supports you in the aftermath of the arrest.

You’re leaving.

It shouldn’t hurt Gibbs as much as it does but he can’t help but feel like someone has plunged a hunting knife into his chest as he helps you load your luggage into trunk of your car.

You’re taking a sabbatical for a few months, a break from NIS to teach in San Franisco. They’re bringing in some British guy called Mallard to cover for you whilst you’re away figuring things out.

The resolution of your sister’s case has thrown you off kilter. You need some breathing room, a chance to work out who you are without the grief and you can’t do that here, not with Mike Franks walking around like a living, breathing reminder of the worst day of your life.

He closes the trunk, the noise vibrating through the air before he glances up to find  you watching him. He tilts his face away because he doesn’t want you to see the devastation in him, how much it pains him to let you go.

“You look sad.” You say, your fingertips ghosting along his clenched jaw before you guide his gaze back to yours. “I know it feels like you’re losing me right now but I promise you you’re not.”

He swallows hard against the well of emotion in his chest, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. The truth is he doesn’t believe you. His own history has taught him that everything is fleeting, that the rug can be pulled from underneath your feet at any given second. He knows you’ll fall in love with San Franisco, that you’ll choose to make it your home and he’ll be the one helping you pack up the house this time, instead of just a couple of bags.

“I’m still yours Gibbs, I just need to take some time to get my head straight.”

Before he even gets a chance to contemplate the meaning of your words, your lips brush over his and it’s like lighting erupts through out his entire body, searing his nerve endings, jump starting his synapses. His hand threads through your hair on it’s own accord, his tongue delving deep into the recesses of your mouth as you press against him, your palms sliding down to his chest, gripping the lapels of his jacket. He’s breathless when you pull away, his skin flushed, unable to speak.

There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you meet his gaze.

“You should come visit me in San Francisco.” You tell him and he understands that if he does follow you to that city that things will change between the two of you, that he’ll end up in your bed and he’s not sure if he’s ready for that just yet.

“Think about it.” You say as you climb into the car.

He watches as you start the engine, his hand raising in farewell before you pull away from the curb.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[ereardon]

Homecoming [Jake Seresin x Reader] Chapter 3

Summary: Returning home to California after six years abroad in England, you found everything has changed. Jake Seresin, your father's former college roommate and lifelong best friend, is now a widower and has purchased a new vineyard in Montecito, only a few miles from your childhood home. Your parents’ marriage is on the rocks, your brother is struggling with what to do with his life, and you’ve grown up and are starting your own counseling practice. So what happens when you find yourself falling for the man your father calls his best friend? And worse, what happens when your parents find out he’s falling for you, too? 

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader

Warnings: Age gap, eventual smut, cursing, alcohol

Word count: 2K

Chapter overview: Y/N settles into her job at Jake's vineyard, and has a revelation about their relationship

Author's note: This fic references a significant age gap, as reader is the child of Jake's best friend. However, she's in her mid-twenties, and he's been only a small part of her life to this point as he spent the majority of his time traveling with his late wife. This fic does not depict grooming, but if you are concerned with any of the themes please read at your own risk.

Masterlist here

On your second week on the job, a drunken bachelorette smashed fifteen bottles of wine by toppling over a display case. Just as you were about to curse them out, Jake swooped in, one hand on your arm, a reassurance blanket. 

“On the house,” he said with a grin and the girls swooned at him, forking over a 400% tip to try and cover the cost of the bottles. Jake let you keep it all. 

“For the practice,” he said, holding a hand up, stopping you from pressing the cash into his palm. 

“Jake, I can’t.” 

“Take it,” he replied, insistent. “Please.” 

By the time your one-month anniversary at the vineyard rolled around, Jake was letting you help plan weddings and events. The vineyard had a handful of different event packages, and you were up to your ears in paperwork. 

“Knock knock.” Jake hovered in the doorway of your office. He had cleared out a spare room next to his office and made it yours. It fit a small desk and chair, and you relished the ability to go into your office and shut the door and close out the world. 

“Hey. What’s up?” 

“You’re working late.” 

“Oh you know, my boss, he’s a real hard ass.” 

Jake grinned, lowering his arms and folding them across his broad chest. “Yeah, heard of him, they say he’s a huge asshole.” 

“And super ugly,” you replied. 

Jake chuckled. “Just wanted to check in on the Mackenzie wedding. How’s that going?” 

You sighed. “Remind me never to get married.”

He frowned. “Why is that?” 

“Marriage seems OK, but weddings are the worst. It brings out everyone’s bad side.” You tilted your head. “What was your wedding like?” 

“We didn’t have one.” 

“What?” 

He shrugged. “We were young, we wanted to save our money and travel. So we went to the San Francisco courthouse and eloped.” 

“Do you regret it?” 

“Not for a second.” He smiled. “You’re right, Sparky. Weddings aren’t for the bride and groom. They’re for family and friends. Sometimes it’s nice to keep it just about you.” 

There was something in Jake’s gaze that you couldn’t read. Was he thinking about Jenny? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N,” Jake said softly. “Don’t stay too late, OK? If it’s too late to drive home, call me and I’ll pick you up.” 

“I live fifteen minutes away,” you reminded him. 

“Just call me, alright.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.” 

He chuckled and shook his head. You found yourself watching him walk away. 

***

“Let’s make quesadillas.” 

You peeled your eyes open. Colin was standing in the corner of your room wearing a pair of swim trunks and no shirt. You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “You’re shitting me, right?” 

“Come on.” He smirked. “Night swim and Mexican food. It’s tradition.” 

“We’re not seventeen anymore, Colin,” you groaned. “I have work in the morning.” 

“Jake will understand.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” you replied. “I’m responsible now.” 

He ripped the blanket off the bed and you shot up to seated, furious. 

“Seriously?” 

Colin grinned. “Come on. Live a little, sis.” 

Ten minutes later, the two of you were eating quesadillas in the hot tub. You tipped your head back against the tile rim. “What are we doing out here?” 

“Eating quesadillas.” 

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. We’ve barely talked since I got home. It’s been six weeks.” 

“I’m busy. You’re busy.” 

“I have a job. You work at the crab shack.” Colin, after nearly failing out of college twice, had taken an almost permanent job on the boardwalk. This time he was a fry cook at a seafood joint frequented by tourists. 

“Don’t be such a snob, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“Just like being an idiot doesn’t suit you.” 

He shoved the rest of his quesadilla in his mouth and reached for yours. You were too slow – he grabbed it and forced it into his stuffed face. “Thanks.” It came out garbled and you watched a fleck of dried cheese land in the swirling water. 

“Disgusting,” you said with a laugh. “I’m serious though. What are you doing? You can’t live with mom and dad forever.” 

“You live with mom and dad.” 

“For now.” 

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Same.” 

You sighed. “Fine. New subject.” 

“So when do I get to see my little sis at her big grown up job?” 

“The vineyard?” He nodded. “Whenever. Come any time, I’m always there.” 

“With Jake.” 

You frowned. “Yeah, with Jake.” 

“Y/N.” He tipped his head. “He’s like, old. You know that, right?” 

“What?” You were aghast. “I mean, yeah I know that. I’m not stupid.” 

“He’s too old for you.” 

“He’s Jake!” you countered. “He’s dad’s friend. He’s my boss.” 

“Not once did you say you don’t want to date him.” 

The truth in Colin’s words prickled your brain. He was right. You couldn’t say that and be telling the truth. Because the truth was, as the days went by, you were starting to see Jake differently, despite your best efforts. He was kind and he was generous and he had an affable attitude that charmed everyone, old and young, man or woman. He was easy to be with. He made things fun. 

You shook your head. “Shut up, Colin.” 

He laughed. There was something buried in that laugh. How many times had the two of you snuck out in the middle of the night for a swim? How many times had you heard his laugh, and known that he was going to unearth your secrets? Colin knew everything you did before you even did it. 

***

“We need more sauvignon blanc on table three,” you said to the head waiter. He scampered toward the bar in the back, emerging a moment later with a frosty bottle of white, carefully cutting the metal wrapper tableside and popping the cork seamlessly. 

“Relax.” Jake appeared from behind, looking relaxed in a suit in the way only a confident man in his forties could. 

“I can’t,” you replied, eyes watching the bride and groom flit from table to table speaking with their guests. So far, nothing had gone wrong. At least, not in the front of the house. In the back, you had stopped three rounds of appetizers from being burned, and had to deal with a last minute rosé crisis. 

“I hired you because I knew you’d do the job well,” he said. “But I want you to have fun, too.” 

You shot him a glare and he smirked. “Fun? You think trying not to ruin someone’s wedding is fun?” 

“Honey, once they get down the aisle, nothing could ruin it. I could go over there and puke on her dress and it would still be the best day of her life.” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

He chuckled. “Do me a favor, Sparky?” 

“I’m not going to spill red wine on the mother of the groom just so you can have the last laugh.” 

“Have a drink,” Jake replied. “And save me a dance.” 

By the end of the night, you had eaten approximately fifteen balls of fried mac n cheese and had four glasses of champagne. As the last guests departed – the bride and groom had driven off in an antique Jaguar an hour earlier – you let out a sigh of relief. 

“Great job guys,” you said to the crew as they filed out of the kitchen, backs sore, white servers aprons splattered with wine. Your neck was aching and so were your feet. All you wanted to do was go home, take off your wrap dress and take a hot shower before stumbling into a fluffy pile of white bed linens. 

You had been surprised to learn that all of the vendors – the florist and the linen delivery and the chair rentals – would arrive the next morning to pack everything up. Somehow you had it in your mind that a wedding was ripped down the instant it was over. As if it was never there. But the reality was, the ghost of the wedding lived on through the night. In the quiet and the dark, the skeleton of everything remained. 

As you turned, heading for the stairs, Jake emerged at the top of the stairs. “Clocking out?” 

You nodded. “I need to sleep for one hundred years and quite possibly take the longest shower known to mankind.” 

Jake carefully stepped down the marble stairway before landing at the bottom, only a foot from you. “Well if you do that, I’d have to fire you.” 

Your face fell. “What?” 

“You promised me a dance,” he added. 

You frowned. “The musicians are gone. The wedding is over, Jake. And besides, my feet feel like they’re dying.” 

“Take off your shoes.” There was something authoritative about how he said it. And despite your bed calling your name, you followed his orders, slipping off the tall heels, bare feet hitting the cold marble floor and you almost moaned in relief. Jake held out one hand and you took it, letting him lead you out onto the empty dance floor. He pulled out his phone, hitting a few buttons before music filled the air around you. “One dance,” he whispered. 

“Yes, Jefe,” you replied and he smirked. Naturally, your fingertips reached for his, one hand tangled with his fingers, the other wound around his neck. Jake held your waist softly, pulling you in closer, until you could feel the heat of him on you. 

“I couldn’t do this without you, Y/N.” You knew it was serious when he didn’t call you Sparky, the heinous nickname that had come from that one summer as a child when you had been determined to teach the dogs how to do tricks like the seals at the zoo, balancing balls on their noses and doing flips in the water. It ended horribly, and there went your dream of being a zoo performer. 

“Yes you could,” you replied. “You did it before I came home. You’ll do it after.” 

Jake’s grip tightened microscopically, but you felt it. Like he was grounding himself as the two of you swayed in the open space. “What would you say if I begged you not to leave?” 

You looked up at him. The slight stubble across his jaw, the way his collar was pulled apart, a small tuft of chest hair peering through the top of the white shirt. “Jake, I—”

“I want the best for you, Y/N,” he interrupted. “I always have. But selfishly, I want you to myself, too. You make everything easier. You make everything better. And it’s been a long time since I felt like I could depend on anyone other than myself.” 

“The clinic isn’t anywhere near done,” you replied. “I still have months of construction and paperwork and hiring people.” 

“Just the thought of losing you.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m being selfish. I’m the adult here, I shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on you.” 

You stopped dancing, dropping Jake’s hand and lifting it to his neck so that your fingertips closed behind his collar. Jake’s hands fell dutifully to your waist, large fingertips digging into the sides beneath your ribs. “I’m not a kid anymore,” you whispered. “I’m twenty five.” 

Something passed between the two of you. You found yourself staring up at Jake, his algae green eyes, the way his lips were puckered slightly. The way he felt, hot, pressed against you. 

And then it was over. Jake’s hands fell from your waist as he took a step back. “It’s late,” he said softly. “Can I drive you home?” 

You frowned. “I drove myself. I’ll be fine.” 

He turned toward the stairs, the music in his pocket shutting off abruptly. “Goodnight, Y/N.” 

You watched his shoulders sag as he disappeared up the stairs. The thundering of your heart in your chest threatened to knock you over. 

Tag list:

@lyn-js @seresinhangmanjake @bobfloydsbabe @blue-aconite @clancycucumber230 @dempy @allbark-no-bite @teacupsandtopgun @na-ta-sh-aa @katiedid-3 @bradshawburner @xomrsalliej4787xo @xoxabs88xox @kmc1989 @shanimallina87 @rosiahills22 2 @emo @horseshoegirl @eminyourjeans

[ghostieblr]

the perfect star that hid

written for @sterekbingo square "soulmate au." kind of a new take on soulmate au? at least i haven't seen this particular type (if you have, please link them to me!! <3) also, my card is under the cut! at the very end. the full fic is here, but you can also read it on ao3 (where i'll post it when i get back home) if that's more your style.

The name unfurls on his wrist at the mall, filled with people, a scratch to his bone that goes unnoticed; he always wears full sleeves, a habit borne of shame and fury, fury at himself and his life and at the one who is writing it. He's 27 — older than the average population of those without someone by their side, someone who are made with dust and ashes that together make the perfect star.

