#hey remember how i finished 90% of this in one day and then said id post it the next and then it was another month? yeah

[omegasmileyface]

some distant tommy ghoulatta backstory :)

[HLVRAI Danny Phantom AU]

warnings: death mention

words: 2299

AO3 link

===

Feb 1965, Wagon Mound, NM

G-Man looked at the dry, historic town around him as he pulled his truck into the parking lot of a church. He was staying in a cheap hotel a few towns away, where he had first seen all that supernatural stuff as a kid. He had come back to ask around for local stories and try to get some semblance of research done himself, and he was lucky enough to hear about a guy in this town who was supposedly obsessed with ghosts. After getting his address and name — Benjamin Fischer — from a local at a diner who was intrigued by G-Man's search, he set off immediately.

Fischer's house was close to the church, so G-Man got out there and walked the rest of the way. It was uncomfortably hot with his jacket on so close to the desert, but he knew how quickly that could change.

The house was small and modern, with an unkempt yard and a cross visible in the blinded window. After G-Man knocked on the door, he investigated the porch. Despite the lack of attention to appearance everywhere else, lush bushes were kept in pots by the door. They bloomed with deep, pinkish-red rose-like flowers despite the time of year.

A man, presumably Benjamin Fischer himself, opened the door.

"Hello. I've heard you've been doing some research on spirits and the supernatural?" G-Man said, quelling the slight intimidation he felt with the confidence of a man on a mission.

Fischer raised his eyebrow. "Who are you, exactly?"

Aw, crap. He was so excited he forgot to introduce himself. "Sorry. You can call me G-Man. I'm looking to do some research myself, and I need a better jumping off point."

Fischer looked amused, but didn't stop frowning. "Do you have a real name?"

"I've been going solely by G-Man these last few years."

The older man smiled wryly. "Well, boy, I try to keep my research to myself. I can give you some advice, but that's about all."

G-Man's brow furrowed, and he forced his face back into a more neutral expression. "Advice would be wonderful," (though he doubted it was anything he hadn't heard before), "but why don't you share your research? The more people know about what's out there, the more we can be equipped for it."

Fischer looked to the side and scowled. "There are people here who think I'm crazy, or better yet, some kind of Satan worshipper. I'm sure they'd like to see what I've found and make all sorts of trouble for everyone in town trying to 'disprove' it. Hell, there are people who'd take what I've done, use it against me, and then take it for their own."

"Ah... could I help you with your research then? I have no intention of letting anything found by either of us into the wrong hands."

"Sorry, kid, not looking for an assistant at the moment. You'll have to look somewhere else. And that advice, before you go — ghosts are more than just the impressions of people who used to live. Trust your instincts, they're closer to spirits than your brain."

G-Man frowned and thanked the man before reluctantly walking back toward the church. He could probably spend the night searching for anything supernatural in this town, but he'd have to go back by morning. Maybe he'd come by some other time and pester Fischer again.

---

June 1967, Wagon Mound, NM

In two more years of searching on his own, G-Man had learned some more about the supernatural, but not as much as he'd wanted. He'd gathered from books that all spirits had a central energy made out of pure passion that held them together, that they had physical forms but they didn't align quite right with the living world, that they were connected to some spirit world — all understandably but frustratingly spiritual and speculative. The only thing that seemed to be consistent was that a European flower called blood blossom, the flower that was blooming outside Benjamin Fischer's house, distressed spirits enough to ward them off.

He was in New Mexico again to visit his old spots, trying to see if he could find a ghost fresh enough to talk to him somewhat coherently. A waitress at a diner in Wagon Mound had recognized him and told him that Fischer had died a few months ago and it may not be best to try to visit his house.

Of course, that's just what G-Man did.

Clearly, Fischer had lived alone, and the house looked untouched. The yard was colder than the rest of the town, though it was night, and from the way the hairs on the back of his neck spiked, G-Man was sure it was due to a paranormal presence. Either an effect of Fischer's studies, or he was haunting the place. If G-Man's research was correct, ghosts newer than a few years didn't have enough of a presence to really do anything, or even be conscious, but they tended to hang around where they had lived and affect the atmosphere there.

Following his instincts just the way the man had told him to before, G-Man walked around to the back of the house. There was a back door, the sort that might connect to a kitchen, but a small broken window revealed that the room inside was nothing of the sort. Instead it had metal tables like a lab, surfaces covered in books, and metal boxes lined up against the walls. Some boxes and jars in the room seemed to glow when he looked away from them, including a Florence flask which was knocked over on an otherwise clear table, spilling some translucent liquid which had yet to evaporate.

The closer G-Man got, the more the chill picked at his skin. He could tell he wasn't wanted here, but the dried blood blossoms in his pockets should keep anything too bad from happening. It was worth it for the knowledge he could — would — gain.

He climbed through the window. It was too small to be a comfortable fit, but the door was locked and he didn't want to break anything that wasn't already broken. On the way through, his hand picked up a small static shock. Strange, since the window frame was plastic, but stranger things still have happened during G-Man's studies.

A workbench directly across from the door caught his attention. In front of stacks of books was a torn piece of paper, stained by whatever substance was in the spilled flask. Wild but legible handwriting read:

The items in this lab are not to be moved without the utmost dedication to their protection. I am dead, but my findings are still not to be let out of my sight. Intruders will be faced with my ghost. The security of my work is likely the death of me, be prepared for it to be the death of you.

It was signed by Fischer, but the corner of the paper was smudged unreadable by the liquid, leaving just "Ben".

It was certainly very passionate. Confident, even, from the assumption that his ghost would be around in the time it would be needed. But Fischer knew more than G-Man, if nothing else, he could be sure his ghost would stay with any stolen items until it could punish the thief. G-Man was weary to open any books or boxes knowing this, but stepped back to at least look around the room. Perhaps something could be gained that way.

In his inspection, G-Man noticed one of the faded glows becoming brighter. Suddenly, it coalesced into a figure. Directly in front of him, Fischer's ghost hovered, dark blue eyes piercing despite the overall unsure translucency of his form. He was angry, as fiercely protective of his work as the note had implied. He was also... startlingly solid. This was the closest G-Man had ever been to a ghost, but he was sure that they were not usually so defined at the edges. This ghost had slightly wrinkled skin, and his chest was moving as if he were breathing.

In fact, G-Man was certain that in order for a ghost to collect enough ambient energy to cast a form, stay visible, and maintain a consciousness, their essence had to remain for several years. Even in a place of highly concentrated paranormal energy like this little lab, it would take a year or more for just the emotional consciousness to draw together into a spirit. For what was clearly Fischer to be here so soon, and so unusually solid as well... something was clearly wrong. G-Man's investigative curiosity was almost enough to overpower his instinctual fear.

As the spirit's eyes focused onto him, the air in the room grew drier. It started to pull at the moisture in his skin and made his fingertips feel hot. Every luminescent stain and vial grew brighter until they appeared to occasionally arc between one another. Tiny discharges of hot energy.

There was no way G-Man was getting out of this without at the very least explaining himself. He steeled his nerves to the best of his ability and looked directly into the ghost's eyes, willing himself to ignore the dark lifelessness of the pupils. "Do you... remember me?"

Fischer's head tilted to the side, less like he was trying to remember so much as like he was weighing whether to admit something. "...I do not know you." He looked unsure, questioning, even though behind his firm protectiveness was a layer of desperate honesty. Especially so soon after his own death, he had to be terribly confused, with a sense of purpose but no information as to why it was so.

...Of course, unless G-Man has been misunderstanding something major, and he remembered his life just fine.

Still, assumptions lead to danger when it comes to the supernatural, so he decided to test the waters.

G-Man pointed to the smudged note. "So, Ben..." He avoided calling the ghost by his full living name. For all he knew, there was some ghostly cultural taboo against using someone's old name. The most literal form of a deadname, he supposed. The note said "Ben" at the end, so perhaps if the ghost had no memory of his life he'd understand why G-Man would think that's his name.

Fischer growled. Alright, then, bad move. "That's not it." He was looking pointedly at the note, eying the staining almost as if scared. Wait, was he questioning the cut-off? He must not have been used to going as just "Ben" in life.

"...Not your whole name?"

Fischer shook his head harshly. He looked as though if he weren't fully invested in keeping G-Man away from his findings, he'd be curled up on the floor in frustration.

"Maybe..." started the ghost, "maybe it was... Ben... 'ri'? Benry?"

G-Man had to hold back a startled laugh. Maybe he was thinking of "Benji" or something similar, because as far as he was aware, "Benry" was nothing close to a name. That being said, he wasn't going to bring up the possible confusion. He was on thin ice as is.

"Well. Benry, sir, my name is G-Man. I'm a paranormal researcher, just like... just like the man this lab belonged to, and I've spoken with him before to share findings. I was hoping to make some observations of this room for my own research and leave. I promise not to harm you or anything in here. May I please take a look around?"

The spirit (Benry?) stared back at G-Man with a renewed fury. "NO! The research in this room stays here. If it gets out, they'll take it for their own uses, all they want is-"

"I promise to keep it away from the government!"

It was a fight-or-flight response, really, G-Man just blurted the first thing he thought Benry might want to hear. Honestly, he had no reason to assume what he didn't want was government involvement, that's a bit of a stereotype when it comes to rural areas, right? Just because G-Man was afraid of the government after getting the cops called on him for a ritual last year didn't mean every paranormal researcher was. And interrupting the ghost wasn't any way to earn his trust, God why wasn't his fear enough to shut him up? I mean, even if he didn't react violently — it would be respectable, considering G-Man's bold act — making a promise to a ghost? Aren't they like the fae? What if he's bound to it? He wasn't planning on sharing anything with the government, not by a long shot, but what if something came up?

Benry's eyes widened and bored directly into G-Man, expression unreadable. Then he softened. Almost literally, his harsh glow lessened and a degree of moisture returned to the room. "You promise."

It wasn't a question, but it didn't feel like a command either. It didn't need to be. An expression of relief. "We protect the research together. You can build on it. Without the findings, there's nothing to protect. We must keep it from the wrong hands."

G-Man was shocked. The shock didn't lessen when Benry, and the note, faded from view. Was he... trusted to keep this research?

After standing still for a minute and feeling the room come back together, he let out a weak, belated "thank you." He approached a closed book on one table. If nothing else, he had to come away from this with some new knowledge.

When he touched it, the pages hummed with the same dry spark as Benry's glare. ...Haunting equipment was a good way to stay close, G-Man supposed. It seemed he had not only Fischer's findings to help his career, but his own defensive spirit, odd as it may be.

[redrobinfection]

(16) Graveyard

SociallyAwkwardFox’s Spooktober (2018) - Day 16 “Graveyard”

Tim & Damian | Implied JayTim | Implied DickDami | College AU | No Capes | Crack | actual discussion of literature | Dick Grayson was adopted by the Drakes instead of the Waynes | Want to write/create with me? Find the prompt list here!

~*~

"How about four out of seven?" Tim asked with a shrug, winding up the toilet paper roll again.

Damian, his fellow barista, threw his roll at Tim's head, missing wildly. He glared. "You cheated, Drake!"

Tim rolled his eyes as he retrieved Damian's roll and began winding it up too. "How could I cheat at coffee cup bowling, ‘Wayne’?"

"You wind your roll too tightly. It doesn't unravel as much when you pitch it and thus has more mass by the time it hits the cups."

Tim raised his eyebrows. "What are you now, a physics major? That just sounds like strategy, dude. You are free to roll your roll as tightly as you'd like. That isn't against the rules."

Damian fumed. "The rules you made up! This is why I said we should use the rice crispy ba--customer."

Tim whirled on the spot, seeing that, indeed, a paying customer had entered their little, semi-enclosed coffee shop. Outside, a few students sat or sprawled over the sectional couches that filled the large basement of the university student union in which the shop was located.

Tim turned and vaulted over the counter. He heard a quiet "-tch-" from Damian as he walked to the hinged raise-able section of the counter and let himself in.

Tim straightened his apron and stepped up the register with a smile. The customer stood about five feet from the register, head tilted back, studying the menu board over Tim's head with bleary eyes. The guy was like a zombie, he was that exhausted. Tim cut his eyes over to the clock on the wall. 3:45 am. Hell of a time for coffee.

Tim glanced over his shoulder at Damian, who was reawakening the cranky espresso machine with deft fingers. Seven hours and forty-five minutes with Damian "the Demon " Wayne down, only four hours and fifteen minutes to go. Tim turned back to their customer and sighed. This was going to be a loooooooong morning.

At second glance, there was something familiar about the guy, but Tim couldn't put his finger on where he knew him. The guy had pretty teal eyes, but they were reddened and dull, like he hadn't closed them except to blink in way too long. He was also pretty well cut, Tim noticed, with clearly muscled arms and pecs so defined that Tim could clearly see them through the man's sweater. Maybe that's how Tim knew him? Maybe he'd seen him in the UREC weight room?

The guy's most eye-catching feature by far was the white forelock that curled down over his forehead. He was the third person Tim had met to have a whitened forelock like that; the other two were fraternal twins who had had small patches of albinism right at their widows peaks which affected both the skin and hair. Tim idly wondered if this guy's white lock was natural too. In any case, it looked frickin' cool, a lot cooler than his own; the best thing he could say about his own hair was that he could pull off the 90's curtain cut plus semi-mullet well enough that he could go an entire semester on a single haircut.

Tim was drawn out of his thoughts when dude finally stepped up to the counter and began to speak.

"Uh, hi, could I get a large, double-shot caramel latte?"

"Absolutely. How many pumps of caramel do you want?" Tim asked cheerily.

The guy looked up from digging through his overly stuffed messenger bag. "Uhh…the normal four should be fine."

"Okay, that will be $6.47. Can I get a name for the order?"

The guy didn't look up this time. "Uh, Jason. Gimme a sec', I know my wallet is at the bottom of this thing somewhere."

"No problem, take your time. It's not like we have a line, anyway," Tim joked.

This guy looked so dead right now--inside and out--that if he didn't find his wallet, then Tim would probably just buy the coffee for the guy himself. He understood better than anyone the sudden need for caffeine at odd hours of the day. He's not sure how he would have finished half his computer science projects this term without a much-needed double-espresso every couple of hours, to be honest.

The guy--'Jason' apparently--finally fished out a small money clip then handed over a student ID card. "Put it on my Dining Dollars, please."

"Yeah, no probl- wait a minute!" Tim cut off, staring. Suddenly, it had hit Tim where he knew this guy. "Aren't you that kid who always sits at the front of Professor Hyatt's nine-fifteen, Tuesday-Thursday, Modern European Literature and answers all the questions?"

The dude raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah. Why…? Wait…" He squinted and leaned in. "Aren't you the kid who once tried to sit all the way back in the AV booth, since, and I quote, 'the back wasn't far enough back'?"

Tim grinned as he swiped the ID card through the register. "Haha, yeah."

Damian moved as if to step up to the counter, the guy's drink in hand, but stopped dead about a foot away. He stared.

"Wait. Aren't you the guy who always comes in, gets tea, and sits in the window over there and reads romance novels?" Damian asked, eying him appraisingly.

The dude huffed. "Yes. My name is Jason--by the way--and they're not romance novels, it's classic lit. Now can I get my coffee?"

Damian handed the coffee over the counter, but raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You mean to tell me Rebecca is not a romance novel?"

"Wait, what!? Do you mean Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca?" Tim asked as he handed Jason's ID card back over the counter.

Damian nodded wordlessly. Tim snorted, then said, "That's not a romance! That's a totally a murder mystery! You must be confusing it with Jane Eyre. I get those mixed up too."

Jason nodded in agreement, tucking his ID away before taking his first sip of coffee. He moaned, his eyes fluttering for a moment as he savored in the sweet bliss of piping hot caffeine at 3:49 in the morning, then he looked at Damian and said, "Well, actually, I'll give you that one, uh…" --he paused to squint at Damian's name tag-- "...'Damian'; Rebecca is a modern romance novel by classification, but it's also a crime thriller just like--whazzatsay?--'Tim' said."

He turned to Tim. "I'm not surprised you'd confuse it with Jane Eyre, considering that a lot of scholars believe du Maurier adapted it from Jane Eyre."

"Wait, really?" Tim said with a laugh. "I'm glad I'm not the only one thinking that! Rebecca is like the less boring version of Jane Eyre."

Jason froze halfway into sitting down in one of the arm chairs that lined the wall closest to the door and looked up at Tim as if he had just suggested burning down the library or something similarly unthinkable. "Whaaaaaat?! I can't believe you just implied that any of the Brontë sisters' works is boring!"

Tim laughed again. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I was only twelve when I read Jane Eyre, so maybe I'd enjoy it more if I read it again now--with a mature perspective--but I remember Rebecca being a blast for thirteen-year-old me so…" He smiled, then shrugged.

Jason stared. "Twelve? Thirteen? Jeez. What else were you trying to read that young?"

"I mean, I read Moby Dick the year before that, in sixth grade," Tim admitted, shrugging until his shoulders hit his ears.

Jason gave him a flat stare. "Moby Dick? Moby fucking Dick? You've gotta be kidding me. And lemme guess, you also thought Herman Melville's masterpiece was a load of crock?"

Tim laughed, but shook his head and waved his hands placatingly. "No, no, no. I only understood, like, every fifth word--so.many.whaling.terms!--and it took me four months to get halfway in only to realize there was no way I was going to finish it by the end of the school year--I ended up skipping to the end and guessing for a lot of the AR test questions--but I definitely got the sense that it was a seminal work and that I was just too young to appreciate it. I've always meant to go back and try it again, but I still haven't gotten around to it."

"Why the hell were you trying to read Moby Dick at the age of twelve?" Jason asked incredulously, leaning back in the chair and taking a long sip of his coffee.

"Eleven, but, ah, well, my mom was convinced I had to be The BestTM in everything, so she pushed me to max out my Accelerated Reader level by the end of sixth grade and demanded that I always get the most AR points of anyone in my class, so I read a lot of the 20 point-and-up books." Tim tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I think Moby Dick was 47 points...Rebecca was 25...Jane Eyre was 33..."

Jason stared, shaking his head slowly. "So…what? You're fine with Moby Dick, a romance of the American Renaissance, but a gothic romance of the British Victorian era like Jane Eyre isn't good enough for you? Next you'll try to tell me you think Wuthering Heights is a snooze fest!"

"Well, I mean, I never could get into it, so…"

Jason slammed both hands down on the arms of his chair, incensed. "Okay, Mister, get your butt over here and sit down, we need to have a talk about Victorian Gothic and why, hands down, it is some of the best literature ever written."

Tim laughed again, then bit his lip, considering the offer. He glanced around the nearly empty coffee shop. Then he leaned over the counter and looked out into the lounge--there were exactly four people there and only one of them wasn't completely asleep in their books. Yeah, he could probably afford to humor the man.

He turned to Damian. "Hey, Dames, I'm going to make myself a coffee and take my break. You good to hold down the fort?"

"I told you not to call me that," Damian snapped, but there was no real heat to it; he liked to pretend that he hated the guts of all his coworkers, but Tim knew that he was Damian's favorite. "However, yes, I think I can manage. Go take your damned break, but when you come back I fully expect a rematch in bowling…and don't you dare cheat this time!"

Tim rolled his eyes and groaned, then turned toward trying to coax Ol' 'Spressolino--their affectionate name for the cantankerous espresso machine--into spitting out a double-shot for him. "It's not cheating, but fine, we'll do it your way," Tim replied. "But I'm telling you, you have to buy those rice crispy balls. I definitely don't want to have to explain to Barbara why some of the food on sale looks like it went through the spin cycle in a dorm washer."

Damian grinned smugly. "My pleasure. It will be a small price to pay in order to ensure your swift defeat."

Tim shook his head, grabbed his espresso in one hand and two biscotti off the front counter in the other, ducked under the counter drawbridge, then slid into the armchair across from Jason. He offered one of the biscotti to the other man and Jason accepted the free food with an appreciative smile. He already looked ten times less zombie-like, thanks to the caffiene, and he was honestly pretty damn attractive.

"Okay," Tim said, peeling the wrapper off his own biscotti and dunking it into his bitter cup of joy, "Educate me."

Between sips of coffee and bites of biscotti, Jason began explaining his thoughts on the romantic period of literature, but barely a minute into his lecture, a plastic-wrapped, ball-shaped rice crispy treat about the size of a cantelope whizzed by their feet and crashed into the ten extra-large paper coffee cups arranged in a bowling triangle at one end of the coffee shop, scattering them in a definitive strike.

Jason jumped in his seat and looked around wildly. "What the fuck?"

Tim sighed. "Daaaaaaamiaaaaaaan…"

"Shut up, Drake! I'm practicing. I need to hone my skills and adjust my form so I can thoroughly crush you in our next round," Damian called back. He marched from the counter to the end of the shop to retrieved his plastic-wrapped projectile.

Jason blinked in confusion. "I repeat: what the ever-loving fuck?"

Tim sighed again, then explained, saying, "It gets pretty boring in here during the graveyard shift, so we invented a game, coffee cup bowling. Normally, we'd sleep or study, but Damian finished his exams two days ago and I don't really study for exams, per se-"

"And sleep is for the weak," Damian finished, nodding as he walked past them carrying his sweet, gooey ammunition.

Tim nodded sagely, in agreement. "Sleep is for the weak."

Jason glanced over Tim's shoulder at the coffee cup bowling 'pins' and then over his shoulder at Damian as he lined up another throw. "You guys are insane," he declared.

Tim made a dismissive gesture. "I mean this is my third graveyard shift in a row and Damian here is almost 20 hours into a 24-hour stint. After that much sleep deprivation, you'd lose your sanity too."

Jason tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Fair enough."

"If you want, you're welcome to join us after we finish our coffee and literature talk," Tim offered amiably.

Jason watched as Damian threw another strike, sending one cup so far it landed in the pot of the ficus in the corner, and raised his eyebrows. "You know what…why not." He turned back to Tim with a grin. "I could use a bit of fun before I go back to work on my Native American Lit paper."

"Are you a lit major?" Tim asked curiously.

"I am."

Tim nodded. "That makes sense."

"And you?"

"I'm a CS major--computer science."

"That makes sense," Jason echoed, grinning.