He's celebrating his 27th birthday, actually, in this very mall. Friends that appreciate his appreciation for Star Wars, that don't mind him or pity him, who actually care about him — they booked an entire cinema hall for him, pulled certain strings to make it happen, and none of them had to pleaded or begged for it. They just love him.

He doesn't have his soulmate, yet, perhaps never will, but there is this truth as well: he has friends that love him like family, like their own. It might just have to be enough.

That's what he's thinking, the epiphany dredging up his past agony and mulling it over, layering it over with itself, a sort of aftercare that he's giving a try. And he's tired, too, of the heartache and the negativity — his own most of all. And he is tired of the day, muscles aching, and hey. It's a good time for a relaxing shower, now that he's home.

So he smiles at no one in the apartment but at himself in the mirror he's hung in the living room, a sort of statement piece that Lydia insisted on after taking one look at his at the time barely furnished abode, and shrugs.

"You don't need anyone, Stiles."

The words don't sound quite right as he hears them, the meaning of it turned desolate instead of triumphant as his thoughts become intangibly tangible, an epiphany to something he might just have to get used to. Still, he's said it, it's out there, and it's gonna have to do.

He picks the clothes off of himself, hopes the shower will help him pick himself up. Decides a bath would be better — but he's not got that now, has he? Perhaps he should start saving for a house, now. But it's just so much harder with one income only; he could move back to Beacon Hills? San Francisco isn't bad, but the prices of real estate are no joke.

The pros and cons of that potential scenario run through his head, his legs out of the jeans now, his hoodie off of his body next. Huh, he's almost out of toothpaste; he should go to the grocery store tomorrow. He should also see what's in his fridge and what's not but — later.

He's getting ahead of himself.

The t-shirt he's wearing comes off, too, a full-sleeved one, white, that looks rather good on him. Accentuates the lean muscle thing he's got going on from his years at the Track Team in high school and college. There's this scar he has on his left palm from falling once in the middle of a tournament. He turns his hand—

It's not bare, anymore. His wrist — it has a name.

His soulmate's name.

He stares. And stares and stares because what the hell. This has to be a joke, right?

It just has to be.

He has been within 100 metres of this person before multiple times. Has been to his childhood home, to the fucking police station he works at because hello — Derek Hale is one of Sheriff's Deputies, and Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

They've been within 100 metres of each other before.

But this has never happened.

But...

He rushes to his bedroom, naked, panicked, ecstatic. Picks up the phone from where he'd chucked it on the bed, opens the contact of a person he hasn't contacted since the last project they did together in high school.

Cora Hale picks up on fifth ring, when he's about to hang up and try again.

"Stilinski?" She sounds confused. "It's been a while. What's up?" A muffled voice, a male. Cora says, "Are you fucking kidding me? It can't be him — you've known each other for — it's impossible —" She's clearly not speaking to Stiles.

"Is Derek there?"

Cora stops talking.

"Cora, is he — did he get it too?"

Sounds of footsteps, labored breathing. Phone changes hands and then: "Are you Mieczysław Stilinski?"

Stiles stops breathing. It's real.

Derek is asking him the name nobody but his father and the people at the DMV know.

"I don't know any other Stilinski’s. Just your father and you," Derek is saying. He sounds confused, happy, breathless. "And I know your name starts with an M. I saw some papers on the Sheriff's desk once, by mistake but — how is it you?" A pause. "Not — I didn't — I mean like —"

"How is it me when we have been around each other for so long. I have been at your house, you've been working at the BHPD for... fuck, 3 years now?"

"Since I came back from NY, yeah."

"I don't know, Derek, I don't but I... you were at the mall today, right?" He just wants to be sure.

"Yes. Yeah. I was, I was buying a gift for my parent's anniversary."

"And today's my birthday, I was —"

"With your friends watching Star Wars. I know. I saw you and the Sheriff let the whole station know about it yesterday."

Stiles can't fucking believe this. And also... "I'm so fucking cold. I really should wear some clothes."

"What?"

"Long story short — Shower, saw the name, called the one Hale's number I had."

Derek's chuckle is sexy and seriously, how has he never heard it before? It's a crime. And Stiles should be in jail. At least then he would have met his soulmate earlier... but wait, that's a paradox. Isn't it?

"I thought you were short story long kind of person," Derek says, and follows up with, "And if you're free right now... I know it's late but, would you forsake your shower and meet me to figure out why he haven't met before?"

Stiles cuts the call.

Then calls Cora's cell again. Derek picks it up with an exhale that seems very anxious, so Stiles closes his eyes at his stupidity and admits, "That was a yes. My brain just jumped ahead a few steps. Please text me your number so we can let Cora have her phone back," Cora cheers in the background, "And I can end the call so that I can wear my clothes and you can text me whatever address and we can finally meet and I'm sorry for ending the call so abruptly and seriously why haven't we met before? It's so —"

Derek chuckles again, and really, it's such a nice sound. "Stiles, breathe. I don't want you to die just yet."

"I can absolutely do that, yep."

Silence.

"Stiles? Wear your clothes. I promise I'll help you out of them when —"

There's a sudden struggle at the other end, and then it's Cora's voice coming down the line, "Ew! No! Do it on your own phone. Stiles, I'm texing you my brother's number, so go! Now!"

She ends the call.

Stiles lets his own phone fall onto the bed, processes what happened for just a minute, and then smiles goofily when Cora makes good on her statement.

Somehow, even though they haven't interacted in all these years despite all the things connecting them to the same peg on the board, Derek texts Stiles: "Stop dawdling and come meet me at the diner on 5th. Remember to wear your clothes. For now."

It's all one block of text too, the dork.

Guess that's his dork now.

Greatest. Birthday. Ever.

[junkienet]

✱ LEATHER KISSES ？ king caesar.

fluff ⌇ missing a partner undertone ⸻ ﹙ 𝒜lt ﹒ universe ﹚ established relationships. 𝒻.ᐟreader

the gleam of the bonfire clatters twice , three times. you , with pummeled hands and a mottled nose , rub your buttocks in the gore of wood bound to the muddy lot. the colony of the seditious apes of san francisco , dwelling on the hill south of the muir woods grove , was splashed and sullen. you scan your periphery , zigzagging. up , down; clouds of gloom in the aspect of frond and earthly fields rubricated by gorilla tracks. left , right; wall of stalks and brush , jungle grotto toward the thundering creek.

yawning , you wait for caesar.

panted hoo's and thorax bumps percuss above your skull , the committee's agglomeration is perennial. you wheeze , your chin lands your palm. you lick the blueberry sapidity of your bottom lip , conquering a flimsy sprig. with the apex pointed towards the space between the appendage of your shoes , you tattoo the mud. you sketch a house, with a beaked roof and quadriform windows. then, without effort, you draw a heart. you indolently grope to compose it captivating by attaching bird—y propellers. with your head warped , you doodle a pair of ocelli eyes similar to a grassy meadow and twinkling suns , worn and human. the bonfire clatters four , five times. you , with troubled legs and eager fingers , miss caesar.

you hammer the denouement with the branch among your digits , with each roll the din of the council members disengage to their huts with wobbles on their haunches and shoulders. your orbs pirouette above the circumference of your larynx , running a folded lip , pinched nose and exhausted eyes.

of grassy meadows and twinkling suns.

you impel the twig to the fire , the flare zapping in sumptuousness. the aloque bubbling that scorched your cheek is cornered behind the indigo and avid glow. your feet wiggle squiggly between earth and vegetation , and the ape king sways donnishly in your midnight collision. he grunts and exhales, steepening his head downward. his leathery forehead kisses the sweaty skin amidst your brow.

the bonfire clatters six, seven times. caesar, pompous—chested and cheeks fluffed in erudition, had missed you too.

SEXY JUTSU LIKE NARUTO ©JUNKIENET ╱ 2024.

[movingmusically]

Caught Feeling - Epilogue

Synopsis:

Y/N and Hank find themselves celebrating Christmas in San Francisco, welcomed into his family’s holiday traditions. As Y/N experiences the warmth of Hank’s childhood home, it’s clear how much their bond has grown. Together, they find comfort in the idea of a future—one that feels like home, no matter where they are.

Author’s Note:

This was meant to be a short chapter with a small time skip to finish the story, but it’s ended up being the longest of all. I’m sure I could have edited it down a bit more but I got carried away.

Thank you so much for reading Caught Feeling! It’s the first time I’ve tried writing anything, and I’ve loved every moment of creating these characters and sharing their journey. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Word Count: 10,074

Masterlist

The flight from New York had been long but filled with a quiet excitement that buzzed between us. As we touched down in San Francisco, I felt a thrill of anticipation mingled with a hint of nerves. Hank stayed close, his fingers laced with mine, grounding me with each reassuring squeeze. The crisp air of the city greeted us as we stepped out of the airport, the warmth of California in December an unfamiliar contrast to the biting chill I was used to back in New York.

We collected our bags and made our way to the hire car I’d arranged in advance. I slid behind the wheel, adjusting to the slight strangeness of being in control after so long, and Hank settled in beside me, a relaxed smile playing on his lips as he reached over to rest a comforting hand on my knee. It was my turn to be the steady one, to navigate this last leg of the journey as he leaned back, gazing out at the passing scenery with a look that was equal parts nostalgic and contemplative.

The streets wound up gently toward his parents’ neighbourhood, a mix of towering palms and cheerful holiday decorations adorning the houses we passed. I couldn’t help but marvel at the unfamiliar sight of Christmas lights twinkling against green lawns, rather than snow-covered streets. It felt surreal—this warmth, this different version of December. Part of me missed the chill of New York, the way it made everything feel more festive, but there was a charm to this as well, a reminder that Christmas could feel like home in more than one way.

Finally, as we approached his parents’ house, my nerves prickled again. Hank must have sensed it, because he reached for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “They’re going to love you,” he murmured, his voice filled with that calm assurance I’d come to trust.

Before we even had a chance to knock, the door swung open, and there was his mum, her face lighting up with pure joy at the sight of us. She stepped forward, arms wide open, and pulled Hank into a warm hug before turning to me, her expression radiating a welcome that eased the last of my nerves.

“And you must be Y/N!” she said, her voice full of warmth. She pulled me into a hug that felt instantly comforting, like I was already part of this family.

As she stepped back, Hank’s dad appeared behind her, his smile steady and welcoming. He shook my hand firmly, then clapped Hank on the back with a look of approval that seemed to speak volumes. “Welcome to our home,” he said, his tone genuine and kind.

Inside, the air was filled with the scent of fresh pine and cinnamon, the rooms cozy and inviting with festive touches everywhere—garlands winding up the banister, stockings hanging by the fireplace, and a scattering of old family photos that gave me a glimpse of Hank as a kid. Seeing him in those snapshots—grinning with a gap-toothed smile, his hair bleached from the summer sun—made me feel like I was peeking into a world I’d only heard about before now.

As we stepped further into the house, Hank’s mum moved about with an eager, warm energy, pointing out little mementos and details that made this house a true home. “See this?” she said, pausing by a shelf that displayed a neat row of snow globes. “Henry used to collect these when he was little. Every family trip, we had to find a new one. I think he even tried to convince us once that a trip to the grocery store counted, just so he could get another one.”

Hank let out a groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was ten, Ma”

She waved a hand, undeterred. “You were persistent! And then there’s this…” She pointed to a photo on the wall of a much younger Hank, arms stretched wide, grinning from ear to ear with a front tooth missing, standing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. His dad stood behind him, hands resting on Hank’s shoulders with an expression of fatherly pride, and his mum, laughing beside them, had her arm wrapped around both.

“Look at that smile,” I teased, nudging him gently. “Future heartbreaker right there.”

Hank rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked into a smile. “I’m sure the missing tooth really did it for the girls.”

His mum chuckled, resting her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, don’t let him fool you. He had the girls at school bringing him cookies every week. Thought I wouldn’t notice how fast he went through his lunch money.”

“Ma…” Hank muttered, his cheeks flushing faintly. He glanced at me, clearly torn between embarrassment and amusement.

“Oh, he’d get so flustered when they’d show up at the door with little love notes!” she continued, her eyes bright with nostalgia. “One Valentine’s Day, I remember finding a whole pile of them stuffed into his backpack.”

His dad chuckled from behind us, crossing his arms with a knowing grin. “And he claimed they were ‘extra homework,’ if you can believe it.”

Hank laughed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe they were revealing all this. “Can we maybe not expose every embarrassing thing I did before age sixteen?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Henry,” his mum said with a wink, “I’m saving the truly good ones for later.”

After we’d settled in and had a delicious dinner filled with laughter and more tales of Hank’s misadventures, his mum brought out a large, well-loved box marked “Christmas” in faded handwriting. “How about a bit of tree decorating?” she suggested, smiling as she handed us each an ornament to start.

I took the small, glittery reindeer she’d handed me, noting its slightly lopsided antler. “Did you make this one?” I asked Hank, holding it up to him with a grin.

He nodded, groaning with an exaggerated sigh. “Fourth Grade art class. I thought glitter was the answer to everything.”

“Well, it’s adorable,” I said, carefully placing it on a branch near the front.

As we continued to unwrap each ornament, his mum handed me a small baseball bat ornament with Hank’s name painted in neat, blocky letters. “This one’s from the first season he played in the local league,” she explained. “We were so proud of him, running the bases with such determination… until he tripped and ended up with a black eye,” she added, laughing.

Hank covered his face with one hand, trying not to laugh. “Why do you remember every single one of my injuries?”

“Because, love,” his mum replied, brushing a hand over his shoulder, “I was the one with the ice packs, the Band-Aids, and the endless worrying. And besides,” she added, glancing at me with a conspiratorial smile, “I knew someday these stories would come in handy.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, feeling warmth settle over me as I looked between them. This was Hank’s history, his foundation, and being here, hearing these stories, felt like getting to know him all over again. It was a privilege, one that I held with a quiet reverence.