Tim grinned back at him and waved a hand. "Okay, so as you were saying…?"

"Yes, as I was saying…"

Jason continued his little lecture while they continued sipping their coffee and nibbling on the biscotti. When they had finished--the coffee, not the discussion, because Tim was pretty sure Jason would go on for hours about literature once you got him started--they joined Damian in a game of "ten-cup."

It was in the middle of this heated battle of cups and marshmallow-bonded puffed-rice cereal balls that their next customer found them fifteen minutes later. The man, dressed in flower printed leggings and a black hoodie with "Gotham University Aerial Arts" printed across the chest in blue, took one look at them and grinned.

"Oh, hey! Coffee-cup bowling! I love that game! Do you think I could interrupt you guys for just a sec to get some hot chocolate?"

All three of them--the two baristas plus their customer--turned and stared.

"Hot… wait, what?" Jason said, laughing a little. "Man, it's like 4:30 in the morning. Why are you getting a hot chocolate at 4:30 in the morning?"

The man laughed, too, shrugging before he explained, saying, "I don't like tea or coffee all that much, but I just finished a 20 page paper on ethics in police enforcement and I need a pick me up. I need to get my warm fuzzies going again."

Tim rolled his eyes and sighed, moving back toward the counter to get the man his drink. "You're going to end up being the cuddliest cop on the street, Dick."

"You know it, Timmy!" the man--'Dick' apparently--exclaimed, pulling Tim into a bear hug when he made the mistake of passing too close to Dick on his way to the counter. The hug escalated into a full on octopus hug as he lifted his legs to wrap around Tim's hips. Tim, for his part, ignored the grapple, opening the leaf in the counter and hobbling over to the drink bar with the human cephalopod still attached.

Damian and Jason stared. Damian cleared his throat and eyed Dick with poorly disguised interest. "Wait, do you know this man, Drake?"

Tim blinked dully as he turned around, a cup in one hand and a packet of instant hot chocolate in the other. "Yes. He's my brother." Dick made a squeeing noise and nuzzled his head into Tim's neck. Tim sighed. "My adopted brother," he amended testily.

Dick laughed, dropped his feet back onto the floor and stood up. He nearly wrung Tim's neck as he tried to hug him around the shoulders. "Awww, don't be like that, Tim. We haven't seen each other in two whole weeks and I needed my Tim-hugs! Gotta meet my cuddle-quota."

Tim shook his head and handed the hot chocolate back over his shoulder. "You're insufferably, insatiably clingy when you're this tired, Dick. Go home and sleep."

Dick finally released him to take the drink. He took a sip of the hot chocolate, sighing in appreciation. "Thanks, Tim, and yeah, but, only if you do the same. You're just as bad as me when you haven't slept, if not worse."

"Can't. Working," Tim answered curtly, vaulting the counter to escape before Dick's grabby hands could reach for him again. His brother wasn't wrong; Tim was always up for a good cuddle after a long stint without proper sleep, but he didn't like public displays of affection.

Dick took one look at the nearly empty coffee shop, the three of them, their game, and then laughed out loud. "Ahhh, the days of getting paid to drink coffee and make up games at 4:30 in the morning. I kind of miss it."

"Would you care to join us," Damian asked abruptly. Dick brightened.

"Absolutely!"

And so that was how the four of them ended up bowling for empty coffee cups with rice crispy treats the size of spaghetti squash while blasting ABBA’s greatest hits--Dick's terrible, wonderful idea--until the sun rose and their shift ended, at eight AM.

By the time the four of them walked out the door, Dick was trying to convince Damian to join him in the aerials gym before breakfast, and Damian, clearly eager to do anything with the handsome college senior, accepted readily. Jason and Tim, on the other hand, were back to discussing literature over coffee--now focused on the merits and downfalls of contemporary science fiction and fantasy as an art form--and making their way to the East Campus Dining Hall, so they could continue their discussion over breakfast.

Tim snorted softly as he listened to Jason list all the ways Dune defined an era of sci-fi/fantasy, then smiled at the way Jason took his hand--without seeming to realize it--to pull him forward after the crosswalk light changed out of Tim's line of sight. Oh, yeah, this one was totally gay/bi/pan and he was definitely asking him out the minute he saw the opportunity, Tim decided.

He smiled. Who would of thought he'd come out of last night's graveyard shift not only having seen his demon coworker and his older brother hit it off--of all things!--but having met someone for himself too! He laughed, thinking, you never know what crazy things you might see, or the people you might meet, at the campus coffee shop at 4 o' clock in the morning!

[anotheronechicagobog]

Star Trek Kelly Severide x reader

written by @anotheronechicagobog​

Requested by @raveenasblog​

Warnings: swearing, mature themes, mature language, reader is sister of Sheldon Jin from S1 of CPD, Star Trek references (another series I unfortunately don’t own)

A/N: Sorry that this took me so long, I hope you like it!

You worked at Chicago Central University as a biomedical engineering researcher. It was a hard job with long hours but you loved it, you couldn’t picture yourself doing something else. You were working on artificial organs, eyes specifically. After ten straight hours of work, you headed down to the microbiology department to get your friend and roommate Veronica (who said she’d come in later when you left at your usual 3:30 am because she wasn’t feeling well), drag her away from her desk, and go get lunch. You arrived on the floor, using your high clearance ID badge to enter the hallway. Everything looked normal, all except for Dr. Seldon. He looked even more jumpy and paranoid than usual. “Dr. Seldon?” He almost gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned around. “Y/N- Dr. Jin- Hi, uh, what are you doing here?”

“I’m... Looking for Veronica Song... Are you alright?”

“Uh, yes, yes, I’m fine. Veronica’s not here today, and- I just think that you should get back to your own floor.” He was jittery, eyes jumping from place to place, unable to remain still, looking at his watch every few seconds. “I have to go.” And before you could get another word out, he was gone. You nodded to yourself, shrugging off his behaviour, having heard stories about how paranoid the man could be. You were making your way back to the elevator, finding it odd that Seldon had left using the stairs considering everyone knew that the stairs from the basement labs to the first floor were an architectural nightmare. Again, you shrugged it off, he was probably abiding by some new internet conspiracy theory. The elevator was almost to the eighth floor when there was a loud, suction like pop. The elevator abruptly stopped, causing you to crash on the floor, the red emergency lights turned on. Getting onto your sore knees and wiping the blood from the side of your head, you dazily wobbled over to the emergency call button. “911, what is your emergency?”

“I’m at CCU in the biology building, stuck in an elevator, in between the basement labs and first floor... I hit my head... An- and it’s getting really hot in here. I- I can hear crackling, I think- fire? I think there’s a fire-”

“Yes, it’s just been reported by multiple people that there is a fire in the Zurich building on the CCU campus, hazmat situation. Just remain calm- Ms...?”

“Dr. Y/N Jin.”

“Alright just hold tight and stay on the line, every firefighter company within a 20-kilometre radius has been sent to this call.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You felt like you were in an oven. Your lab coat and sweater had been shed, one dumped on the floor, the other used to stop the bleeding on your throbbing head. You had left yourself in only your lanyard, a thin flowery skirt, and a tank top that were both soaking up your sweat, but the elevator was getting so hot and so constricted that you were considering just shedding everything in an effort to cool down, if just for a moment. It was getting so difficult to breathe, smoke had taken up residence in the top of the elevator, and your dry throat was making it immensely more painful when you coughed, which was frequent.

“Fire department! You okay in there?”

You couldn’t speak, you were too tired, too weak to do so. So you mustered up enough energy to bang on the door. Only once, though, because the metal had heated up the metal door and burned your hand. There was the scraping of tools against the doors before a creaking sound took their place. Then as the gap went from nonexistent to halfway open you were met with the forms of two firefighters, faces and bodies obstructed by their equipment. You didn’t have to speak, before you could blink you had been pulled out of the elevator and into a firefighter’s arms... And a hallway filled with green fire. “Hi.”

“Try not to talk, okay?”

“Capp, have you found a way to break the glass to the lab?”

“No lieutenant! The glass is too thick!”

“The gas canisters,” you pointed to the massive metal cylinders that were stored across from the centrifuge lab, or glass lab as your heroes kept referring to it as, “coul- *cough* use as a batter- *cough cough cough* battering ram-” You were cut off by your own lungs and an incredibly painful coughing spree. “That could work. Hey, stand over here, Cruz, Capp, help me grab one of these.” 

“You got it Severide!” The other two firefighters set down their tools and helped their lieutenant hold a gas canister horizontally before swinging in back and forward again, into the glass. It took what felt like too long for the glass to crack, and longer for it to shatter, providing an exit for your trapped colleagues. The ceiling above the firefighter who’d held you was guiding the trapped victims out of the room when you noticed that the ceiling above him was doing two things ceilings weren’t supposed to do; making unpleasant noises, and moving. You didn’t think, just acted. You moved away from the wall that lieutenant Severide had directed you to stand by and shoved him and the last victim out of the way. The burning chunk came down just behind you and singed your hair and the back of your skirt. Severide jumped into action, using a chemical fire extinguisher to put the fire out. “Okay; everyone out now.” Severide picked up your exhausted form and hauled ass out of the building with everyone else following his lead.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You couldn’t really remember much after being sprayed with a fire extinguisher, there were groggy flashes of being dragged through the decontamination tent by paramedics and people in blue suits, the ambulance ride with what you were 90% sure was an actual angel treating you, and doctors in PPE fluttering around you, poking and prodding and scanning you. 

You came to in a hospital room that reeked of sanitization products, it seared your nostrils and quickly you felt another coughing fit coming on. There was a plastic lining around your mouth and nose, it was annoying, you tried to remove it but you couldn’t even lift your arm. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t move, okay? You’re at the hospital and you’re not stable, you need to remain calm and still”

‘Not stable’? C’mon, lady, give me some details, please!

“You were in a building with a chemical fire, and your roommate was just connected to multiple cases of necrotizing fasciitis, we’re testing your cultures now, but we won’t know for a while, okay? A doctor will be here to talk to you in a minute, okay?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’d been in the hospital for two weeks and were currently arguing with your insurance company, who were trying to get out of paying your hospital bill. You hung up, frustrated.

“Hey, is this a good time?”

“As long as you brought food.”

“Ha, always. You okay?”

“Yeah, my insurance company are just being- ughhhhh.”

“Ah, got it.” Kelly set out the food on the table tray in front of you, smirking at your excitement of non-hospital food. “You know, you don’t have to keep coming to see me.”

“Maybe I don’t have to, but I want to.”

“But I haven’t exactly been entertaining, this is the first time I’ve had enough energy to sit up. Remember? April had to spoon-feed me the food you brought me. I’ve been sleeping constantly and have literally fallen asleep while talking to you before. I’ve been awake for two hours and it is the longest I have been awake since the fire.”

“Hey, it’s not every day I get saved by a civilian, what can I say? You’ve piqued my interest.” 

“Alright, well, if you’re gonna stay, you’re watching Star Trek with me.”

“Ugh, well when you put it that way-”

“Hey! Sit back down, I thought that I’d ‘piqued your interest’.”

“Yeah, but not enough to watch Star Trek. That’s a bit... Nerdy for me.”

“Oh come on! Pass me my laptop and sit down, we are going to watch Star Trek starting with The Original Series.”