As we hung the last few ornaments, Hank’s mum handed me a small, carefully wrapped package. “I have something for you, too,” she said, her voice soft.

I unwrapped it slowly, finding a hand-carved wooden heart painted with delicate floral designs. My breath caught, and I looked up, my eyes meeting hers.

“This is beautiful,” I murmured, touched beyond words.

She smiled, resting her hand on my arm. “Every year, we add a new ornament that represents someone important to us. This year, we thought it was time we added you.”

The gesture rendered me momentarily speechless, a rush of emotion welling up in my chest. I turned to Hank, who was watching with that familiar warmth in his eyes, a look that held both pride and affection.

“Thank you,” I whispered, unable to keep the emotion from my voice. I found a spot on the tree for the heart, carefully hanging it on a branch where it could catch the light. I felt Hank’s hand on my back, steadying me, and I glanced over, catching his gaze.

“Looks perfect,” he murmured, his voice soft.

As we finished decorating, Hank’s dad turned on the Christmas lights, casting a soft glow that made the ornaments sparkle, each one reflecting the memories they held. We all stood back, admiring the tree, and I felt Hank’s arm slip around my waist, pulling me close.

“Welcome to the family, Y/N,” his mum said warmly, reaching over to squeeze my hand. Her words settled over me like a blanket, wrapping me in warmth, and in that moment, I felt something profound—a sense of belonging that I hadn’t quite realised I was searching for.

And as we all stood there, the soft hum of a Christmas song filling the room, I looked up at Hank, my heart full. This was his family, his life, and now, I was part of it too.

After a cosy evening with Hank’s family, we nestled together on the sofa in the living room, the soft glow of the fireplace and the twinkling Christmas tree lights creating a warm, quiet space. Hank rested his arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on my shoulder as I pulled out my phone to video call my family, the anticipation of seeing their familiar faces making my heart flutter. Hank tightened his arm around me, giving me a reassuring squeeze as I hit the call button.

It didn’t take long for the screen to fill with everyone’s faces—Mum front and centre, Dean and Viki leaning in on one side, Barry on the other, and Shaun and Meg squeezing into the frame from the back, each one of them grinning widely. Just seeing them all together brought a flood of warmth, a piece of home I hadn’t realised I’d missed so much.

“Hey! There they are!” Mum said, her voice full of holiday cheer. “Merry Christmas, you two!”

“Merry Christmas!” we chorused back.

Viki waved, giving us a warm smile. “You two look very cosy over there. Not missing the chaos, are you, Y/N?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Oh, I don’t know… I heard there’s a serious Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit gap without me there to answer all the obscure questions.”

Shaun groaned dramatically, giving me a mock glare. “You’ve abandoned us, Y/N! You know we’re struggling without you.”

Mum raised her hands in mock innocence. “Hey, I don’t make the rules! I’m just saying, it’s been a struggle without our trivia queen here… Hank, you’d better be prepared next year. We could use another brain in the game!”

Meg snickered, chiming in, “Yeah, Nan’s barely keeping up. We need all the help we can get!”

Hank chuckled, glancing at me with a glint in his eye. “I’ll be ready, I promise. Y/N’s been preparing me with her endless Tolkien trivia.”

Dean raised his glass, grinning. “You’d better be prepared for more than just trivia, Hank. We’ve got a monopoly champion to defend and Articulate to play. Y/N’s been our reigning champ, but she’s already warned us you might give her a run for her money.”

I shot Hank a teasing look, nudging him gently. “Guess I’ll have to step up my game.”

Viki chimed in with a laugh. “And make sure you’re ready for Mum’s endless spread of food. She’s been feeding us as if we’re preparing for a winter famine.”

Barry leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “Just make sure to bring an appetite, Hank. Mum’s Christmas dinners aren’t for the faint-hearted.”

Meg nudged Barry with a grin. “And don’t worry, we’ll make sure you’re on our team for Cards Against Humanity.”

The laughter that filled the room was infectious, Hank fitting so seamlessly into the banter that it felt like he’d been part of this tradition all along. The camera panned around to show the spread of food on the table, so much that it could easily feed twice their number. I shook my head, a mixture of exasperation and fondness welling up inside me.

Hank smiled down at me, his arm tightening slightly as he murmured, “You’ve got a pretty incredible family, you know that?”

I nodded, my heart swelling. “I do. And now they’re stuck with you too.”

Barry leaned closer to the screen, giving Hank a mock-serious look. “Just remember, Hank, if you mess with her, you’re dealing with all of us.”

“Oh, stop it, Barry,” Viki laughed, swatting him playfully. “We’re just glad Y/N’s got someone who makes her smile like that.”

As we wrapped up the call, Dean raised his glass one last time, grinning. “Merry Christmas, guys. See you soon—hope you’re ready for next year!”

We ended the call, and I nestled closer to Hank, feeling a beautiful mix of warmth and contentment as my two worlds had, for the first time, truly intertwined.

As the night drew to a close, and the house settled into a comfortable silence, Hank and I made our way to the guest room, which I quickly realised had once been his bedroom. Though redecorated, I could still feel the lingering essence of his teenage years—a mix of nostalgia and a faint trace of rebellion that seemed to cling to the walls. It wasn’t hard to imagine younger Hank here, the boy with the gap-toothed grin and a heart full of dreams.

“So,” I began with a grin, glancing around at the now-muted colours and neatly arranged furniture. “This is where you had all those boy band posters, right? Somehow, I can just picture it… you, listening to their music, practising your moves in the mirror.”

Hank let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Listen, everyone had a boy band phase. And I’ll have you know I nailed those moves.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” I replied, smirking as I pictured a young Hank, probably with a slightly awkward haircut and way too much enthusiasm, doing his best boy band impression. I took in the room around us, letting my mind wander through a version of him I’d never known. A thought nudged at me, and I gave him a sidelong glance, trying to hold back a playful smile.

“You know,” I said slowly, leaning against the desk, “you already told me you’d have noticed me back then… so tell me, how would you have gotten me in here?”

Hank raised an eyebrow, folding his arms with a casual confidence that was slightly undone by the amused glint in his eyes. “Well,” he said slowly, leaning against the door frame, “I’d probably come up with some excuse. Like needing help with a biology assignment or something. Just enough to get you to come over, but not too obvious.”

“Ah,” I replied, nodding as if considering the scenario. “And I’d be the quiet girl who was half-convinced you didn’t even know I existed. So when you asked me to help, I’d probably agree and then spend the entire time overthinking every single thing.”

He laughed softly, stepping a bit closer. “And maybe I’d be sitting there, acting like I didn’t notice how nervous you were. Trying to think of something smooth to say but ending up just staring at my textbook.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to leave you hanging with your grades,” I replied, shooting him a coy smile as I made my way over to the bed, sitting down cross-legged and mimicking the studious expression of someone who took their biology assignments very seriously. “Let’s see… we should probably start with DNA replication, right?”

A glint of amusement crossed his face as he took in what I was doing, his eyes narrowing slightly in a mix of challenge and delight. Hank wandered over, taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside me, his posture just shy enough to fit the role but with an undercurrent of something else—like a hidden anticipation.

“Right… DNA replication,” he murmured, glancing down as if he really was trying to piece together the assignment. “To be honest, I’d probably be way too distracted to actually learn anything.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m here to help you focus,” I replied, keeping my tone lightly teasing as I pretended to flip through an imaginary textbook, keeping one eye on him as he settled into the character, playing the slightly shy, endearing athlete who’d asked for help but was really hoping for more than just study notes.

We exchanged a glance, both of us holding back smiles as we leaned into the roles. There was a charged undercurrent in the air, a shared understanding that we were toeing the line between the playful and the thrilling, caught up in this little fantasy we were building together. And as he settled beside me, our knees just barely brushing, it felt like we’d created our own private world—one where anticipation simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to unfold.

I watched Hank’s face as I tried to explain the basics of DNA replication, and it was clear he was already lost. His brow furrowed, and he had this slightly blank look, like he was genuinely trying but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. I stifled a laugh, realising that my usual approach wasn’t going to cut it.

“Alright, let’s try something different,” I said, scooting a bit closer on the bed. “Think of it like… baseball.”

He perked up, interest sparking in his eyes. “I’m listening.”

“Okay,” I began, giving him a small, encouraging smile. “Imagine DNA as the team’s playbook. It holds all the instructions the cell needs to function, just like a playbook has all the strategies for a game.”

He nodded, still looking at me a bit skeptically but clearly trying to follow along.

“So, DNA replication is kind of like making extra copies of the playbook,” I continued. “You’d need multiple copies so every player on the team is on the same page. In a cell, each new cell needs its own full set of DNA instructions to work properly.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Okay, I think I get that part.”

Encouraged, I went on. “Now, think of DNA polymerase as the pitcher. Its job is to add new bases to create the second strand, like a pitcher throwing to different players on the field.”

I could see him focusing harder, a thoughtful expression crossing his face as he tried to keep up. “Alright…”

“And the runner is like the replicated strand,” I explained, warming up to the analogy. “When the runner starts, they’re the original strand, but they’re guiding the new strand to ‘bases’ until the replication is complete. It keeps the game moving, ensuring that the DNA copy is accurate and ready for the next ‘game’—or, in this case, the next cell division.”

Hank gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “So… it’s like… every base has its playbook, and everyone’s following along to keep the game from falling apart?”

“Exactly!” I said, unable to hide my excitement at his breakthrough. “And any mistakes in DNA replication are like fouls in the game—if something goes wrong, it messes up the whole play.”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I think I get it. Sort of. But only because you somehow made it about baseball.” He leaned in, his expression softening, and I could feel the playful energy between us shifting slightly. “You’re actually really good at this, you know?”

“Well, I’ve had some practice,” I replied, trying to play it cool. But something about the way he was looking at me, that warm, appreciative gaze, made my pulse quicken.

We held each other’s eyes for a moment, and I felt a blush creeping up my neck. He was still sitting close, our knees brushing, and for a split second, I was fully lost in the moment, imagining what it would have been like if we’d really been teenagers, sitting here, caught up in this kind of nervous, thrilling closeness.

Clearing my throat, I tried to steer us back into character, flipping an imaginary page in my pretend textbook. “So, um… now that you understand DNA replication, I guess we should… review it again? Just to be thorough, of course.”

Hank caught onto my tone instantly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leaned closer. “Of course,” he murmured, his voice low, matching my playfully serious tone. “Wouldn’t want to miss any details.”

The air between us felt charged, our little fantasy blurring into something more, and I could feel my heart racing as he settled even closer beside me, his knee pressing gently against mine.

I tried to stifle a laugh as Hank scratched the back of his neck, looking up at me with the kind of earnestness that felt so out of character for him, it was almost adorable.

“So, uh… DNA replication, right?” he asked, his brow furrowing in mock concentration, though his gaze kept drifting to my waist, lingering a beat longer than necessary on the sliver of skin between my top and skirt.

“Exactly,” I replied, crossing my arms to keep up the facade of a serious study session, though I could feel my lips twitching, dangerously close to breaking into a smile. “Think of it like… you’re the DNA polymerase—the key player here. You’re adding new bases, making sure each base pairs with its partner.”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I could see the glint of amusement hiding there, despite his best efforts. “Okay, okay… so I’m, what? The main guy keeping everything in line?”

I leaned in a little, keeping my voice low, as if I were explaining something top-secret. “Exactly. Without you, the whole replication process would fall apart.” I tapped a finger against his shoulder playfully. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a tone that made me feel as though we were teetering on the edge of something more. He shifted, and his knee brushed mine again, the touch sending a little thrill up my spine. But I kept my cool, giving him a look that said, Nice try.

“And just so we’re clear,” I continued, pretending to flip an imaginary page in our “textbook,” “if anything goes wrong in this process, it could mess up the whole ‘game’—it’s your responsibility to keep everything in order.”

“Oh, no pressure, then,” he replied, his voice dipping into something soft, something almost challenging, as his gaze settled on me again. “Good thing I’ve got such a… dedicated tutor.” He was close enough now that I could feel his breath, the warmth of it sending little sparks along my skin. His tone was still teasing, but his eyes had softened, that familiar warmth deepening into something that made my heart stumble.

I tried to steer us back, keeping my voice steady even as I felt the charged energy building between us. “Well, don’t think this means you’re off the hook,” I managed, trying to hold onto the last shreds of our playful act. “I expect you to actually learn something here, Hank.”

He leaned a little closer, his hand coming to rest on my knee, his fingers brushing against the fabric in a way that sent a shiver through me. “Oh, I’m learning a lot,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent, and suddenly, I was the one forgetting where we’d left off in our “lesson.”

My pulse quickened as his hand drifted a little higher, settling at my waist, his thumb tracing a slow, steady line along the edge of my top. His gaze held mine, filled with that warm intensity I’d come to know, yet right now, it felt heightened, amplified by the thrill of this little game we were playing.

He leaned in, his lips just a breath away, and his voice softened as he said, “Think you could give me a little… extra credit?”

The playful edge to his tone made me laugh, even as my heart pounded against my ribs. “That depends,” I replied, voice barely a whisper, feeling as though we were standing on the brink of something new, something that had been building between us since the moment we met.

For a moment, we stayed there, caught between teasing and something deeper, something almost inevitable. And then, slowly, he closed the distance, his lips meeting mine in a way that felt both familiar and entirely fresh—like a first kiss all over again. The room faded away, and all I could feel was him, the warmth of his hand at my waist, the gentle pressure of his lips against mine as we sank further into each other, the rest of the world forgotten.

We stayed wrapped up in the moment, leaning into the fantasy that we were two teenagers, stealing a kiss on the edge of something thrilling and new. There was an innocence to it, a softness, as if we were both trying to channel the nerves and curiosity of a first crush. The tension simmered beneath the surface, charged by the awareness that, despite the pretence, we both knew each other so much more deeply.

His lips brushed mine with a tentative, almost hesitant touch, like he was figuring out what I liked, even though we both knew he’d long since mastered that. But we stayed in character, letting the kiss build slowly, sweetly, as if we were figuring each other out for the very first time. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss just a fraction, and I could feel him smiling against my lips, like he was enjoying the challenge of holding back, of letting this fantasy play out.

I pulled back just a little, a grin tugging at my lips. “You’re really committed to this biology tutoring session, aren’t you?”

He chuckled softly, and I could see the spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well, you know… I heard the tutor was kind of cute. Thought I might get a little extra help if I showed interest.” His fingers traced a light, teasing line down my arm, his touch just shy enough to fit the role of the slightly nervous high schooler.

“Oh, so that’s what this is,” I replied, arching a brow, though I could feel the warmth of his hand radiating through me, the real connection simmering beneath the surface of our act. “Just trying to sweet-talk the tutor?”

He looked away, feigning a shy smile that I knew all too well was part of the role. “Maybe… if she doesn’t mind.” His gaze flicked back to mine, and there was something there, a playful glint mixed with genuine warmth, making me feel like we were perfectly balanced between make-believe and something real.

I bit my lip, playing along, letting my voice dip into a softer tone. “Well, I suppose I could be convinced… if you keep up the good work.” I leaned in, brushing my lips against his again, feeling his hand settle more confidently on my waist, the touch grounding us even as we danced around the edges of this little fantasy.

His fingers tightened slightly, as if he was losing himself in the moment, and I felt the same. It was intoxicating, letting ourselves pretend this was something brand new, even though we both knew the comfort and depth that had already grown between us. And yet, somehow, that made it even sweeter—the thrill of rediscovering each other as if for the first time, layered with everything we knew and loved about each other.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting against mine, he let out a soft laugh. “You know, if this were high school, I’d probably be way too nervous to actually go through with this.”

I smiled, keeping my voice low, as if we really were sneaking around, just shy of being caught. “Good thing it’s just role-play, then. This time, you’re allowed to be a little brave.”

He grinned, his thumb brushing along my waist in a way that made my pulse jump. “Good thing,” he murmured, his voice soft, playful, but with that edge of sincerity that reminded me we weren’t just acting.

The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I felt it—a tension slipping through, breaking the thin barrier of our little game. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate line along my waist, his touch a little firmer, no longer holding back as much. The playful air that had hung between us melted, replaced by something deeper, something that had been simmering just beneath the surface all along.

I looked up at him, and the glint of amusement in his eyes had softened, replaced by an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. We weren’t pretending anymore, and we both knew it.

“Hank…” I whispered, the name barely a breath, filled with a meaning I couldn’t quite put into words. His hand slid up, cupping my face, his thumb brushing along my cheek in a way that felt so achingly familiar, yet electric, as if it was the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” he replied, his voice low, rough around the edges, like he was just as caught up in this as I was. His gaze held mine, unwavering, and I could feel my heart pounding, every beat echoing through me, pulling me closer to him, grounding me in the moment.

I couldn’t keep up the act, couldn’t pretend this was just another game. My hands slid up his arms, feeling the strength beneath my fingertips, tracing the lines of someone I knew so well, yet felt like I was discovering anew. And in that moment, I didn’t care about the pretence, didn’t care about anything beyond the warmth of him, the way his presence filled every inch of the room, of me.

Without a word, he leaned in, capturing my lips in a kiss that was anything but tentative. It was deep, real, filled with an urgency that stole the breath from my lungs. His hand slipped to the small of my back, pulling me closer until there wasn’t an inch between us, until I could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart, grounding me even as it sent a thrill through every nerve.

My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer. His hands roamed over me, familiar yet thrilling, like he was rediscovering every inch, every curve. The playful pretence was long gone, replaced by something raw, something that felt like it had been waiting to break free all along.

We were lost in each other, in the quiet intensity that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface. His lips trailed down my neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake, and I felt myself arch into him, my body responding instinctively, surrendering to the moment, to him.

With a surge of confidence, I pushed him back, and he fell onto the edge of the bed, his eyes lighting up with a spark of surprise that quickly turned into something darker, something full of intent. Before I could even process the thrill of taking the lead, his hands gripped my waist, steady and sure, and he shifted us, turning me so that I was lying beneath him, his body hovering over mine, a quiet challenge in his gaze.

For a moment, he held himself there, his weight balanced just enough that I felt his presence without feeling trapped, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. His fingers brushed along my sides, tracing a slow, steady path down, sending a trail of warmth that lingered long after his touch moved on.

And then, his hands reached the hem of my skirt, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric with a deliberateness that made my pulse race. His touch was firm but unhurried, like he wanted to savour every second, each moment stretching out between us, charged and electric. He kept his gaze on mine, a silent question passing between us as he eased the skirt up, his hands travelling along the bare skin of my calves, then thighs, his fingers warm and grounding.

I could feel every inch of his touch as he lifted the fabric higher, his grip tightening slightly as his hands moved, the air between us thickening with each passing second. The deliberate pace, the way he held himself above me, exuding both strength and gentleness, was enough to make me lose myself entirely.

His lips brushed against my jaw, then drifted down, trailing heat along my neck, his breath warm against my skin. He paused, hovering just at the curve of my shoulder, his fingers tracing small, languid circles along the top of my thigh, as if teasing us both, drawing out the moment until the tension felt like it could snap.

I arched into him, my hands finding their way to his back, gripping him, urging him closer, needing more of him, every inch. And he responded, his hands slipping just a bit higher, his touch grounding me even as it made me feel weightless, our breaths mingling, each beat of my heart thrumming in rhythm with his.

Hank’s hands slid down to the edge of my skirt, fingers grazing the soft fabric before slipping beneath, tracing a line along my thighs. His touch was deliberate, his movements slow as he lifted the skirt higher, exposing more skin with each gentle push of his hands. I could feel the warmth of his breath close to my neck, his lips barely an inch away as his fingers brushed over the thin fabric of my panties, lingering just for a second before he hooked his thumbs under the waistband.

Our eyes met, and there was a flash of something playful in his gaze, softened by the intensity that simmered beneath. He tugged my panties down slowly, his hands steady as he slipped them off, his touch lingering on my legs as he pulled them past my knees and then let the fabric fall away. His gaze flicked down, and a slight smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he noticed the tell-tale dampness that had already formed on the fabric.

His smirk deepened as he held up my panties, glancing at the damp spot with that familiar glint in his eyes. “Looks like someone was already waiting for this,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing.

I bit my lip, feeling a rush of heat under his gaze, but I wasn’t about to let him have all the fun. “You could say I was prepared,” I shot back, my tone equally playful, daring, as I reached up and tugged him closer by the collar of his shirt. “And here you are, taking your sweet time.”

That did it. His smirk faded into something darker, more intense, and his eyes narrowed slightly, as though I’d just issued a challenge he was more than ready to accept. He tossed the panties aside without another thought, his hands sliding up to grip my waist, firm and possessive, holding me in place as his gaze swept over me, taking in every inch with a hunger that made my skin flush.

“Taking my time?” he echoed, his voice low, rough with a promise that made my pulse skip. “Guess I’ll have to make up for that.”

He leaned in, capturing my lips in a kiss that was fierce, unrestrained, all pretence and patience gone, replaced by a need that bordered on desperation. He gripped the hem of my top, tugging it up and over my head in one swift motion, discarding it carelessly to the floor. I barely had time to catch my breath before his fingers slipped beneath my bra strap, pushing it off my shoulder with a roughness that sent a thrill through me, his movements no longer restrained.

He leaned in, his lips brushing along my collarbone, his hands settling on my hips and pulling me flush against him. I could feel the heat of him, his heart beating hard through the fabric of his shirt, and it was enough to make me feel dizzy with need. My hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward, and he lifted his arms just enough for me to pull it over his head, tossing it aside as I let my hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.

He let out a low, satisfied sound as I traced my hands along the hard lines of his torso, my fingers gliding over his skin, feeling the warmth radiating beneath. As I ventured lower, my touch met the trail of hair starting just below his navel, leading down in a way that was both enticing and grounding, a subtle invitation that left my own pulse racing. The roughness of his breath against my neck told me I was driving him just as wild, his chest rising and falling beneath my touch, each shallow inhale and exhale a silent testament to the restraint he was barely holding onto. It was intoxicating, knowing that every small movement, every lingering touch, was unraveling him in the same way he was unraveling me.

I matched his intensity, my hands moving to the waistband of his jeans, fingers working quickly to undo the button, and he shifted just enough to help me push them down, the denim sliding to the floor. As he kicked them off, he pulled me close again, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was raw, full of the need we’d been holding back for too long.

My hand slipped down, feeling the heat and hardness of him straining through his boxers. I pressed my palm against him, feeling the dampness at the tip, the evidence of his desire sending a thrill through me. He let out a low, rough sound that made my pulse race, his hips pushing into my hand, silently asking for more.

I couldn’t resist a teasing smile, looking up at him as I whispered, “Guess I’m not the only one who was waiting.”

His answering grin was dark, his gaze full of intent that left no doubt about where this was heading. “You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice thick with need.

In one swift movement, he pushed my skirt higher, fingers hooking under the remaining fabric and freeing me completely. With his hands still tracing up my thighs, he paused, his gaze flicking to mine for a heartbeat before he leaned down, his lips trailing a path from my collarbone downward, his touch both reverent and filled with raw hunger.

His mouth found my breast, lips brushing over the sensitive skin, his breath warm as he began to press slow, deliberate kisses along the curve, igniting every nerve in its wake. His hand slipped around, cupping me, his thumb grazing over the peak, making me shiver as he took his time, letting the anticipation build.

When his lips finally closed around my nipple, a gasp escaped me, my back arching into him, the sensation sending a shock of pleasure straight through me. He flicked his tongue over the sensitive skin, slow and teasing, before sucking gently, his gaze lifting to meet mine with a dark intensity that left me breathless. The roughness of his stubble against my skin, paired with the warmth of his mouth, was almost too much, every touch stoking the fire that had been building between us.

His free hand moved down, tracing along my waist before he shifted slightly, pressing himself closer, the hardness of him through his boxers a reminder of just how far gone we both were. My hand slipped down instinctively, feeling him again through the fabric, harder now, the dampness at the tip that sent another thrill through me.

“Don’t stop,” I murmured, barely able to form words, lost in the feel of him, in the way his mouth and hands moved over me, each touch leaving me aching for more. His lips moved to my other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, sucking and teasing until I felt like I might come undone.

With a low groan, he finally leaned back, his hands slipping to the waistband of his boxers. He gave me a look that was both a question and a promise, his gaze locked on mine as he tugged them down, finally freeing himself completely. The sight of him above me, every inch bare and unrestrained, sent a shiver through me, my body responding instinctively, every nerve alive with the anticipation of what was to come.

My hand drifted down, wrapping around him, feeling the warmth and hardness beneath my fingers. He let out a quiet, shuddering breath, his hips pressing forward instinctively, responding to my touch. I stroked him slowly, savouring the weight of him, the way he fit so perfectly against my hand, each movement building a rhythm that left us both breathless.

I leaned up, capturing his mouth in a soft, lingering kiss, feeling the heat radiating between us as our bodies moved closer, all pretence gone. Without a word, I turned, giving him a playful glance over my shoulder as I bent forward, resting on my hands, inviting him. The air between us thickened, charged with anticipation, and I felt my heart race as he positioned himself behind me, his hands firm on my hips, steadying us both.

I could feel the wetness between my thighs, the undeniable evidence of my need, and when he moved, pressing himself against me, his hardness was almost overwhelming, grounding me in the intensity of the moment. He entered me slowly, filling me in a way that made me gasp, my hands gripping the sheets as we both adjusted to the closeness, the perfect, electrifying fit.

For a moment, we stayed still, caught in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Then he leaned forward, his chest pressing against my back as he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me up so we were both on our knees, our bodies fitting together seamlessly. His mouth found the curve of my neck, his lips trailing soft kisses along my skin, making me shiver as he began to move, each thrust slow and deliberate, drawing us both deeper into the moment.

One of his hands found my breast, his fingers brushing over my nipple, sending a surge of pleasure through me as he continued to kiss my neck, his breath hot and unsteady against my skin. His other hand drifted lower, fingers grazing the sensitive spot between my thighs, adding another layer to the intensity building between us.

“Keep quiet,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, a teasing edge in his tone as his fingers continued their deliberate movements, each touch leaving me feeling more unraveled, more vulnerable in the best possible way. I bit my lip, trying to stifle a moan, my breath shaky as I leaned back against his chest, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart against my back.

Then he paused, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to my shoulder. I felt him shift, his hands guiding me as he turned me around to face him, his gaze soft and full of that familiar warmth that always made me feel safe. He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his thumb lingering along my cheek, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that left me feeling completely exposed, but in the best way.

“I want to see you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as his hands settled on my waist, steady and sure, pulling me close until there wasn’t a breath between us. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pulling him down to me, letting our foreheads touch as our breaths mingled, the world outside fading completely.

“So beautiful… and all mine,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that sent a thrill through me, his lips brushing against my shoulder, lingering as though he wanted me to feel every word. I felt the warmth of his breath on my skin, each syllable wrapping around me, grounding me in his presence.

“I’m yours,” I whispered back, my voice soft but full of meaning, hoping he could feel everything I was trying to say, every layer of trust and love I was offering him in those two simple words.