“... How many Star Treks are there?”

“Not enough.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were finishing up the first season with Kelly lying beside you in the hospital bed completely enthralled in the show when Doris walked in. “A sergeant Hank Voight is here to see you Y/N, I just figured I’d give you guys a heads up.” You nodded and closed your laptop, but Kelly didn’t have time to put his shoes back on or get out of your bed before Hank entered the room. He raised his eyebrow and stared down Kelly who, for his part, didn’t react like most did. He sat up at a normal speed and gave the older man a nod. “Hank, it’s good to see you.”

“You too, kid. How’re you holding up?”

“Good, good, especially with Kelly bringing me milkshakes.”

“Huh. Have the docs cleared you for all that junk?”

“Yes.” Kelly snorted at your response and rolled his eyes. “Just barely. And I think half the reason they approved it was cause you were a total pain in the ass about the glorious wonder that is hospital food. Uh, how do you and Voight know each other?”

“Oh, my older brother Sheldon used to work with him, I told you about him”

“Right, right, crazy smart, computer cop, and too loyal to your dad.”

“Yeah. After Sheldon died, Hank came to me and my mom, gave us cash to pay off my dad’s debts, told him to either be grateful and cut the crap or fucking run, and he checks up on me every so often. Like, uh, when I turned eighteen I applied to the academy and not only did Hank find out, but he came to my apartment and practically begged me not to go.”

“Hold up, I’m sorry, Sargent Hank ‘I can kill you thirteen different ways with a pencil eraser’ Voight begged?”

“As close to begging as I’ll ever get. Now, how do you two know each other?”

“He got me out of the elevator in the lab fire, then I saved his life a few minutes later.”

“Ha, sounds about right.”

“Hey!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matt Casey knocked on the door of the squad lieutenant, suspicious when his best friend jumped out of his skin, ripped his earbuds out of his ears, slammed his laptop shut, tossed it far away from him on the bed, and tried (while failing spectacularly) to look calm. “What’s up Casey?”

“... What the fuck was that?” Casey was laughing, excited that Severide was finally embarrassed about something. He jumped on the bed between Kelly and his laptop. “What are you embarrassed about?”  Severide jumped into action, trying to maneuver around Casey to grab his laptop but it was too late. “Let me see! Let me see! Let me- OH MY GOD!” Casey had opened up the laptop before he could be stopped and he found a Next Generation episode halfway finished!  “You’re watching Star Trek?! Oh my god Sylvie get-”

Kelly slammed the device shut again and covered Matt’s mouth with his hand. “Seriously man, shut up.” Severide got up and closed his door and lowered all the blinds. He turned to face his friend slowly and sighed. “Remember that girl from the BRT fire?”

“The one who saved you? Yeah, I remember her. I take it from your tone that you’ve been keeping up with her.”

“Yeah, I have. I’d been going to visit her every chance I got, and she was asleep most of the time I was there, cause you know, lung damage from the chemical fire, damage from the infection, had to have major surgery while her body was going through immense physical trauma, but when she was awake for longer than twenty minutes she’d insist on watching Star Trek, there’s multiple shows and movies, she loves them all, and she kind of got me hooked.”

“You are whipped. I am actually appreciating and savouring this moment so much right now.”

“Matt.”

“Okay, okay. Can I at least tell Sylvie?”

“No, you cannot tell your crush about this.”

“Hey! She’s- I do- Shut up, Kelly.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While Matt did keep Kelly’s secret, you didn’t. You showed up in your favourite Voyager t-shirt from Etsy with a homemade chocolate cake in your hands. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Kelly Severide?”

“Sure, and you are?”

“Dr. Y/N Jin, I pushed him-”

“Out of the way at the lab fire, yeah I remember you. I’m Joe Cruz, I was there too, though you probably didn’t notice with him carrying you around.”

“Actually with all the gear you guys had on, I wouldn’t have been able to pick you out of a line-up. He just came to visit me a lot when I was in the hospital.”

“Oh, he did? Is that what the cakes for? A thank you?”

“No, it’s his birthday today, and because he’s on shift I didn’t know if he’d get a cake or anything. So I made his favourite and ordered a bunch of pizzas to be delivered here.”

“... You know his favourite cake flavour?”

“Yeah, it came up last week when we were watching this episode of Star Trek The Next Generation where this character keeps having-”

“Hold up, Lieutenant Kelly Severide watched Star Trek willingly?”

“Well, he didn’t at first, but now I think he’s a bigger fan than me... What?”

“Oh mi dulce Dios this is the best day of my LIFE! The common room is this way, follow meeeee!”

“... Why do I feel like I said something I wasn’t supposed to?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Attention firehouse 51; I have just been informed by a reliable source that our very own squad lieutenant Kelly Severide is a trekkie! And for those of you who don’t know what that means, KELLY SEVERIDE LIKES STAR TREK!” Suddenly the common room erupted, everyone laughing and howling, except for you, Kelly, and Matt. You’d spent much of your life having your interests mocked, all for various reasons. Too girly, too boyish, too nerdy, and you were having none of it. It took you ages to feel confident about your interests, so you knew exactly how devastated and embarrassed he felt. His neck and face were turning pink, he was lowering his head, his eyes were closed forcefully, and you could see him try to steady his breath. “Shut up.” The laughter lessened a bit and some people turned to you in confusion. “Are you guys deaf? I said shut up!” The room suddenly turned silent and cold, the members of 51 you hadn’t met yet looking at you in alarm. “Do you have any idea how rude and disrespectful all of you are being right now? You don’t get made fun of for obsessing over sports, why act this why for people who like sci-fi stuff? Kelly’s told me that you guys rib each other but this is a bit much. Did any of you stop to think that maybe you shouldn’t be behaving like elementary school bullies on his birthday?” At their awkward silence you scoffed. “You know what? I put effort into today, I made a cake from scratch, I ordered a ton of pizzas that I made sure had all of your favourite toppings because I know how close you are to him and I wanted all of you to like me. But you know what? Screw all of you. None of you get a single piece of cake or pizza unless you individually apologize to Kelly.” You huffed angrily, stomped over to the small circular table he was sitting at with a smirking Casey. “Happy birthday, Kelly... Sorry I made a scene.”

“Thanks, Y/N. This is turning out to be a great, dare I say badass birthday.” Your smile imitated his, large and beaming. “So,” Matt Casey drawled with an amused but impressed look on his face, “I get to have cake right?”

“Of course, how could I deny chocolatey goodness to my favourite firefighter?”

“Hey! I thought I was your favourite firefighter!” Kelly mockingly pouted, enticing laughter out of you. Your phone pinged and you smiled wider. “Pizza’s here.” You point at Matt and speak to Kelly, “watch him.”

“Of course, I’d never let anyone else get the first slice of my cake.”

“... Matt watch Kelly.” You turned on your heel and left to get the pizzas, brushing passed moping firefighters, ignoring the offended noises Kelly was spewing out.

You came back with six extra large pizzas to a line of bashful looking firefighters apologizing to Kelly. “You guys really will do anything for food, huh?” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’d only managed to get one slice of pizza and a tiny piece of cake once the ravenous wolves had apologized. You and Kelly had laughed it off though, finding their overexaggerated moans and gestures of how good the food was amusing. “Alright, one last thing.”

“What? No, come on Y/N you already made me a cake and got pizza for the house, you’ve done more than enough.”

“So you don’t want the envelope?”

“Well, if it’s just an envelope, that means it’s just a card, so sure.” You handed him the envelope you’d covered in ridiculous doodles of ladybugs, proud of your work, and knowing that Kelly was getting an awesome birthday. He opened the card after shaking is head at the ladybugs on the envelope and his mouth dropped when he saw the two tickets fall out. “Y/N! I told you, you didn’t have to get me anything!”

“How much money did you spend on food for me when you were visiting me in the hospital?”

“Okay, fair enough, but you really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Kelly, it really wasn’t that much. A cake, pizza, and baseball tickets that Matt pitched in for, really isn’t something to freak out over, okay?”

“Alright, well, thank you, Y/N. I appreciate everything that you’ve done so much and I’m grateful that I have you in my life.” Your heart fluttered and warmed, cherishing the moment you were sharing with the man who was quickly becoming irreplaceable to you. “Hello? I helped too!” Sylvie elbowed him in the ribs, “you ruined the moment, Matt.” She turned to you, still holding hands with Kelly on top of the table. “We’ll leave you two be, have fun.” She gave an uncharacteristic wink and started shooing people away. “Normally I’d be embarrassed, but this means that I do get more time with my favourite person AKA you, and since it’s my birthday, I would like to watch some Star Trek. C’mon, my quarters are this way.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, after shift was over and all normal people were asleep Kelly Severide finally arrived home... To  what looked like the entire twenty-first police district along with the intelligence unit and Sergeant Trudy ‘I’m an army all on my own’ Platt crammed in his living room under dim, ominous lighting. “So, I take it you’re all here to threaten me because I’m dating Y/N? Yep, alright, let’s do this then.”

[brittle-bone-gabe]

The Forgotten: Chapter Seven - Only a Job, Right?

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen, Chapter Twenty, Epilogue

Summary: Barry Berkman couldn’t remember much of his childhood; he knew he used to live in Derry, Maine, but that was about it, besides being taken by his “Uncle Fuches” at age 16 to move to Cleveland, Ohio. Eddie Kaspbrak moved from Derry, Maine to LA, becoming a police officer, surprisingly enough. Normally things were quiet for the most part, besides the occasional drug busts, but it’s when someone named Barry Block enters his line of sight as a possible suspect for the recent string of murders he has to push the feeling of remembrance to investigate.   Pairing: Adult Reddie  (Richie x Eddie) Or, technically, Barry x Eddie Read on Ao3: Here

Driving back to the apartment was somehow hard for Eddie, his eyes kept burning like he wanted to cry. God, why did he want to fucking cry? Maybe he did actually mistaken Barry for Richie, maybe he wanted to find his childhood best friend so badly that he was ready to think he was right in front of him. Richie left Derry out of the blue one day when he was sixteen, he didn’t tell anybody he was leaving, not even Beverly, who was basically like his sister. That was really the only thing he remembered about living in Derry, everything else was a blur, like it was a dream that he could barely grasp to remember. 

Tonight certainly did open some old wounds; it took years for Eddie to get over Richie. He used to stay up late every night crying silently into his pillow, wondering what went wrong, that maybe he wasn’t happy here anymore and that’s why he left. That… maybe he didn’t make him happy. Those first few nights after Richie left were the worst since he would use to climb in through Eddie’s window at night and they’d just lay in bed together talking quietly to not wake Eddie’s mom, they’d talk about any and everything. Life, how their day went, shit that’s been going on, that kinda stuff while laying next to each other with their hands behind their heads, staring up at the ceiling until they fell asleep. Sometimes Richie would curl up next to him, holding onto him in his sleep while Eddie was just about to pass out. It was sweet, and as much as Eddie wanted to wrap his arms around him and bring him in closer to cuddle with him he stopped himself, assuming that Richie was just doing it in his sleep and didn’t actually mean it. 

Just close the case, Eddie, just close the fucking case, he kept repeating to himself over and over, as if that was going to make him change his mind about it. No, he wasn’t actually going to close it, but tonight was extremely upsetting for him. He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t think of quitting his job right then and there, he knew he couldn’t do that though, he needed this job, and how petty would that be? Quitting a job you’ve been in for years just because you thought you saw your best friend after all these years? Eddie shook that thought away, knowing that he couldn’t do that no matter what. 

Eddie was slightly shocked when he snapped out of his thoughts to find himself sitting in the parking lot of his apartment complex. He couldn’t really remember anything from point A to point B, all that mattered was that Eddie somehow got home safely. He stared outside the windshield, trying to gather himself so he could force himself to get inside his apartment so he could forget this entire night. 

Bouncing his leg and chewing on the inside of his cheek, Eddie looked down at the center console of the car. That couldn’t have been Richie, there was no way… he thought before pulling his wallet out from his front pocket. From behind his ID he pulled out a folded up, wrinkled old photo from his childhood. It was of him and the rest of the Losers Club from the early 90’s; in the picture, Richie had his arm wrapped around Eddie’s neck, a huge smile on his face while Eddie playfully looked grumpy when really all he wanted to do was smile. The photo made Eddie smile, he certainly did miss them so much. 

Letting out a shaky sigh and clutching the picture tight, Eddie finally let some of his tears fall. He knew that it wouldn’t be healthy if he kept these feelings bottled up, as he learned that the hard way back all those years ago. When Richie left he refused to talk about it, it even got to the point where he refused to cry about it, somehow blaming Richie for him leaving, saying that it was his own problem, that Eddie didn’t do anything wrong, but all of that just made Eddie irrationally angry all the time. It wasn’t until he went to therapy to learn to let go of all his emotions; his therapist suggested that maybe it wasn’t Richie’s fault, that perhaps he had something going on that he didn’t tell anyone, and she made sure Eddie knew that it certainly wasn’t his own fault that Richie left. 

Like a zombie, Eddie pulled himself out of his car, shuffling his way up to his apartment unit, feeling numb emotionally and even physically. He was on autopilot the whole way, using the stairwell to head up to the third floor. The whole time the only thing that was on his mind were sudden memories of his childhood that were flooding back to him out of nowhere.

                                                             -----

Sixteen-year-old Eddie Kaspbrak had biked to Richie’s house, they had agreed the night before that he would come over to hang out since Richie had to sneak out of Eddie’s room earlier than usual the night before since Eddie’s mom was trying to come into his locked room. Some stupid bullshit about how he didn’t clean the dishes, so she had assumed that he was sick again and told him that he would be staying in bed for the rest of the weekend. Eddie had been in that rebellious phase of his life, saying that he wasn’t sick and was going to go out. Sonia had been taken aback by his sudden behavior, but didn’t stop him when he left to go see Richie, God, did she hate that loud boy… 

Eddie dropped his bike in the usual spot in Richie’s front yard, walking up to the front door while fidgeting with his hands suddenly feeling nervous. Hm… there was a car that Eddie didn’t recognize in Richie’s driveway. Maybe he had people over? Should Eddie leave and come back later? Nah, why would Richie invite him over if he knew people were going to come over? 

He knocked on the door, hoping it would be Richie who would open the door, as he wasn’t good around people he didn’t know, especially if it was an extended family member of a friend he’s never met before. The door had swung open, startling Eddie of how aggressive it was.  Richie was standing on the other side, not looking too happy, like he was in an argument with someone based on how red his face was. 

“Hey, Rich-” Eddie couldn’t even finish his sentence before Richie grabbed his wrist, dragging him behind him as he left the house. 

“Where ya goin’, Rich Rich?!” Eddie could hear an unknown voice from inside the house.

Eddie’s eyebrows knitted together at that, wondering what was going on before he got there. 

“Do you want me to come back later?”

“No!” Richie said almost too quickly, letting go of Eddie’s wrist as they approached his car that was next to the unknown car, “no… I just…” he shook his head as he trailed off, getting into the drivers side, slamming the door behind him. 

“I can-” 

“Don’t leave,” Richie said quietly, something unusual for him as he was usually so noisy and vocal.  

“You okay, man?” Eddie asked, putting the seat belt on. 

“Yeah, I’m…. I’m fine,” he hesitated, putting the keys in the car, “I’m just tired.” He looked over at Eddie, giving him a small smile, but Eddie could tell it was extremely forced. 

Richie backed out of the driveway, glaring at someone through the window of his living room that Eddie couldn’t make out, but he didn’t look happy. He flipped whoever it was off before speeding down the road, not saying anything to Eddie, even though it was clear he was in distress. 

“What’s goin’ on?” 

“Just… bullshit, man.” Richie gave a small laugh, taking a cigarette from his center console, stopping at the stop sign so he could light it. He made sure to roll down the windows so Eddie wouldn’t choke from the smoke from his asthma. “Family.” 

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” 

“My… uncle’s in town. He’s an asshole, dude.” 

                                                        -----

Eddie’s eyes snapped open, hot water falling over him in the shower he didn’t remember getting into, as he was too lost in thought. He was using his arms as support as he was leaning against the front wall of the shower, the memory suddenly made him exhausted, like it took everything from him mentally to remember it. He put a hand on his head, feeling a headache coming on and wasn’t ready to deal with that. There was so much he needed to process about what happened tonight, so much has happened, so many emotions. Goddammit…. He let the shower wash away the tears running down his face, he needed to let out these emotions, even if it was in the shower and kinda had to force it. 

he evidence was all there… that Barry was a fucking killer, whether or not he killed Janice, he was still there to do something mallcious, it was clear with the pistol with the supperssor. Fuck, why didn’t he arrest him? He could’ve done so right there with everything piling up against him, the gun… that goddamn gun. Eddie was kicking himself for letting him go, and for what reason? Because he thought Barry looked like Richie Tozier? How would he explain this if Barry did commit a crime? Would he lose his job? Shit. 

Burying his face in his hands, Eddie let out a frustrated scream. That seemed to have helped the rage that was quickly starting to build up in his chest, he pinched the bridge of his nose while letting out a sigh. What could he do about this now? As much as he wanted to forget about Barry, he couldn’t now, especially since he found him with a gun. 

Remembering the look in Barry’s eyes after Eddie called him Richie… being called Eds after all these years… That was something only Richie called him, nobody else, not even the others in the Losers Club called him that. Now Eddie was just reaching, it wasn’t a hard nickname to come up with, he could’ve just made it up on the spot. 

Getting out of the shower, Eddie put on a pair of shorts, keeping a towel wrapped around his shoulders as he headed into the kitchen, sitting at the small table that was kept in the corner. He let out a sigh, resting his hand on his forehead as he looked down at the file he threw down when he got home. Eddie popped a couple of painkillers, feeling the pain crawl up his leg as he looked through the notes within the file for the hundredth time. Squeezing his eyes tight, Eddie slammed his fist on the table over the notes in the file. Why was he doing this? This was literally going nowhere and he needed to give up. 

Opening his eyes again, he instantly looked over at the cabin keys that Gene had given him the night before. He never noticed the heart keychain that was attached to it. With a small, sad smile on his face, Eddie reached out and grabbed it, twirling the heart in between his fingers. On the other side of they keychain there was a small picture of Gene and Janice at a restaurant with Gene’s arm wrapped around her as they were both smiling. How sweet… 

Eddie knew exactly how to go about this case now. 

                                                        -----

To clear his head, Barry had drove around for about an hour after the confrontation with Eddie. Richie Tozier. He knew a Richie Tozier, right? The name felt close to Barry, like he was a childhood friend or something. Back in Derry, yeah. Had to be. There was no other explanation for it. 

Richie used to call me Eds… Something about that made Barry think, think, and overthink. Yeah, okay, maybe they were all in the same age group and Barry picked it up from him. Perfect, yeah, that had to be it. 

Barry couldn’t help it when he slammed the door of the hotel room behind him, startling Fuches who was laying on his pull out bed playing a video game. He looked up at him with a confused look on his face, as he was not at all expecting that. 

“You okay?” Fuches asked him, sounding sincere, but whether or not he was was beyond Barry. He was too far into his rage to actually care. 

If it could be physically possible, steam would be coming out from Barry’s ears from how angry he was. He stomped over to Fuches, grabbing him by his collar, and yanked him to his feet. The controller fell from Fuches’ hand as Barry pushed him up against the wall with a thud, causing the picture frames to jump from the force. 

“What the fuck is-” 

“Who the fuck is Richie Tozier?!” Barry demanded before Fuches could speak his demand, digging his knuckles further into his uncle's throat. 

It was obvious that Fuches was getting nervous, as he squeezed his hands up in front of him in case Barry tried punching him. It’s been years… how could Barry even remember the name Richie Tozier? Fuches had been certain that Barry lost all memory of that. All of that… for nothing. 

“W-w-what are you talkin’ about, Barry?” Fuches stammered, a scared smile on his face, the smile Barry knew all too well. The same one he had whenever he was trying to get himself out of a situation but it wasn’t going well. The smile quickly dropped. “And I thought I told you to take those glasses off.”  

Barry was breathing heavily now, clearly not in the mood for his goddamn games. “Who. Is. Richie. Tozier?” He asked again in a slow tone in case Fuches was choosing not to hear him. In all honesty? It freaked Fuches out. 

“It… it…” he paused, trying to figure out what to say to get Barry to believe him, “it was a long time ago, Barry.”

“Who is he?” 

“It… was a hit.” It was an obvious lie. 

Barry knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this, so he backed off, feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. He glared at Fuches, who was still pressed against the wall in fear before he took out his phone to read the text he just got in. It was Hank. Fuck, of course it was. Barry literally forgot about the job he was supposed to do up until this moment. Shit. 

Couldn’t help but notice job isn’t done yet >:( 

Letting out a sigh, Barry texted him back, saying that something came up as he was about to do it, to just keep an eye on the rat and he would get it done ASAP. 

“So….” Fuches asked, trying to brighten the mood, a stupid smile on his face, “how’d the job gooo?” 

“Fuck you.” 

[joiesamevans]

A Day At The Gym

Who: Sam Evans and Mercedes Jones @sassymercyj

When: Friday morning, 8 am

Where: Campus gym

What: Shirtless Sam, lots of flirting

Mercedes had been up for hours when she finally made her way to the gym, wearing a pair of hip hugging pink and black work out capri's, and a matching sports bra and using an oversized T,  to cover herself up as she made her way across campus. Once getting to the gym, she stayed at the entrance waiting for Sam to arrive. She wouldn't lie and say that she wasn't excited to be spending time with him, while she had known him for a few years, they didn't really hang out one on one, it wasn't because she didn't find him attractive, it was just because she didn't think she was his type and to be honest a lot of guys around there only hung out with girls, when there was a promise of sex and though she knew he was different, she just didn't want to make a fool out of herself in front of him. Shocking herself by finally accepting his workout offer, she really was happy to see what he could teach her and if he did it shirtless that would make the entire experience even better. Plus it had been a long time since she had a really beneficial work out.(edited)

Sam walked across campus in a pair of basketball shorts and a tank since it was still hotter than the sun outside. Sometimes he really wished he could bring his horse up from home and just ride it around the city to create a nice breeze. He was excited to get to work out with Mercedes. It was always nice to have a work out buddy in general and all the better when it was a beautiful woman that he really got along with. Hitching his gym bag up on his shoulder, he smiled as he saw Mercedes waiting for him near the door. "You actually showed. I'm impressed."