We stayed close, our bodies pressed together, moving in sync, his hands steady on my waist as he held me. His mouth found mine, capturing me in a kiss that was both soft and intense, as if he wanted to savour every second. I felt his hand slip to the small of my back, guiding us gently down onto the bed, his body lowering over me, fitting perfectly against mine as he settled between my thighs.

His gaze held mine as he entered me again, filling me completely, every inch grounding me in the depth of what we shared. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close, letting myself sink into the moment, feeling the warmth and weight of him, our bodies fitting together in perfect harmony.

Our bodies moved together, falling into a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing, like an unspoken language we both understood. His forehead rested against mine, and he whispered, his voice barely a breath, “You’re incredible, you know that?”

I felt a smile tug at my lips, my hand moving to trace along his jaw, feeling the strength and gentleness in every inch of him. “So are you, baby,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion, letting my fingers trail over his skin, grounding myself in the closeness we’d built. The way he looked at me, his gaze soft and full of something unbreakable, made my heart swell, and I felt like I was seeing every layer of him, every part he’d ever trusted me with.

As he pulled me closer, our bodies fitting perfectly, his lips brushed over my shoulder, each kiss filled with a tenderness that left me breathless. I arched into him, feeling my breath catch, every nerve alight as his mouth moved to my neck, leaving a trail of warmth that seemed to linger, grounding me in the intensity of the moment.

I let out a soft gasp, my fingers pressing into his shoulders, anchoring us both as we moved together, the rhythm between us building, steady and unrelenting, yet filled with a reverence that made it feel like we were rediscovering each other. He looked into my eyes, his gaze deep and unwavering, and I could see every feeling reflected there, every emotion he couldn’t put into words.

As the intensity grew, he wrapped an arm around my waist, lifting me just enough so that our bodies pressed even closer, amplifying the connection between us. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining, our grips tightening as we both reached that tipping point, holding onto each other as if we were afraid to let go.

He looked down at me, his gaze soft and filled with that familiar warmth that made me feel safe, cherished. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice rough with sincerity, his hands tightening around me, holding me as if he didn’t want to let go, as if he was afraid the moment would slip away.

The weight of his words, the depth in his eyes, made my heart swell, and I tightened my grip on him, feeling every beat of his heart, matching the rhythm of our bodies, our connection grounding us in something that felt endless. “I love you too,” I replied, “So much,” my voice soft but full of the certainty that came from knowing he was a part of me.

He kissed me deeply, our breaths mingling as we found our rhythm again, each movement building, drawing us closer. I could feel the intensity growing, every touch, every whispered word amplifying the connection between us, making it impossible to think of anything but him, but us.

When we finally came undone together, it was in a shared breath, a moment that felt endless, timeless, as though everything else in the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of us wrapped in each other. We stayed like that, holding each other close, letting the warmth and comfort of our connection settle around us, knowing that this—this shared intimacy and closeness—was exactly where we both wanted to be.

After, we lay together in the soft glow of the room, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the silence between us comfortable and filled with an understanding that needed no words. I nestled into him, feeling his fingers lazily tracing circles along my back, his other hand entwined with mine, both of us simply basking in the afterglow, letting the moment settle over us.

After a while, Hank let out a soft sigh, his gaze drifting around the room, a pensive look crossing his face. “It’s… surreal, you know?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Being here with you. Thinking about how much has changed since… since I was that kid growing up here.”

He paused, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes as he looked back at me. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still trying to shake off parts of who I was back then… like I’m always fighting to be something more.”

I squeezed his hand gently, letting him know I understood. “You’re not that boy anymore, Hank,” I said softly, my voice steady, filled with every bit of truth I felt. “You’ve become someone stronger. And I love who you’ve become.”

A small smile tugged at his lips as he looked down at me, his gaze softening, that familiar warmth returning to his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. “For seeing me… for all of it.”

I leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, grounding us both in the quiet reassurance that, here together, we’d found something solid, something that embraced not just who we were but who we’d become. We stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, letting the comfort of the moment hold us close.

The next morning, a soft glow filtered in through the curtains, casting a gentle light across the room as I stirred awake, feeling the familiar warmth of Hank beside me. We shared a sleepy smile, our faces inches apart as we lay there, basking in the quiet comfort of the moment before finally getting up. The sounds of soft laughter and holiday music drifted up from the kitchen below, filling the house with a warmth that felt like home.

Hank wrapped an arm around my waist as we headed downstairs, the scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon drawing us in. His parents were already seated at the table, both beaming as they welcomed us into the cosy chaos of Christmas morning. The table was spread with all kinds of treats—freshly baked cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and a small stack of pancakes his mum insisted was “just in case anyone was still hungry.” It was the kind of meal that made the house feel full of love, and I felt myself sink into the warmth of it, cherishing every moment.

After breakfast, we exchanged small, thoughtful gifts, an unexpected delight as we each presented our tokens of appreciation. Hank gifted his mum a delicate necklace with a small heart pendant, her face lighting up as she clutched it to her chest with teary eyes. For his dad, he handed over a beautifully bound edition of a classic baseball book they’d bonded over when he was a kid. Watching the pride in his dad’s eyes as he accepted the gift, I could see the shared memories, the way those moments had shaped Hank into who he was.

When it was my turn, I handed Hank a flat, square package wrapped neatly in silver paper with a hint of red ribbon. He raised an eyebrow, a curious smile playing on his lips as he carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a custom vinyl record, the cover designed with a simple but meaningful image of two coffee mugs resting together—a nod to the mornings we’d shared at our favourite café.

He opened the record sleeve and pulled out the insert, his face softening as he realised it was filled with personal notes about each song I’d chosen, each one a small piece of our journey together. I’d written why each track mattered—how certain songs reminded me of our first night together, our shared moments, and the music we’d bonded over, filling each line with memories and meaning.

He looked up, his eyes shining with emotion. “You made me a record?” he murmured, almost in disbelief, his thumb tracing along the edge of the sleeve. “With our songs?”

I nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “It’s a mix tape… but a bit more permanent,” I said softly, watching him absorb each detail. “I thought… whenever you listen to it, you’ll have a little piece of us, no matter where we are.”

He let out a quiet laugh, almost overwhelmed, and pulled me close, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. “You have no idea how much this means to me,” he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity. “Thank you, baby.”

I squeezed his hand, feeling my heart swell as I watched him run his fingers over the vinyl, already knowing he’d treasure it. This wasn’t just a gift—it was a piece of our story, something we could carry with us as a reminder of all the small moments that had brought us here.

Then, with a slight smirk, he handed me a small package wrapped neatly in red paper. I unwrapped it carefully, revealing a beautiful bracelet with three tiny charms—a book, a coffee cup, and a small disk. The book and coffee cup charms were sweet nods to our shared moments at the coffee shop, representing both my love of reading and our quiet mornings together. But it was the disk that caught my breath. Engraved on one side were our initials, and on the other, the date we first met at the bar—the night that had changed everything.

I traced a fingertip over the tiny engraving, feeling a rush of warmth as I looked down at the bracelet, each charm holding a piece of us. I slipped it on, feeling my heart swell, and leaned over to press a grateful kiss to his cheek, my fingers lacing with his as he gave my hand another squeeze. It was so perfectly us—simple yet filled with meaning, grounding me in the love and connection that filled the room.

After the gifts, we gathered in the living room for one of his family’s traditions—a viewing of White Christmas. His parents had set up a nest of blankets and pillows, and Hank and I settled onto the sofa, snuggled close with a blanket wrapped around us. As the movie played, we shared warm, loving glances and small touches, feeling completely at home in each other’s presence. Hank’s mum hummed along to the songs, and his dad recited lines he’d probably memorised years ago. There was something so comforting, so right, about being here, a part of this cherished tradition, experiencing the warmth and love that filled the room.

Every so often, Hank would glance down at me, his fingers tracing gentle circles on my hand, as if to remind me, without words, how much it meant to him that I was there. And in those shared, silent moments, I felt truly at home, wrapped in both his family’s love and his.

In the afternoon, Hank and I bundled up and headed out for a quiet walk through a nearby park. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and coastal pine, mingled with the faint salt of the nearby ocean. The ground was soft beneath our feet, scattered with leaves that had fallen from the evergreens lining the winding path. A gentle mist clung to the air, giving everything a quiet, peaceful atmosphere that felt almost magical. I slipped my hand into his, feeling the warmth of his fingers laced with mine as we wandered side by side, letting the calmness of the moment settle around us.

After a while, our conversation turned reflective. Hank paused, his gaze drifting out over the lake glimmering in the distance, his face thoughtful. “You know… being here with you feels so different,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand in a gentle, grounding motion. “It’s strange—almost surreal. There was a time when I felt stuck, like I’d never quite measure up. But having you here… it’s like everything makes sense in a way it didn’t before.”

A familiar warmth blossomed in my chest, and I felt the weight of his words settling over me. Standing here with him, the world muted around us, I realised this wasn’t just about him finding his place—it was about us finding something lasting in each other. My thoughts wandered to New York, to all the places and routines that had once felt so unchangeable, the city’s hustle grounding me in its own way. But here, with Hank beside me, I felt the same sense of belonging I’d known in my favourite café, our lazy Sundays, the quiet, familiar corners of our life together.

I looked up at him, my voice soft but filled with the truth of what I felt. “You’ve changed so much, Hank. You’re not that boy anymore… you’ve grown into someone I admire so deeply,” I said softly, my voice filled with all the love I felt for him. “I couldn’t be prouder of who you are now, and I’m so grateful to be part of your life.”

He looked down at me, his eyes softening, and I could see the gratitude there, the quiet appreciation for being seen and loved just as he was. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “For being here… for helping me find my way when I didn’t know how.”

We continued our walk, our steps falling into an easy rhythm, the quietness between us filled with an understanding that went beyond words. After a while, our conversation turned to the future, the idea of what we could build together. Hank paused, turning to face me, his gaze steady and filled with a gentle determination. “I know it’s just a thought, but… it’s amazing to realise that home doesn’t have to be one place. It’s more about who I’m with. And with you… I feel like I’m already there.”

I felt my heart swell at his words, a warmth blooming in my chest as I reached up to brush a hand along his cheek. “You make me feel so loved, Hank,” I whispered, my voice filled with the truth of it. “In a way I never expected. You make me feel like I belong, like I’m seen for everything I am.”

He leaned down, capturing my lips in a gentle, heartfelt kiss, a quiet promise of everything we’d shared and everything yet to come. As he pulled back, his forehead resting against mine, I could feel the silent vow between us—a promise to build a life together, wherever that might take us.

Hand in hand, we walked back toward his family home, the warmth of his presence grounding me, the sense of belonging settling into every corner of my heart. And as we approached the familiar, welcoming sight of his parents’ house, I felt a quiet confidence—a certainty that whatever the future held, we’d face it together.

We shared one last, lingering look before stepping inside, his fingers squeezing mine, a silent promise that spoke louder than words. And with that, we walked into the warmth of his family’s home, ready to face the future, side by side.

Masterlist

[aceofsages]

Heyy! Could you do something where Enid was being ignored by someone and she starts crying, but Wednesday comforts her? Thanksss!

find on ao3

When Enid lands in San Francisco for winter break, she has to give herself a pep talk in the bathroom mirror. Her hair is still dyed, her nails are chipped, her face is—well. She ruffles her hair, trying to make it fall in a way that would make the scratches less obvious.

Point is there are a hundred and one points Mom will probably immediately grab to nag her with.

So, all she has to do is make sure she doesn’t get a chance.

“Okay,” she says, staring herself down. “Okay, you can do this, it’s easy, it’s easy. All you have to do is—”

The door opens, a woman walks in and Enid immediately starts looking into her purse, waiting for her to leave. Enid takes her phone out, a message from her dad that reads, Here at the arrival gate!

The woman leaves, giving her a look. Enid smiles at her awkwardly. God, what a bitch.

She turns back to the mirror, her eyes immediately falling to the scratches and fuck, if she can’t look herself in the eye—

“All you have to do is tell her.” She makes a face and winces at the pain that lances up her cheek. “Yeah, just tell her. Fuck.”

She hugs Dad tight when she gets to the gate, who moves a hand through her hair fondly. He doesn’t comment on her wounds, though his eyes do burn silver for a moment. She doesn’t know if she’s relieved or angry at him for not asking.

(He’s never asked, never spoken up. Enid pretends every time it doesn’t hurt.)

Turns out, there is something worse than not wolfing out: wolfing out wrong.

At the end of it all, Mom spits out, “If you want to live you’ll be gone by morning.” Her eyes are golden and her claws are out. Her brothers are watching her with horror, Adam standing protectively in front of the twins. It hurts in a way Enid doesn’t think she’ll ever recover from. “No child of mine is a lycanthrope!”

Just before she flees, she sees her Dad’s fearful face. She thinks it’s one that’ll never leave her.

----

Legend has it that the very first infected were Blood-Wolves. Bitten by Lycanthropes, a type of shapeshifting hound demon, blood-wolves were a by-product of wolf blood mixing with demon venom. They are said to have been used in the war against Cattails by the Lycanthropes. After the war, when a truce had been reached, they were cast onto the Material Plane as part of the concession made by the hound demons.

They intermingled with humans, who welcomed them into their midst, unaware and unheeding of the danger they presented. They never shifted during a full moon. Most of their children, however, did. Those who didn’t—

Well. Their first transformation at blood moon was an eye-opener. They tore apart houses with their bare hands, sank their fangs into babies and feasted on the flesh of their own species. At the end of their spree of destruction, they were decried as made of witch blood and dead moon, to be hunted to their own extinction. The last known blood-wolf descendant died in 1709, killed by Manon Rose, who later went on to create the ritual that would prevent blood-wolves from ever evolving again. Not much more is known about them other than their origins and their actions.