When she saw Sam, she shifted her bag and nodded at his surprise, though they had talked about her coming to the gym she never really agreed to it. "I said I would come and I always keep my word." She said. "Shall we get inside?"  Pulling out her student ID she opened the door, holding it for Sam to take, then made her way inside showing her ID to the person at the front. Placing her hair in a messy bun she looked around.  "So what do you want to do first? I am here to learn." She said with a bright smile.(edited)

"I'll remember that," he replied easily, following in behind her. He knew most everyone who worked in here by now and offered them friendly smiles and a nod of the head, ignoring the pointed looks a couple of them were giving him since he wasn't alone today. "Always important to do some warm up stretches. I don't want you cramping up and suing me for pain and suffering," he teased.

Mercedes made her way to one of the work out rooms and tried not to laugh at the looks she was getting, she assumed its cause she was with Sam, but she couldn't be sure. "I wouldn't sue you for pain and suffering, I would sue you for misconduct!" She teased back. Putting her bag down, she pulled off her oversized shirt and glanced at him. "So whats first boss!"

"Don't mind them. They clearly have no lives." Sam rolled his eyes, but they still had the same sparkle in them they always did. "Boss, huh? I dig it." He pulled his water bottle from his bag before tossing the bag in the corner. Grabbing a couple mats from the stack, he laid them out beside one another. "Have a seat, stretch your legs out, and reach for the toes." He did the same thing himself to demonstrate. "So, you excited for Rush week?"

"If looks bothered me, I would spend my life alone in my room." She smirked. "Could do Sir too? Don't think you are a Daddy or Papi..." she teased. Grabbing her own bottle she watching him lay out the mats and sat down beside him. Reaching for her toes she gripped her sole as she got a good stretch. "Oh you have no idea. I love Rush week! And we are throwing a Party which I hope you plan on attending."

Sam sat up again, an offended look on his face. "I could be a Daddy," he declared just a little too loudly. He paused a moment and looked around, realizing what he'd said, and then burst out laughing. He bent one leg towards himself and stretched out to the side. "I mean... you know... maybe," he chuckled, a blush creeping up on his cheeks. Partying was a subject he could get behind though. "Oh, you know I'll be there. Gotta show the new kids how it's done."

Her laugh was louder than intended because she did not expect his response. Shaking her head she switched positions bringing both her heels in front of her and pushing them together before looking back at Sam. "So you want to be a "Daddy" or a "Dad -dy!" cause you know there is a difference." She rolled her neck as she straitened back up in that seated position. "Well I am sure you may have to be there since the Brothers are bringing the food and DJ i think... but its a 90's theme, gonna have spin the bottle, 7 minutes in heaven and all that good stuff. So you guys should have a great time."

"I kind of really want you to explain it to me now," Sam teased, though there was a touch of challenge in his voice as he winked at her. "I'm excellent at bringing the food. Especially if the food is Cool Ranch Doritos." He raised his eyebrows as Mercedes listed off all the activities. "Mix all that with some liquor and we'll have a real good time."

Mercedes  stood up raising her hands above her head as she gave him raised an eyebrow blushing at his statement. Putting her arms down she shrugged. "Well there is "Daddy", you know you get treated like a real dad someone who looks out for a person, people look at you as the go to dude for all issues and all that." She smirked cocking her head towards him. "Then there;s "Dad-dy"." She said with a twinkle in her eye. "And thats a dude who can get that whoa-daddy." She did a body roll.  "And heeeeeey daddy." She shook her hips. " and that good good daddy." She dropped it down low and picked it up with that last statement. Someone cat called and she laughed shaking her head. "Sorry but you wanted to know." Going back to stretching, she bent all the way down to the ground touching her toes. "I take it you like Cool Ranch Doritos? I mean liquor gives people courage to either do things they never thought they could or stupid things so either way..."

Sam made a little humming noise in consideration. "Probably not smart enough to be a regular Daddy then.  But all those other ones you said?" He offered up his own body roll that he'd been perfecting  since his freshman year. "I got that aaaaall day and night." He chuckled at himself and at Mercedes cool reaction. "Cool Ranch Doritos are my greatest weakness, girl. So either way it's gonna be a blast," he finished for her, nodding his head towards a couple of nearby treadmills.

Mercedes rolled her eyes Sam. "Don't make me slap you when we are having such a good time, you know I don't like it when you talk like that. I can see you being "Daddy." She watched his body roll and cleared her throat. "Umm yeah I bet you do." She bit her bottom lip, before turning away from him. It was getting a little hot. "You really shouldn't go around telling people your weakness, might give a girl like me some ideas." She said making her way to the treadmills like he nodded too.

Sam attempted to just shrug it off. "I'm just saying, I don't know if I'm like... the advice guy." He smirked slightly when Mercedes looked away, maybe just a little proud of himself. He couldn't deny that he loved getting a reaction.  He hopped on the treadmill and started it up slowly to warm up.  "A girl like you? I thought I could trust you!"

Mercedes shook her head. "You can be whatever and whoever you want to be, you just gotta see the you that I see." She licked her lips trying to shake off the warm feeling seeping through her body. "Well you can trust me, but you are begging for me to use cool ranch against you in some way..." She wouldn't say the way she was thinking because her mind was supposed to be out of the gutter, but Sam was not making it easy.

He tilted his head slightly as he looked over at her, his smile a little more genuine than just pure amusement. "And what exactly is the me that you see? Not that I'm fishing for compliments. I mean... maybe a little, but I'm curious too." He picked up his speed a little into an easy jog. "Hey, as long as I get the Doritos, feel free."

Mercedes started jogging at a steady pace, taking her hair down from the ponytail, and then putting it back into a messy bun. She didn't even need to think about Sam's question, she already knew the answer. Looking over to him she smiled. "I see someone who is more than just his hot body and cool demeanor, you are a kind soul, someone who is smart, funny, caring and sweet. You have an incredible voice, and when you get excited about something, like truly excited, its infectious and makes us all want to be apart of it." Looking away from him she continued to run. "You are also too hot for words and that smile is trouble, but I mean thats just my opinion." She shook her head smiling. "Well then I better stock up on Cool Ranch then." She increased her speed and ran in silent for a bit biting her bottom lip. "What do you think about me?"

Sam didn't even know what to say at first. They weren't things he heard very often except maybe from his parents, but that didn't really count since they were sort of biased. And sure, he had friends who liked him and thought he was cool, but not many of them really saw him that deeply. His smile returned at the compliment on it though. "Well, I think you complimenting me on my voice is a joke because you've got a voice that could make angels cry. And has made me cry. You're one of the smartest people I know. And not just like... book stuff. But real stuff. Like... emotionally smart or whatever they call it.  You're always looking out for everybody, which is awesome. And you really pay attention too 'cause you care. Plus you're smokin'," he added with a casual grin.

Mercedes shook her head. "I complemented you on more than your voice. But thats neither here nor there." She listened to him and tried to hide her blush by continuing to run. His words touched her and she finally looked over at him. "Thank you. Never knew my singing made you cry." It was all she could say. She increased the speed once more. "Smokin;? Is that a good thing?"

"I know. I just... don't know what to say to all that. Most of the compliments I get are about my abs. And sometimes my hilarious impressions." He paused for a moment, sucking at his water bottle while he ran. "Well, I don't just go around telling people when I cry," he laughed. "Of course it's a good thing. You're like hotter than a backyard bonfire."

"I get that.  But you should know, know that people see you, I see you." She slowed down on the treadmill and  came to  a stop, grabbing her own drink. "Yeah well I know I have a good voice just nothing to cry about." It wasn't true, many people cried on a song or another when she sang, at one point she thought that was enough...shaking off her thoughts she watched him run. "I do get the comment about your abs though, they are hot." She laughed at him for his comment. "I don't think I have ever been called smokin' before."

"Could you not make me cry while I'm trying to work out?" he teased, though it certainly had a touch of sincerity to it. "And you do not have a good voice. You have the most incredible voice I've ever heard and everyone needs to hear it." He slowed down himself, finally coming to a stop. He pulled his tank over his head and tossed it on top of his bag. Sure, it was convenient timing with the conversation, but he was also just sweaty. Totally.  "Well, that's just a crying shame. Cause someone should be telling you on the daily. I'm gonna do some weight reps. You down for that?"

Mercedes smirked. "I can try but I am just speaking the truth." She looked down to her hands, not wanting him to see the sadness in her eyes, sadness that came every time she thought about her past. He stopped pulling off his tank top and her breath hitched at the sight. Why was he that hot?  "Yeah maybe I should hire you for the job? Tell me how okay looking I am daily?" She said more breathless that she intended. Nodding she walked over to the weights to try and calm herself down. Half certain he was teasing her on purpose.(edited)

Sam didn't miss any of Mercedes reactions, both to his words and to his shirtlessness. He wasn't going to press her on either of them, but he took note of them both and filed the information away. "I'm happy to do it for free, but if you wanted to pay me in Doritos, I wouldn't complain about that either. And I believe the word I used was smokin', not okay looking," he reminded her. He grabbed a couple weights and started doing curls on one of the benches.

Mercedes smiled. "Cool Ranch Doritos for compliments? I mean I can see that working." She watching him doing curls and for a moment she just stood there mesmerized by him. "I think the only one who is smokin' in this gym is you. All the women are insanely jealous of me right now. Though we haven't given them a reason to be jealous." she said, though she would not be opposed to putting on a show. Shaking off her thoughts she sat across from him on a bench, if he could tease her with his shirtlessness then she could use the two gifts that kept on giving. Grabbing a few weights herself. She bent forward, giving him a clear view of the girls as she did her own  reps.

"Again, I'll give you the compliments anyway, but I won't turn down the chips," he laughed. "Except if I eat too many of 'em, I might have to spend even more time in here." Sam watched her intently, glancing around the gym at her comment to see if there was actually anyone glancing at them. He wasn't unaware of the fact that he got attention around here, but he didn't really react to it too often. He smirked as she leaned forward though. If anyone could get a reaction out of him, it was going to be Mercedes. "No, I guess we haven't. Not yet anyway."

"How about we do it like for every 10 compliments you get a small bag of chips. That way you still get them and you won't over indulge. Its a win/win." She said as she continued to give him a show, pretending she didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know why it was so easy to flirt with Sam but she didn't want to stop it. "On not yet? What kind of show are you trying to put on  dad-dy." She teased looking up at him as she slowly stood.

"I'm starting to think this might make me some sort of compliment gigolo," Sam chuckled. He chewed at his bottom lip as he watched her, trying not to be too obvious about it. His mother raised him to be a gentleman after all, at least until he was asked not to be. He followed suite when she stood up and moved to stand right behind her. He slid his hand down her arm until he met her hand where it held the weight, slowly helping her curl it back up toward her chest. "I'm sure we could think of something..."

Mercedes shrugged. "There could be worse type of gigolos to be though." She said with a laugh. Sam came behind her and her breath hitched. Feeling his hand slid down her arm, she shuttered not even hiding the effect he had on her.  Turning her head towards him she stared into his green eyes. "Oh? And is anything coming to mind?"