Nevermore’s library feels a little too silent, all of a sudden. Enid closes the book. Yoko looks up from hers. “You found it?”

“Yeah.”

“Not good, huh?”

“Nope,” Enid says, and bursts into tears. Fuck, fuck, she needs to stop doing this. She presses her palms to her eyes. Fuck. She’s not—she’s not a blood-wolf. Distantly, she feels Yoko hug her. None of it makes any sense. She’s not suddenly having the urge to eat babies or whatever. In fact, if anything, she’s even more controlled of her senses now. She remembers her transformation vividly, remembers Wednesday vividly, remembers fighting the Hyde and worrying and worrying and worrying if she was okay, if she was safe, if she was alive. All that mattered then was to eliminate at least one threat to Wednesday, the biggest threat to all of them and not once did she feel like, oh, where are the babies?

Fuck.

She sniffs once, twice, and waves Yoko off, “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

Yoko raises her eyebrows and drawls, “And I’m a normie. Listen, let’s search for answers tomorrow, okay? You’ve been here two nights in a row.”

Enid starts to refuse but Yoko continues, “Do you really want Wednesday to search for you again?”

Enid rolls her eyes and gets up, as if the memory of it doesn’t send a shot of warmth through her. She always likes it when Wednesday shows that she cares. A little too much at times, bordering on not-platonic, but Enid’s not ready to look at what that means, yet.

When she enters her dorm, she’s greeted with the sight of Wednesday on her typewriter. She stops when Enid enters and turns to her to say, “Good, you’re here. I was just about to send Thing after you.”

“Let him rest, I just did his nails today.”

Wednesday rolls her eyes. “You shouldn’t encourage his vanity.”

“And you shouldn’t threaten him so much. It gives him wrinkles.”

Thing taps on the table. All my wrinkles are because of her. Wednesday rolls her eyes again but lets it go. “Did you find anything?” she asks instead.

Enid sucks in a breath and walks towards her, irrationally aware of when she crosses their duct tape line once was. She extends the book out to her, and Wednesday takes and cracks it open. Enid plops down on her bed with a sigh, her hair fanning out behind her. Wednesday’s sheets are so soft. Maybe she should ask for it as a Christmas present.

She blinks tears out of her eyes.

“Well, this just turned interesting.”

“What?” Enid says, sitting up. Wednesday hasn’t looked up from the book. Thing sits on her shoulder.

“If I remember correctly, she married Maximus Addams. It is said that most Addamses thought that she’d end up killing Maximus.”

“Did she?”

“Oh yes, but Maximus took her with him. They loved each other a lot.”

“If you love someone, why would you kill them?”

“You’ll find, Enid, that most Addams’ love follows a similar vein.”

Like you and Tyler, Enid thinks suddenly, and sits up. “I’m going to shower.”

Wednesday waves her off, engrossed in the book.

----

She hadn’t expected the behavior to continue—to spread like it has around the pseudo packs in Nevermore Stupid of her, really. She’s a gossip queen, she of all people should know how rumors were easy to spread and easier to believe.  They’ve taken to ignoring her, going out of their way to show her that they’re ignoring her. People she was good friends with, people she helped, now look at her with disdain or step away from her as if she’s a plague. Some outright bully her. In the following week she finds herself crying so much that she’s perpetually dehydrated, and hating herself so damn much for being such an easy crier.

It’s the middle of the week when the incident happens. Morgan Todd, a fucking jerk, turns up in the quad with boils all over his face and hacking up blood at an alarming rate. He’d sneered in Enid’s face on Monday, gone so far as to pull wolfsbane on her. It was a weaker strain, admittedly, but it served to make them all realise that Enid was really fucking sensitive to it. She’d had to spend the night in the Med Bay, and Enid now knows who’s responsible for this. She’d known as soon as it happened and she’s so fucking angry— 

She confronts Wednesday at night.

“Why did you do that?” she asks immediately.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do!” Her throat feels tight again. She runs a hand through her hair, pulls. A tear or two slip out. “I can’t—Wednesday, I really really can’t do this. I told you not to retaliate.”

“Enid,” Wednesday says, weirdly careful. She steps towards her, hands extended. “Enid, it’s alright.”

“It’s not! Don’t you understand what you’ve just done?! You’ve given them a reason now! They’ll think I did it, they’ll think that—”

“Enid, no one will think anything because Morgan knows exactly who did that to him.”

She stops short. “What?”

Wednesday takes her hands and holds them tight. Her hands are deathly cold. “I couldn’t not do it. He had to learn—they all had to.”

“Learn what?” Enid asks, dazed.

Wednesday blinks and the action throws Enid off-kilter. She suddenly looks hesitant, almost, but her grip on Enid’s hands is sure. “That they can’t get away with it. Not unharmed.”

There’s a sudden clarity that’s rising in Enid, a sudden surety that that was not what Wednesday had wanted to say.

“Because you’ll come for them.”

“Because I’d raise hell for you.”

Enid swallows. She feels like they’re on the brink of something. Falling, maybe. “Why?” she asks, hushed.

“I told you, didn’t I? The mark you’ve left on me is indelible, Enid Sinclair.”

Enid steps closer. Wednesday’s eyes don’t have pupils. She’s never been close enough to notice, before. “Why?” she asks again.

Wednesday closes her eyes. “Because I didn’t know I was cold until you warmed me.”

Enid kisses her.

It’s a short kiss, a simple press of their lips. Their hands are still linked. When they separate, Wednesday chases her back and kisses her again, barely letting her suck in a breath. It’s still simple; achingly sweet and tender in a way she’s never thought to associate with Wednesday. She likes it.

She likes it a lot.

She wants to do this forever.

“Come to the Manor with me,” Wednesday says. Enid doesn’t know how long they’ve been kissing. “Let me help you figure it out.”

“Okay,” Enid says. “Yes.”

Wednesday kisses her again, like she can’t help herself. “Good.”

[reality-detective]

TOP 100 US RIOTED CITIES!

I'm sure if anything goes down from all the people who have crossed over our borders, the Military will have everything under control swiftly. You may want to avoid these cities if anything goes down, and for your safety, please stay away from the military if you see them. This list was pulled and organized from a NY Times recent article listing the top 100 prior-rioted cities, for quick reference. They are 👇

(THOSE WITH * ARE TOP 25 CITIES JUST ISSUED BY THE WHITE HOUSE ON 2/9/24):

Alabama

Huntsville

Mobile

Alaska

Arizona

* Phoenix

Arkansas

Bentonville

Conway

Little Rock

California

Beverly Hills

Fontana

La Mesa

* Los Angeles

* Oakland

Sacramento

* San Diego

* San Francisco

San Jose

San Luis Obispo

Santa Ana

Santa Rosa

Vallejo

Walnut Creek

Colorado

Colorado Springs

* Denver

Connecticut

Delaware

Florida

Fort Lauderdale

Jacksonville

Lakeland

* Miami

Orlando

West Palm Beach

Georgia

* Atlanta

Athens

Hawaii

Idaho

Illinois

Aurora

Bloomington

Rockford

Indiana

Fort Wayne

Hammond

Indianapolis

Lafayette

Iowa

Des Moines

Iowa City

Waterloo

Kansas

Wichita

Kentucky

Louisville

Louisiana

* New Orleans

Maine

Maryland

Massachusetts

* Boston

Michigan

* Detroit

Grand Rapids

Kalamazoo

Lansing

Minnesota

Duluth

Minneapolis

* St. Paul

Mississippi

Missouri

Ferguson

Kansas City

St. Louis

Montana

Nebraska

Lincoln

Omaha

Nevada

Las Vegas

Reno

New Hampshire

New Jersey

New Mexico

Albuquerque

New York

Albany

* Buffalo

* New York City

North Carolina

Ashville

Charlotte

Raleigh

Wilmington

North Dakota

Fargo

Ohio

Cincinnati

Cleveland

Columbus

Dayton

Springfield

Toledo

Oklahoma

Oklahoma City

Tulsa

Oregon

Eugene

Portland

Salem

Pennsylvania

Erie

* Philadelphia

Pittsburgh

Rhode Island

Providence

South Carolina

Charleston

Columbia

South Dakota

Sioux Falls

Tennessee

Chattanooga

Murfreesboro

Nashville

Texas

* Arlington

Austin

* Dallas

* El Paso

Fort Worth

* Houston

Lewisville

* San Antonio

Utah

* Salt Lake City

Vermont

Virginia

Fredericksburg

Richmond

Virginia Beach

Washington

Bellevue

* Seattle

Spokane

West Virginia

Wisconsin

Green Bay

Madison

Milwaukee

Wyoming

[lilahaze]

"the gun on the kitchen table"

i understand that you patiently waited twelve years for a child, then, another sixteen for the moment fathers commonly dread. you held a vision of cleaning your .22 caliber at the table as i, eager for junior prom, towed a nervous boy toward the kitchen. did you see him with a leather jacket, palms greasy with hair gel and smushed nerves? or, did you simply ignore these things i quietly stowed in the cart at the store? covid stole my junior prom and no nervous boy ever rang your doorbell. rather, shy girls with glasses too large for their faces and in possession of meek attitudes alike your wife's followed me to my bedroom and shrunk beneath my bedsheets when you would storm the halls.

you wished so desperately for a proper boy: dressed in crisp loafers, a working boy who arrived at your door only occasionally bearing kinney's dyed flowers alongside a promise to return me by sundown. only a boy who would not treat me better than you would be suitable until you came to wish so desperately for any boy, any boy at all.

at fourteen, you observed me giddy and determined that you must seize my social media passcodes; at fourteen, i learned that i cannot expect absolution for my fascination with the same sex. your rage sapped my senses; you pulled any form of communication from my grasp and threatened to drive me straight back to the psychiatric ward. you could only ever love the girl dating the nervous boy that eyes the kitchen table.

i emptied your wallet, lined my eyes and burned for a week until you became convinced of my newfound lie: i had been a mere participant of a schoolwide fad of sexual exploration, i was not a lesbian. i knew i would never see the return of my electronics had i remained honest: my only links to a world outside of this house.

i am not healthy. everyone in this house is sick. you dragged homophobia home, tossing it aside next to your winter coat, and are enraged that everyone has prodded at it, that we have all contaminated each other. you said that gay people scare you, that the man who tugged at your belt loops when you were a boy scared you. you could only ever love the girl who sold her combat boots and burned the porn script she wrote in the backyard, her backbone as a match. 

i feared that i would become nothing more than another nameless face had you one day decided that sharp insults and taunts were no longer enough to combat my queerness, that you must reclaim the things you always said were never mine and leave me to the barren streets. your religion kept me from calling the girls i locked behind my bedroom door by their names, by anything other than, “friend.” some day, i asked you where in the bible jesus said to hit your kids. memories of the bike lock that had appeared on the fridge on some day, early summer, and the belts you had named reminded me to hide; they were only a few bedrooms and a drawer away.

one day soon, you will find the words you require written at the bottom of a twelve-pack and ask me again about the shy girls i cried for over your honeymoon wine. i hope that your snapple cap fortune arrives late, once i have dragged my suitcase to san francisco and gotten over all attempts to force myself to give you a reason to dust off the gun cleaner; once you no longer have anything left to hold over my head: summer housing, medical insurance, nor your acceptance. press, “play” to start.

we always eyed the gun on the kitchen table.

[dallonwrites]

UNTIL HEAVEN - WIP INTRO

matthew lejune / @dallonwrites / ocean vuong / mary ruefle

He knows that his headache is quietly growing vicious and he should take off his headphones, but now they’re singing about Heaven and Las Vegas – two places he has never been – and he knows that at some point, still unknown to him, his father died, and maybe that means he’s now stuck in Heaven or Las Vegas or somewhere in between. Or maybe that means he’ll just be everywhere, in the rain on Felix’s face and the ache behind his eyelids, and that’s how it’ll stay.

Genre: Adult Literary Fiction, novella (please god stay a novella)

Setting: San Francisco/New York, December 1990/January 1991

Vibe: shoegaze & dream pop, warm lighting, ginger flavor, a city skyline at night, going to church for the first time in years, feeling too old and also like you were born yesterday, disposable camera photos, the passing of time, stuff rabbit toy from your childhood, the hallway at a family gathering, planetariums, cold air on your face, retro christmas decor, realising you were once a child and that child deserved so much better

Deals With: parental grief when your parent was a piece of shit, Christian trauma, queerness in relationships, adulthood as you progress through your 20s, healing + building your own life after a traumatic childhood and what happens when that is disrupted

Soundtrack Essentials: The Cure - Plainsong / Mazzy Star - Be My Angel / Cocteau Twins - Cherry-Coloured Funk / Cocteau Twins - Heaven or Las Vegas / Beach House - The Hours / Jeff Buckley - Dream Brother / Tamino - Cinnamon

Synopsis: When Felix's father dies suddenly it's a week before Christmas, he and Beau had just begun experimenting with an open relationship, and he refuses to interrupt his life to mourn a man who doesn't deserve it. But when he can't stop his body from grieving, and his sister is growing obsessive over the morbid details, and at work he's teaching children that remind him of himself, an opportunity to impulsively leave sees Felix spend an insomniatic month in New York: diners at 3am, trips at the club, a birthday spent in a planetarium, one night stands to tell his boyfriend about in the morning, and a dangerously intense relationship with an enigmatic man who wants to know everything about his father.

This is another piece in my personal project/emotional support series and follows Revelations, Revelations and Lover Boy. If you know me you know Dorothy and Felix are my annoying children who I love so dearly and this novella is paired with a future novella that follows Dorothy during the same time. Fun fact! I only returned to writing because I wanted to explore Felix more and now I have an entire world that dominates my brain and it's all his fault! So this novella is kind of like a love letter to him. I also literally only created this so I could have a project that was soundtracked by historic Cocteau Twins' album Heaven or Las Vegas. Currently drafting because it won't leave my mind

The answering machine beeps awake -- and then, Beau's mother, reminding them that they're in charge of dessert tomorrow --and then, Beau's coworker wishing them both a Happy Holidays, a Stacy who Felix has never met -- and then his sister, sarcastic but loving, This is me calling so you know I made it home alive, just like you asked -- and then surprisingly, Goldie, Hi Felix, even though school broke up weeks ago, So I know it's Christmas, but I wanted to let you know that I talked with Joey's father and it sounds like he's doing much better at home already. He's even excited to come back to your class! And his father sounds super proud and optimistic about his progress and by the end of the last message he’s on the floor, back to fridge and elbows on his knees, face in his hands. And he lets out a shaky, snivelled breath that makes him push his palms harder against his eyes, against the wetness because he can’t cry, not over this, not when there’s still Christmas presents to wrap and last minute laundry so stop crying, get up, put on your new Mazzy Star record and get on with it. He straightens his back, holds his head up, takes a few deep breaths that feel more like gasping for air and also like pulling barbed wire out of his throat, gazes at the slants of streetlight on his living room wall. He can’t cry, not over this and not here, not in the home he’s worked so hard to make so warm. So he sits with himself, wipes his own eyes and holds himself in his own arms; when he feels calm enough, or trusts himself to be, he leans forward so he can open the fridge and reach in for the last ginger ale, cold in his hand and warm down his throat. Just him and the hum of an empty apartment.

[d-criss-news]

Review: A VERY DARREN CRISSMAS Tour Brings Music and Fun to Emerson Colonial Theatre

Making his way to the stage of the Emerson Colonial Theatre on the recent Boston stop on his “A Very Darren Crissmas!” tour – by going up, down, and around the sold-out venue – Darren Criss transported his eager audience from their seats to the palm of his hand.

And the popular performer, accompanied by a tight five-piece band, kept them there with a buoyant, tune-filled, nearly two-hour show, which featured everything from holiday favorites, from his 2021 debut CD that shares its name with the tour, to pop music covers and more.

The Emmy-winning actor and singer – famed for Fox-TV’s “Glee,” FX’s “The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story” and “Hollywood,” and Broadway shows including  the 2011 revival of “How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying,” 2014’s “Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” and the 2022 revival of “American Buffalo” – opened with what he called “a winter love song,” John Mayer’s holiday-themed “St. Patrick’s Day.”

Criss’s voice was richly expressive on that and other songs, including jazz-infused renditions of “Winter Wonderland,” “(Everybody’s Waiting for) The Man with the Bag,” and a gorgeous “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” the Mel Tormé classic Criss calls his “very favorite Christmas song.”

He also offered up wonderful covers of Regina Spektor’s contemplative ballad “New Year,” and, in one of the evening’s most impressive vocal moments, the 2004 Keane hit, “Somewhere Only We Know,” performed without mic to showcase the superb acoustics of the spectacular Colonial.

The legendary try-out house also provided the perfect setting for Criss to sing “Welcome Home,” first performed by opera singer Enzio Pinza in the 1954 Broadway musical “Fanny,” with music and lyrics by Harold Rome.

The San Francisco native’s good humor was sprinkled throughout the show. Apparently, whenever John Rox’s novelty song “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas,” a hit for 10-year-old Gayla Peevey in 1953, played on the radio in Criss’s childhood home, everything came to a halt so his mother could sing along. In Boston, her now-adult son’s version of the song had him, and his rapt audience, bopping along.

Weaving in plenty of colorful patter between the songs – which also included a light and lovely “When You Wish Upon a Star” – Criss shared freeform musings on the mood of the day, defined the musical term “imperfect rhyme,” and humorously lamented the takeover of the Billboard charts at this time of year by Burl Ives, with “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” and now Brenda Lee, with her current number one, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” first recorded 62 years ago.

At the close, Criss strapped on a guitar for his hip-swiveling “Christmas Dance,” a rollicking tune he not only wrote but also customized with song requests shouted out by his swooning Boston audience. It was “A Very Darren Crissmas” indeed.

[terresdebrume]

I started writing this at work because I didn't get any prompt for my flash fic drive yesterday but I still wanted to do a little something, and this is what came out. On the upside, it's longer than my usual flash ficlets so. Yay for my first completed Webgott work :P

Bedtime Stories

They're in bed, settled in for an early evening with the blankets high under their chins. David is half draped over Joe's chest, because he likes having his head in the crook of Joe's neck and also because Joe likes the extra warmth—it's toasty, like this, and David has sweat gliding down his neck, but he enjoys this too much to let it go. Spending their winter evenings like this—him, finishing the day's crosswords in the San Francisco Chronicles, listening to Joe's heartbeat while Joe's fingers run through his hair and make an absolute nest out of it, the latest best seller in his free hand to keep the memories of Bastogne he rarely talks about at bay—very few things in the world compare to this. David will take all the sweat in the world and then some to keep this. He's comfortable, and warm, and beloved, and he's inches from sleep when he feels Joe's breathing speed up.

David looks up, frowning, but Joe's face doesn't look the way he does when the ghosts of the war catch up with him. He is frowning though, shoulders tensing under David's cheek, and David puts his pencil down, reaching up to cup Joe's cheek in his hand. Joe, his eyes still fixed on the book, doesn't pay attention to him until David starts fiddling with the branches of his reading glasses. He takes the kind of deep breath that comes after losing oneself between the pages of a good book, the release of deep focus and tension melting him further against the headboard.

"Am I bothering you, your highness?" He asks, and David puts on the haughtiest air he can muster:

"Yes, as a matter of fact. It's quite the racket in there. Good scene?"

Joe hums, contemplating, and twists until he can land a kiss in the palm of David's hand. He stays there for a moment or two, quiet enough that David wonders if maybe he's gotten lost in thoughts, until he says:

"I'd say efficient, more than good. I don't know that I like it."

David makes a questioning noise. He hasn't followed the plot of Joe's book very closely—Joe started it while David was rushing to meet three separate deadlines and had no mind to remember the details of some rich excentric man's birthday plans. Worse: the book is apparently the sequel to a children's story that David hasn't read, and overall seemed to expect its readers to care quite a bit more about genealogy than David is prepared to. He does nod when Joe asks if he remembers what happened last.

"They're at the inn now, right? With the uh. Ranger man."

Joe snorts, and David has known and loved him long enough by now to hear the implied 'literature studies and that's how you describe a plot. Pathetic.' A few years ago, David would have taken offense at that, but he's too comfortable for bickering tonight, so instead he makes a conceding hum and tilts his head up until Joe rolls his eyes and kisses him.

"Read it to me?" He asks after they pull apart some time later.

"'As they prepared for sleep in the inn at Bree, darkness lay on Buckland. A mist strayed in the dells and along the riverbank. The house at Crickhollow stood silent. Fatty Bolger opened the door cautiously and peered out.'"

Joe has a good reading voice, despite his protests. It's not the kind of voice they'd pick for the job on the radio, but the way he puts gravitas into the narration would put George Luz and his impressions to shame. It's easy for David to relax back down against him and try to imagine what a character named Fatty Bolger might look like.

"'A feeling of fear had been growing on him all day,'" Joe continues, "'and he was unable to rest or go to bed. There was a brooding threat, in the breathless night air. As he stared out into the gloom, a black shadow moved under the trees.'"

David's heart beat picks up just as Joe's does, his spine stiffening with the memory of countless guard rotations—the fight against exhaustion, the knowledge that in the dark every shadow could spell his death. The terror shooting through him with every crack of a branch or rustle of a leaf.

"'The gate seemed to open of its own accord, and close again without a sound,'" Joe continues, his free hand moving from David's head down to his shoulder. "'Terror seized him. He shrank back, and for a moment he stood trembling in the hall... then he shut and locked he door.'"

David's hand abandons its position on Joe's cheek and goes to grip Joe's hand instead. There is a tremor in his knees: the dull shock of landing on damp grass in the night, machine guns roaring in the distance—the rush of getting the 'chute off, pulling his rifle into position. Staring frantically into the pitch darkness of Normandy and desperately resisting the urge to shoot at the first thing that moves.

"'The night deepened,'" Joe continues, the rhythm of his ribcage against David's back speeding up again, his voice growing more tense by the second. "'There came the soft sound of horses led with stealth along the lane. Outside the gate, they stopped, and three black figures entered, like shades of night creeping across the ground. One went to the door.'"

Another night, another building to clear. Rushing to the door, trying to think about what to do—grenade, wait, rush in—rather than what could be waiting there.

"'One to the corner of the house on either side, and there they stood, as still as the shadows of stone while the night went slowly on. The house and the quiet trees seemed to be waiting breathlessly.'"

The dissonance between the quiet and the fear. The knowledge that peace was still there, just out of reach behind gossamer curtains.

"'There was a faint stir in the leaves, and a cock crowed far away. The cold hour before dawn was passing.'"

Waiting in a ditch, with dozens of better armed men a scant few feet away from realizing they could hose the lot of them down in less than a minute. Dreading the only orders Winters could possibly give in that situation, and knowing there would be nothing for it but to execute them anyway.

"'The figure by the door moved. In the dark without a moon or stars, a drawn blade gleamed, as if a chill light had been unsheathed. There was a blow—'"

Something knocks against the front door, and David jumps so hard his head collides with Joe's chin, whose yelp echoes in the little bedroom. They sit together for a moment, the fingers of their clasped hands tight around each other as they slow their breathing down as best as they can. There's another knock, and this time David only flinches before he straightens up. He glances at Joe behind him and finds him pale and drawn, the familiar furrow of his anger cutting deep between his eyebrows as he grips David's hand tighter than ever.

"I'll get it," David says as their landlady starts calling for them at the door.

He brings Joe's hand to his lips and presses a kiss on the back of it, just so he can remind himself where he is—where they are—before he makes his way through the tiny apartment, vaguely combing through his hair until he opens the door. Mrs. Obradovic startles, and immediately falls into a concerned frown:

"Is everything alright my dear? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

The truth of it is both much sillier and infinitely more serious than Mrs. Obradovic thinks, but David doesn't feel up to baring his soul to his octogenarian proprietor, no matter how kindly she is, so he makes himself laugh.

"I almost thought I did. How may I help you?"

She points down to a small bag on the floor.

"Josep finally came home with the coal," she says, still visibly concerned. "I'd have waited until tomorrow, but I know your Joe doesn't do well with the cold."

"Thank you, Mrs. Obradovic," David says, sincere through the headiness of calming down after an abrupt fright. "You're an angel."

"Nonsense, nonsense. Now, you boys have a good night, and let me know if you need anything else, yes?"

"We will. Thank you again," David says, and finds himself giving her a warmer smile than he normally does, touched by her continued concern over Joe's well being.

He closes the door behind her, locks it, and deals with the coal before he makes his way back to the bedroom, dusting his hands off as he walks. The book is back on Joe's bedside table when he enters, red eye staring at David from the wide black circle on the cover, and the spindly red runes almost feel like they're about to start moving. On the bed, Joe is no longer as pale as the novel's cover, which David decides to take as a good sign as he crawls up onto Joe's lap and takes his face between his hands.

"So," he says, pressing his forehead against Joe's and taking deep breaths to calm himself down. "I see what you meant by efficient."

"Yeah."

There is a brief silence, and then Joe sighs and goes soft between David's palms, pliant like he is after nightmares finally let go of him, usually several hours past dawn. David draws him in and nuzzles his nose, dipping in to plant little kisses on Joe's cheeks. On his hips, he feels Joe's fingers tighten again, almost to the point of bruising, until Joe's arms wrap around his waist and pull him in tight.

"Fuck," Joe says eventually, the slip into German more familiar now that David finally convinced him there was no reason to punish himself for what the Nazis did. "Fuck, it's just a fucking book."

"Well, at least you're not the one who nearly broke his lover's nose over it."

That startles a laugh out of Joe, and he tilts his head up to kiss David's lips. They don't kiss like that often—usually, Joe prefers to tug David downward to negate their height difference. But David likes it when he gets to kiss Joe from above, likes the opportunity to cradle his face with his hands, the excuse to treat Joe like the precious thing he is without being accused of thinking he's fragile. They lose themselves in the kiss for several long minutes, and by the end David is almost back to the the mellow state he was in before they started reading.

"Right," Joe says, picking up the book from the bedside table and tossing it to the other end of the room, "Goodbye, Tolkien."

"I don't know," David says, eyes drawn to where the first few letters of 'Fellowship' shimmer in the dim light of Joe's bedside lamp, "I'm intrigued now."

"Intrigued?" Joe repeats, incredulous. "You nearly shat yourself."

"Yeah, well, so did you," David shoots back, soothing the sting with a kiss on Joe's nose. "What can I say, I'm braver about fiction than reality."

"Like I didn't know that," Joe scoffs, and David rolls his eyes.

"I'm serious, Liebling. I'm going to read it."

"Right."

"Just...maybe not at night," David admits, and Joe's face goes from gently mocking to purely fond as he squeezes his arms around David's waist.

"Don't worry," he says, visibly going for a joking tone, "I'll hug you better if you scare yourself."

Joke's on him, though, because that's exactly what David was angling for.

ETA: Cleaned up (and longer!) Version now available on AO3!

[dailyanarchistposts]

Footnotes, 51-100

[50] Martin Crutsinger, “United States Cites China and Other Nations in Report on Unfair Trade Practices,” Associated Press, March 31, 2006.

[51] Dale Maharidge, “Rust and Rage in the Heartland,” Nation, September 20, 2004, www.thenation.com.

[52] Pam Belluck, “To Avoid Divorce, Move to Massachusetts,” New York Times, November 14, 2004, as quoted in Michelle Goldberg, Kingdom Coming, 67.