Sam couldn't argue with that, though he was starting to think he'd be any kind of gigolo Mercedes asked him to be at this point. He licked his lips as Mercedes looked at him, their faces dangerously close. "Nothing that won't get us kicked out of here. And... all the other gyms are so far away." He ducked his head down as he chuckled. "You're gonna get me in a lotta trouble, Mercedes Jones."

What was she doing? She couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to  kiss him. But kissing Sam was trouble. She licked her lips with a soft smiled. "I mean what is life without a little bit of trouble Sam Evans aka dad-dy.  She reached over and kissed him on the cheek, then turned back to her work out. "So I think you need to hold me a little closer. Make sure I don't hurt myself."

Sam laughed again, shaking his head. Leaning in, he whispered near her ear. "You have got to stop calling me that in public or me standing this close to you is going to get awkward for a whole lot of reasons." His cheeks turned a faint pink at the kiss and his smile remained. He wrapped his other arm around her and let his fingers hold her wrists gently as he continued helping her through reps.

Mercedes bit her bottom lip with a smile. "I guess I could be persuaded to not call you that in public. I don't want things to get awkward for you." She let him wrap his arms around her and leaned back against him as he helped her. Heat grew within her body and she knew it was getting to be about that time she should walk always before something happened, and yet, she couldn't help but want to stay near him just a little bit longer. "You sure holding me this close won't cause an awkward situation as well?"

"Thanks for taking pity on me." Sam took a breath in as Mercedes leaned into him, willing himself to stay calm, so to speak. "Oh, it's a definite possibility. That's why I'm mentally building the world's biggest sandwich in my head," he joked, though it certainly wasn't a lie either. You gotta do what you gotta do.

Mercedes didn't know what got into her, she wasn't this bold, she wasn't like this but being around Sam, it did something to her. She bend down, pressing her backside against his front and dropping the weight. Standing, she faced him, running her hands down his arms the way he did her arm. "How is the sandwich making going now?"

Sam bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise that would most certainly get them asked to leave. He gave in and let his eyes travel down her body and back up again. "It's, um, real.... tall right about now," he replied with a mischievous smirk.

Mercedes stood tall, still not coming close to Sam's height, bodies so close that one move and she would be in his arms. "I don't know what is is about you Sam." She said tempted to stand up on her tippy toes and kiss him, sit him on the bench straddle him and feel his hands all over her. But she also just wanted to stay in his presence keep talking to him, learning more about him.

Sam's hands naturally found their way to Mercedes' waist and rested there comfortably. They looked more like they were slow dancing down instead of working out, but he wasn't even aware of anybody else in the building right now. "Whatever it is... I hope it's good."

Her hands moved up his arms and she smiled. "I would lie and say the jury is still out on that but we both know its good." Her eyes went to his lips and everything in her told her to back away. She was setting herself up for failure, but her feet didn't step back, instead they stood up on her tippy toes, placing a soft kiss to his lips. She didn't care where they were, and if this moment was all she got, she would take full advantage of it.

Sam could sense her movements and leaned himself down a little to meet her lips with his own. Still a gentleman after all. His smile stretched across his whole face as he stood tall again and he was pretty sure he'd lost all ability to actually speak words. He was real good at the physical stuff, but the talking stuff always seemed to stop him up. "Well, I don't know about you, but this, uh... this is the best workout I've ever had."

Mercedes didn't know what had gotten into her but she was not mad at it, Sam kissing her back even for those few seconds made her day completely. She laughed nodding. "Best work out ever." She repeated. "I think we better go, because I am tempted to do that again."

Sam bit at his lip again and gave a little nod. He really didn't want their time together to end, but Mercedes was right about what might happen if they kept this up much longer. And he didn't want to mess up whatever was happening before it even started. Plus, he did actually have to get to class. "Probably a good idea. But I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

Reluctantly, she stepped away from him. "Yes you most definitely will talk to me later, as long as you want too." She turned to grab her things but stopped and turned back to Sam. Walking up to him she stood on her tippy toes to reach his ears. "Text me or write me later dad-dy. " Kissing his cheek, she grabbed her bag and top and made her way out of the gym with a smile on her face.

[the--blackdahlia]

The Day the Music Died Chapter 6

Title: The Day the Music Died Chapter 6

Summary:  In 1959, a plane crash tragically took the lives of three musicians and their pilot. But the mysterious circumstances send the Winchester brothers on an adventure. Now they have a mystery to solve…before one of them joins the other three.

Warnings: None that I can think of

AN: I have an ongoing playlist I’m making for this if anyone wants to hear it

1958

Waylon and Sam pulled onto a quiet, suburban street about ten minutes after leaving the park. Sam watched all the clean houses with the manicured lawns. He made a note to himself to make his way back over here when he got back to his own time to see how well time had treated everything. Waylon pulled into a driveway by another car. Sam could hear the sound of guitar then. He looked forward and gasped.

Sitting in a chair, strumming a guitar, was none other than THE Buddy Holly.

“Is that who I think that is?” Sam asked himself, but Waylon heard and smiled.

“Trust me, he’s pretty down to earth.” Waylon patted Sam’s arm before getting out of the car. Sam followed, standing awkwardly behind Waylon.

“Sounds good man.” Waylon said, clapping his hands when Buddy had finished the rift he was working on. “Something for that upcoming tour?”

“Not sure yet.” Buddy looked around Waylon. Sam was standing there, looking completely out of place. “Friend of yours?”

“Oh yeah, this is Sam. We go way back.” Waylon said with a smile. “He’s new around these parts and I thought maybe you and Maria could help him out some. Get him blending in.” Buddy stood up and walked to Sam.

“Do you play guitar?” He asked.

“Uh, a couple chords.” Sam said with a shrug. Buddy looked him up and down.

“I think I have the perfect job for you.” He smiled and offered his hand. Sam shook it, feeling that this was a test. John had always taught the boys that you could tell a lot about a man by his handshake. He had no doubt that’s what Buddy was doing right then. “Some of the members of the road crew quit a while ago. How’d you like that job?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam said. Buddy laughed.

“Please, let’s drop the formalities. I’m twenty-two, not forty.” He laughed. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Maria. Do you have a place to stay?”

“No.” Sam said.

“Well, we have an extra room.” Sam looked back at Waylon, who just smiled at him. Sam followed Buddy inside the house. They walked into the kitchen where a young woman was standing at the counter. “Sweetheart?”

“Hey honey.” She smiled and pecked his lips before turning to look at Sam and Waylon. “Oh dear, I didn’t know we had company. I must look a mess.”

“Ah, Maria, you know you always look good.” Waylon laughed. She just blushed and smiled before turning her attention to Sam.

“This is Sam. He’s joining my crew.” Buddy explained. “And he’s going to be staying with us until he can get on his feet or decides to head back home to...where are you from again Sam?”

“Uh, California…” Sam said, glancing over at Waylon. The musician nodded. Maria eyed Sam a little, but didn’t say anything.

“Well, welcome to our home Sam.” Maria said with a smile. “Do you have any bags or anything? Extra clothes?” Sam shook his head.

“I lost them along the way.” He told her. “I lost everything.”

“I’m not sure if anything of mine would fit you, but there is a big and tall shop on main that would have stuff that would fit you. Because I doubt you want to wear the same clothes over and over again.” Buddy laughed.

“I’ll go pick up a few things.” Waylon said. “Why don’t you stay here and get situated. Maria and Buddy are nice, I promise.” Sam smiled.

“Thank you.” He said. Waylon left and Buddy went back out the the garage, leaving Maria and Sam alone in the kitchen. There was an awkward silence between the two of them, before Maria finally spoke up.

“You’re not from California, are you?” She asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Sam said. Maria shook her head.

“Come with me.” She said, motioning for Sam to follow her. “I know you’re not from California and I know that you’re not from this time.” She went to the linen closet in the hallway and dug around in it before pulling out a box. “My husband thinks this is things from Puerto Rico.” She handed the box to Sam. “Go on, open it.”

Sam carefully set the box down and took the lip off. Inside was a folded up pair of blue jeans, a Guess t-shirt, a pair of Converse, a flip cell phone with the old Sprint logo on it, and an ID for one Maria Santiago.

Born in 1968.

“See.” Maria said. “Now, I remember going with my friends to a concert. There was this man there. He kinda looked like Buddy. He was charming and suave. I remember heading to his car with him, then I woke up here. That was four years ago.” Sam just kept staring at her, completely in shock. First, he found out Waylon Jennings was a hunter, and now Maria Santiago-Holly was a time traveler who was stranded…

“I came here from 1990.” She explained when Sam made no move to say anything. “You look like someone who listened to Nirvana and Pearl Jam. Are you from the 90’s too?”

“Uh, more like 2013.” Sam said. Maria’s eyes widened.

“2013? What’s it like?” Her eyes were so full of wonder. Sam was about to say something when Buddy came in, guitar in hand. Maria took the box and put it back in the closet. The less he knew, the better.

“Is Maria showing you around?” He asked.

“I was about to honey.” She smiled at him. “I just wanted to get to know him a little more. California sounds amazing.” She winked at Sam, sealing the secret between the two displaced people.

God, he was going to have so many stories to tell Dean when he got home.

****

Sam slept amazing that night. It wasn’t the bunker, but the Holly’s home was actually quite cozy. Waylon had promised to stop by to make sure that was settling in well. He knew that Maria would help Sam adjust. And she was. Because currently, Sam was sitting on the floor in front of her couch wearing black pants and a white shirt while she greased back his hair.

“Buddy won’t let me grease his hair.” Maria laughed as she combed back Sam’s long locks. Buddy came in then and settled himself down on the big, comfy armchair.

“That’s because it is ridiculous.” Buddy laughed. Sam looked up at him. “But it looks good on you!”

“Oh Charles, stop it.” Maria said. Sam glanced over at the musician.

“Charles?” Sam asked. Buddy sighed.

“Buddy is a childhood nickname,” He explained. “Plus, do you think I would have this much success if I used the name Charles Holly?” Sam just smiled. “Waylon might be able to get away with it, but I don’t think I could use my real name.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Sam replied.

“So, I thought that you could go with me today to set up for practice.” Buddy told Sam.

“Uh sure. Do you think I’d fit in?” He asked. Maria laughed.

“Better than that surfer hair of yours Sammy.” She said. Sam felt a little pang in his heart. Sammy. God, he was really missing Dean.

“Well, if you say so.” Sam said quietly. Buddy smiled and went out to get things ready. Sam set on the floor in front of Maria in silence.

“Are you okay Sam?” Maria asked, finishing up his hair.

“Yeah.” Sam responded, but Maria could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“You know, I left behind a little sister and a dog in the 90’s.” Maria told Sam. “My sister was thirteen. She begged me to take her to the concert with my friends and I told her no. The last thing I ever said to her was ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with my baby sister’. Now all I want to do is see her again.”

“We’ll get out of here.” Sam said. Maria shook her head. “What? Why?”

“I’m in love Sam.” She said. “I love him.”

“But you know what happens to him.” Maria nodded. “Don’t you want to avoid that heartbreak?”