[53] By 2010, according to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, if the proposed federal cuts remain in place, elementary and secondary education funding will be cut by $11.5 billion, or 12 percent; 670,000 fewer women and children will receive assistance through the Women, Infants and Children Supplemental Nutrition Program; 120,000 fewer children will be served through Head Start; and 370,000 fewer low-income families, elderly people and people with disabilities will receive rental assistance with rental vouchers. See Sharon Parrott, Jim Horney, Isaac Shapiro, Ruth Carlitz, Bradley Hardy, and David Kamin, “Where Would the Cuts Be Made under the President’s Budget?: An Analysis of Reductions in Education, Human Services, Environment, and Community Development Programs,” Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, February 28, 2005, www.cbpp.org.

[54] Dale Maharidge, “Rust and Rage.”

[55] Arlie Hochschild, “The Chauffeur’s Dilemma,” American Prospect 16: 7 (July 2005), 53.

[56] Ibid.

[57] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together: The Classic Exploration of Faith in Community (New York: HarperCollins, 1954), 330.

[58] D. James Kennedy, Evangelism Explosion, 4th ed. (Wheaton, IL: Tyndale House, 1996), 59.

[59] Ibid.

[60] Ibid., 60.

[61] Ibid., 137.

[62] Ibid., 2.

[63] Ibid., 139.

[64] Ibid., 103.

[65] Ibid., 22.

[66] Margaret Thaler Singer, Cults in Our Midst: The Continuing Fight Against Their Hidden Menace (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2003), 114.

[67] Robert Jay Lifton, cited in Denise Winn, The Manipulated Mind (Cambridge, MA: Malor Books, 2000), 21.

[68] William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience (Mineola, NY: Dover, 2002), 187.

[69] “Staff Biography: ‘Dr. James Kennedy,’” Center for Reclaiming America for Christ, www.reclaimamerica Us.aspx?pg=djk.

[70] “Dr. Kennedy’s Profile,” The Kennedy Commentary, www.kennedycommentary.org; Truths That Transform, Coral Ridge Ministries, www.truthsthattransform. org/ITT.asp?page=about; “About the Coral Ridge Hour,” The Coral Ridge Hour, www.coralridgehour.org page=crh.

[71] Terry Gross, “Closing the Gap Between Church and State,” Fresh Air from WHYY, May 18, 2005.

[72] Ibid.

[73] Bob Moser, “The Crusaders,” Rolling Stone, April 7, 2005, www.rollingstone.com =1140382586732&has-player=false.

[74] Ibid.

[75] Ashley Fantz, “Cross Purposes: The Rev. D. James Kennedy Teaches That Homosexuality Is a Sin. Richard Murphy Loves Him Anyway,” Broward–Palm Beach New Times, May 2, 2002.

[76] Worthy Creations, www.worthycreations.org.

[77] Rob Boston, “D. James Kennedy: Who Is He and What Does He Want?” Americans United for Separation of Church and State, www.au.org.

[78] Kennedy, Evangelism Explosion, 72.

[79] Ibid.

[80] Ibid., 73.

[81] Ibid., 84.

[82] Ibid., 42.

[83] Ibid.

[84] Paul Tillich, “You Are Accepted,” in The Shaking of the Foundations (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1948), 155.

[85] Kennedy, Evangelism Explosion, 48.

[86] D. James Kennedy and Jerry Newcombe, The Gates of Hell Shall Not Prevail (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 1996), 135.

[87] “Aggregated Grants to Coral Ridge Ministries, Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church and Evangelism Explosion” (grants cover January 1998 to February 2004), Media Transparency, www.mediatransparency.org.

[88] Klaus Theweleit, Male Fantasies (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 1:218.

[89] Francis FitzGerald, “A Disciplined, Charging Army,” New Yorker, May 18, 1981, 53, quoted in Robert Smart, “The Passion of the Christ: Reflections on Mel’s Monstrous Messiah Movie and the Culture Wars,” Jump Cut 47 (Winter 2005), www.ejumpcut.org.

[90] Karen McCarthy Brown, “Fundamentalism and the Control of Women,” in Fundamentalism and Gender, ed. John Stratton Hawley (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 176.

[91] Ibid., 182–183.

[92] “Dobson’s Choice: Religious Right Leader Becomes Political Power Broker,” People for the American Way Foundation, February 24, 2005, www.pfaw.

[93] James Dobson, Dare to Discipline (New York: Bantam, 1977), 23.

[94] “Dobson’s Choice.”

[95] “Right Wing Organizations: Focus on the Family,” People for the American Way Foundation, www.pfaw#.

[96] “Dobson’s Choice.”

[97] James Dobson, “The Gender Gap,” Focus on the Family, www.family.org.

[98] Mark Edmundson, “Freud and the Fundamentalist Urge,” New York Times, April 30, 2006.

[99] Ibid.

[100] Susan Friend Harding, The Book of Jerry Falwell: Fundamentalist Language and Politics (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 176.

[monstersinthecosmos]

September 20, 1973

So dark that his eyes hurt. Aching deep in his head as he tries to see something, see anything, but the blackness swallows him. His teeth chatter as he tries to look, but it just suffocates him. It permeates everything, everywhere it can get into his body, and he wants to cover his ears but he keeps thinking he won’t have the space to move his arms.

Like Louis. Stuck in that coffin. Walled in. And if he can just pretend it’s his own coffin, just for the night…

But no, no. Not a coffin. He knows it’s not a coffin, and has the bravery to move his body. Reaching a hand out into the blackness, and he can’t see it in front of his face. He covers his ears, like it will keep all the darkness out, and curls up tighter on the floor. 

Squeezes his eyes shut.

He keeps remembering things. And he knows he’s dreaming, because he doesn’t think he’s that same Daniel anymore. Watching it like it’s someone else’s life. 

Watching the draft with his best friend, Ray, and look on his face when his birthday came up. Ray’s sister had rushed out of the room in tears. 

The first time he kissed a guy, and how terrifying it had been.

Driving over the Bay Bridge when he moved to San Francisco and seeing the skyline.

He never regretted moving there. Even in the panic of his first days, all by himself. But he sees it now like the first in a series of events, dragging him closer to doom. He wants to scream at the boy in the vision, tell him to turn back, pick anywhere else.

Eyes snap open, but it’s still dark. He shakes on the ground. 

He can’t decide if he regrets it now. Maybe he’d rather know.

Water drips somewhere. Steady rhythm. The walls crush around him, like a vice, and he shakes as he tries to make himself small. Squeezing himself in, tighter, tighter, and he wonders how long he’ll be in the coffin in the wall, how long can he go without hunting, if he’s truly immortal. 

Can vampires lose their minds? Can they recover afterwards?

But, no. No. He shakes his head. Everything is stiff but he finds the courage to reach his hands out again. Not in a coffin. 

Not a vampire.

He’s got the worst headache he’s ever had in his life. 

Dehydrated, surely. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, too dark to tell. But he’s thirsty. Too anxious to be hungry, but his mouth is so dry. Head throbbing every time he moves. And when he touches his neck he feels the sting of an open wound. Not the one Louis left. A new one.

The floor is cold and damp. Gritty concrete. He feels around himself. Crawls tentatively on hands and knees until he gets to the wall, suddenly unsure which way is up. He tries to sit up, presses his back against the wall, trying to feel something tangible. 

He remembers the worst moments of his life—the draft, the blowout fight he had with his father a few months ago, the death of his first pet—but can’t remember how he got to this room. He presses his palms to his eyes, even in the dark, as it if will help. 

Think, Molloy.

The house. The tapes. And he saw a face.

And then…

He’d fallen on the floor, he knows that. He knows he said the name Armand.

But there’s nothing else. Aching black void in his head, as painful as the room he’s in. 

Pressure wells up in his chest. Dehydrated, but his eyes are burning. He wipes his face, sniffling, hiccuping as he tries to hold the sobs inside. 

He could choke like this.

Darkness swallows his voice as it spills out. And he claps his hand over his mouth, because he feels the darkness shoving its way inside, any space it can fill. His mouth, and down his throat. Too dehydrated to be crying like this, and he should calm down, but the tears are flowing. On his cheeks, into his hands. Nose running and he tries to hold the noises inside, keep the darkness out, but he’s shaking all over and can’t control it. 

“Danny, I’m really scared,” Ray said that night. After his family had turned the TV off and gone up to bed. Daniel can hear the voice, as if it’s here in the room with him. So close, against his ear, and he can’t see in the dark to know if he’s alone. 

They’d gone outside. Sat way at the back of the yard by the fence, away from where the kitchen light had spilled out into the grass. An unlit joint was in Daniel’s hand, because he wasn’t sure if smoking would make it any better. Probably not, looking back. And Ray hadn’t pushed for it, but Daniel had it ready. Just in case.

“I just have this real bad feeling,” he said. Sniffling, in the dark. Not like this darkness, not so suffocating. But Daniel couldn’t make out his face. They’d never cried in front of each other before. The shadows allowed for privacy as Ray's voice shook.

They’d called Daniel’s birthday, too, but he was too young this year. Still, the date popping up made him feel so unwell. Ray’s had been called already, and his parents were arguing, so no one noticed and Daniel kept it to himself.

“I just feel like I’m not gonna make it home,” Ray said, stuttering around it. 

Daniel hears it all again, in the dark. And the damp of the floor could be the damp of the grass outside. 

Something tickles on the back of his neck and he shouts, pushes away from the wall. A bug or something, and he’s hyperventilating in the middle of the room, crawling away from it. Rubbing at his skin, tugging his shirt away from his body. Darkness everywhere, crushing in.

Ray had been right. 

Daniel had seen the military car drive up to Ray’s house, two doors down from his own, and saw them  approach the door. It took a few hours for the gossip to make it to his mother, but Daniel just knew by then. He had a bad feeling, too.

They’d never recovered Ray’s body. Witnesses knew he’d been blown up. Nothing left to send home. 

And now here, in this darkness. Suffocating. Crying and crying and he worries he won’t ever be able to stop.

We're both dead, aren't we?

And you didn’t make it home, either. 

[previous day] | [next day]

[keanuquotes]

What do a grocery store, a diner, and The Matrix Resurrections have in common? We can thank all of them for Dogstar's origin story and comeback.

Keanu Reeves, Robert Mailhouse, and Bret Domrose's rock band formed in 1991 after a chance encounter in Southern California's supermarket Gelson's, when Reeves saw Mailhouse wearing a Detroit Red Wings top and struck up a conversation with him. The two bonded over their shared love of hockey and became fast friends.

"It turned out that we lived in the same neighborhood," Reeves tells EW, "and then we started to jam together, and then we started to write songs, and then we played the first shows as Dogstar not that long after."

Doghouse members Robert Mailhouse, Bret Domrose, and Keanu Reeves

| CREDIT: BRIAN BOWEN SMITH

In their early days, bassist Reeves, drummer Mailhouse, and original singer and guitarist Gregg Miller (who left the group in 1995) would play in Reeves' garage. "It was fun," Reeves recalls. Until Miller's amplifier broke.

So he reached out to Domrose for help. "I was bartending with [Miller] when I first moved to Los Angeles, and I happened to have a similar amplifier to his," Domrose says. "So I went over to the house to help him fix it, and that's where I met these two guys. I just thought I was going to help some guy fix a piece of equipment. I didn't know I was about to change the rest of my life."

Reeves and Mailhouse were instantly impressed by Domrose's guitar skills — "Bret's a shredder, man," Reeves says — so a few days after watching him play, they invited him to join them at the iconic Los Angeles venue Troubadour. "I just wanted to go and drink beers and watch you guys," Domrose recalls. "I didn't realize I was going to be on stage."

"That set the tone for us from then on," Reeves says, rubbing his hands together. "Jump into the deep end. Man, that's us. We are not afraid."

Much like with that first serendipitous meeting in a Gelson's, food, at least in a roundabout way, helped lead them to a musical collaboration — this time, their return, which includes a tour and their upcoming third album, Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees.

"There was a premiere for Matrix 4 in San Francisco, and the next morning we had breakfast," Reeves says. "That was the initial spark." While the band never officially went on hiatus, they hadn't recorded or released new music in more than two decades, playing together only every few years in basements or at smaller gigs nowhere near the size of their old concert venues. But what started as a post-Matrix Resurrections chat about equipment turned into a full-fledged plan for them to reunite in L.A. to start working on fresh material.

"We got excited, one thing leads to another, and then we all took it extremely seriously," Mailhouse says. "It wasn't going to be another one of those casual get-togethers. You could just tell. It was like we were on a mission."

Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees is full of anthemic, sweeping, beautiful, and rousing songs that embody what the band is today. "The inspiration was three guys wanting to have fun and reconnect and be honest with our emotions, and so that's what you get," Domrose says.

If the music is different from their earlier, post-grunge records, it's all by design. "There's a maturity," Reeves says of their sound today. "The most challenging day [recording this album] was when I played 'Dillon Street'" — a track on the new album — "really basic when we were writing the song. When we get into the studio with the guys, I'm just playing it very simple and holding it down, and they were like, 'I think you need to do something more.' I tried to come up with the bass line in the moment, and it moves around a little more than I usually do, and so it was pushing me."

Reeves continues, "It was scary making stuff up in the moment with all ears and eyes on me, but everyone was cheering me on — just like, 'Dude, you got it. Let's go, Reeves.' So it was challenging, but also a fun moment."

The trio have never felt prouder of an album, and they can't wait to finally release it to the world. "We should have the record release party at a Gelson's, the one in Beachwood Canyon [where we met]," Mailhouse jokes to Reeves.

Adds Domrose with a laugh, "They do have a bar now!"

Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees is out Oct. 6.