“Some things are just worth it.” She said. “Talk to me again in March and see if I still want to stay.” Sam turned to look at her. “It’s like that new Garth Brooks song. I could have missed the pain, but I’d have to miss the dance.” She patted Sam’s shoulder. “Well, you’re ready to go Sam.”

“Thanks Maria.” He got up and grabbed the leather jacket that Waylon had got him. If Dean could see him right now…

Forever Tags: @imboredsueme @aiaranradnay @theas-bedtime-stories @af112992 @bandobsession98 @dekahg @marvel-af @cutie1365 @nanie5 @sammat97 @dslocum89 @i-would-die-for-woodland-demars @newtospnfandom @xxwarhawk @luciathewinchestergirl @tina8009

Supernatural Tags: @essie1876 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @sabigmart @smoothdogsgirl @winchestergeekfreak @winchesterslibrary @atc74 @anathewierdo

The Day the Music Died Tags: @leximus98

[lolainblue]

Thunderbirds     Chapter 5

   Tuesday was my next day off, and after sleeping in late, I woke to a stormy, gray day.  Half awake I stumbled into the kitchen only to find a naked man standing in front of the open refrigerator.  Well, I guess Roger was back from Big Sur.  I cleared my throat.  

   “Oh hi there!” he said brightly, utterly unbothered by his lack of apparel. He flashed me a big smile, full of perfectly aligned and blindingly white teeth that had to have cost thousands of dollars. He was tall and muscled, with an expensive haircut and perfect tan, looking well moisturized and exfoliated, not even an errant eyebrow hair.  As he turned to fully face me, a quick reflexive glance told me that at least one part of him was still the way mother nature made it.  

   “Hi,” I said, suppressing a giggle.

   He cheerily waved the mug in his hand. “I was just looking for something to put in my coffee.”  

   Presumably alerted by the sound of voices, at that moment Roger came bolting out of the bedroom, thankfully not naked.

   “So, um....” I paused, hoping either our unabashed guest or Roger would provide a name but Roger just shrugged at me.  Of course he didn't know his name.  Roger never remembered their names  “... guy.  We have a strict “Pants must be worn in the kitchen” policy  here in the apartment.”

   “Sorry. I couldn't find them.” He looked at Roger and laughed.  I looked at Roger and rolled my eyes.  I reached over and took his coffee mug.

   “How about I find you some cream for your coffee, and Roger helps you find those pants?” I offered.  

   “Nondairy if you have it, please.” He bounced off towards the bedroom with Roger a step or two behind.  Even his ass was perfectly tan.  Where the hell did Roger find them?

   I was setting out the soy milk when the phone rang.  Wondering who would be calling at this hour, I checked the caller ID only to realize that Roger still hadn't replaced the battery and the unit was dead.  We needed to get a newer phone.  Warily I picked up the receiver.

   “Hello?”

   “Um, Janey? Is that you?  It's Shannon.”

   Well, this was a pleasant surprise. “Hey, Shannon.  What's got you calling this early?”

   “Well, no work today because of the weather,” he explained, “and I'm bored.  But it's Tuesday, and everyone is busy, and then I remembered you work kind of weird hours and you're not in school right now, and so I thought maybe you'd be free?”

   I looked out the window. It was coming down in sheets out there and huge puddles of water were already standing on the streets. I really didn't want to go out and do anything in this kind of weather. “Well, as a matter of fact, I'm off work today but it's so nasty out I don't think I want to go anywhere.”

   “Oh.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice.  “That's okay, I guess it is sort of last minute and all.”

   “Well now wait, I just said I don't want to go anywhere.” I heard Roger and his companion giggling from his bedroom. Why the heck should they have all the fun? “A rainy day movie marathon sounds good though. Would you like to come hang out here? I can even cook if you want.”

   “That sounds amazing.  Do you need me to bring anything?”

   I thought for a minute.  I had gone grocery shopping just yesterday and had plenty of food and ingredients for brownies.  I thought about asking him to bring over some beers but realized I'd hardly ever seen him sober so maybe that wasn't the best idea.  “Popcorn? I don't think I have any popcorn.”

   “No problem.” I gave him the address and then went to knock on Roger's door to let him know I had company coming over.  By the time I had showered and changed Roger's guest was gone and Roger was straightening up the living room.  

   “You're staying?” I asked, surprised.  

   “That's okay isn't it?” he asked.  “You weren't planning on humping in the living room or anything were you?”

   I threw a pillow at him.  “It's not like that.  At least I don't think so.”    

   The doorbell rang.  “Well,” Roger said, throwing the pillow back at me, “you'd better figure out what it's like really quick because your afternoon delight is here.”

   For the second time that day I rolled my eyes at Roger.  “Not all of us try to fuck everything that doesn't run away fast enough.”

   “He's ugly isn't he?”

   “Jesus Roger.”  I crossed over and opened the door.  Shannon stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain but holding a big bag of groceries.  

   “What on earth is all that? I said popcorn!”  

   Roger called out from behind me.  “She means 'Hello.  Come in.  It's so nice of you to come out in this weather.  Thank you for bringing a gift.”

   Shannon laughed and stepped inside, shaking himself off like a wet puppy.  I took the bag from him so he could take off his jacket.  “It is popcorn.  And some sodas and some ice cream.  I wanted ice cream.”

   I peered inside the bag and saw a box of those Drumstick cones with the chocolate and nuts on them.  “Oh, I love those.  Do you want them now or should I stick them in the freezer?”

   “Maybe later?”  He said.  I nodded and headed towards the kitchen, motioning him towards the living room.

   “Hi, I'm Roger.  Jane apparently has no manners today.”  Roger stuck his hand out for Shannon who gave him a quick shake.   “I hope you like horror movies, that's all Jane watches.”

   “That's not true!” I called back from the kitchen. “I like other things too. Quit teasing and just show him the movies.”

   When I got back into the living room Roger and Shannon were looking through our collection of videos.  I noticed Shannon was still looking pretty drippy so I grabbed a clean towel for him.

   “Thanks. It's really coming down out there.” As he toweled himself off, I couldn't help but notice those warm hazel eyes of his again.  With his damp hair and lashes, they stood out even more prominently. Roger stepped behind him and gave me a thumbs up signal.   I'd have thrown something at him if I'd been holding anything.

   “How about this?”  Shannon held up a copy of “Phantasm”.

   “Ah, the classics!  The man has good taste!” I said approvingly.

   Roger set the movie up while I set out snacks and drinks for everyone. When I went to sit down on the end of the sofa where I usually sit Roger quickly slipped in ahead of me, nudging me to sit next to Shannon.  Shannon just smiled and threw his arm around me once I sat down, pulling a bowl of popcorn into his lap.  “Horror movies are for snuggling right? Can't have you getting scared.”

   He was a still little damp from the weather but he was warm and solid and smelled of coffee and soap and cigarettes, and even though I was still undecided about how I felt about him, he was really nice to snuggle into.  I grabbed a throw off the arm of the sofa and spread it out over our laps.  “That's the idea.”

      We ended up talking more than watching the movie since everyone had already seen it before.  Shannon had moved around a lot growing up and told us stories of different places he had lived.  Roger and I had both lived in the same 50-mile radius of small Midwestern towns until moving to California for school three years ago, so to us, it was fascinating.  To my chagrin, Roger insisted on telling Shannon how we met in the 5th grade after I had moved to town and managed to get on the wrong side of budding mean girl Abby Norris.   She picked on me mercilessly for the first three days of school, until Roger, who had inexplicably taken a shine to the quiet little new girl with all the freckles, threatened to start a rumor that she stuffs her bra and makes out with her Rob Lowe poster.   We were inseparable from there on out.      

   After the movie finished I went to start making some tacos for lunch while Shannon took advantage of a break in the rain to step out onto the balcony for a smoke.  Roger, of course, had to join me in the kitchen so we could discuss our guest.

   “Well, he's definitely not ugly,” Roger said as he helped me pull vegetables out of the refrigerator. “He looks sort of familiar though.”

   I shrugged.  “I just can't figure out if he's actually interested or not.  He seems flirty enough but has made zero moves.”

   “Oh, he's interested,” Roger said.  “He's a little hard to read but he's definitely into you.”

   “I don't know.”

   Roger laughed.  “He brought you ice cream cones.  He wants to see your tongue skills.”

   “Roger!” I threw a lime wedge at him.

   “You know,” he said, “you could always make the move yourself Jane. This is the 90's after all.”

   “I know, I just...” I felt bad but I still wasn't sure how interested in Shannon I even was.  He was definitely attractive, a little short but I'm not that tall myself so it didn't bother me any.  I loved his grin and those gorgeous eyes of his.  I liked how he could be goofy and playful but also seemed to have this chill side.  But we didn't seem to have very much in common, even though we seemed to be very comfortable with each other and enjoyed each others company.

   Then there was Jared.  Jared and I had seemed to click that first night at the diner but he didn't seem to be flirting much at all.  He didn't seem uninterested, but he did seem to be standing back to see what was going to happen.  Maybe he was waiting to see what Shannon's intentions were? I knew I needed to figure this out soon.  It wasn't fair to string Shannon along if I wasn't interested.  

   “I don't know Roger.  I think I like him but...”

   It was Roger's turn to roll his eyes at me.  “You like him.  I saw the way you looked at him when he was drying himself off earlier.  I also noticed the way you snuggled into the crook of his arm when you guys were watching the movie, and the way you kept sniffing his shirt.”

   “He smells good,” I said sheepishly.  I was going to add more but I heard the sliding door to the balcony opening and closing, and then Shannon was in the kitchen with us.

   “I hope you don't mind,” I said.  “It's black beans and chorizo seitan for the taco filling, I'm a vegetarian.  I probably should have warned you before I offered to make lunch.”

   Shannon just smiled.  “No problem.  My mother's a vegetarian, I grew up with that stuff.” He gave the pan where I was heating the filling a sniff.  “It smells fantastic.  Anything I can do to help?”

   “You can help me chop up some onions and cilantro,” Roger said, handing a knife over.  

   We continued like that, the three of us in the kitchen cooking tacos, while Roger continued to regale Shannon with tales from middle school. It was a pleasant enough way to spend the afternoon, and after the tacos were prepared and eaten and chased down with the ice cream treats Shannon had brought we decided to pick another movie to watch.    This time Shannon picked out one of Roger's old Kung Fu movies.  They weren't really my thing but the guys seemed happy enough about it, and since Shannon was again pulling me in to cuddle against him, I didn't mind.  

   About fifteen minutes into the movie, Roger dramatically got up and exclaimed “Oh wow, look how late it is! I have to go!”

   “Go where?” I asked.  “You don't have anywhere to be today.  It's pouring like Noah's flood out there.”

   Roger just shook his head and grabbed his jacket and an umbrella while he grinned like a mad man.  He knew he was fooling exactly no one with his “get them together alone” plot, and he just didn't care.  I was definitely going to owe him for this one, I just didn't know if it would be a thank you or revenge yet. “Bye!  You kids behave yourselves!” he called out as he waltzed through the door.  The minute he shut it Shannon burst out laughing.

   “I'm sorry,” I apologized.  “He's an idiot.”

   “Don't apologize,” Shannon said.  “He's a good friend.  He's just trying to look out for you.  I think he just stuck around in the first place to make sure I wasn't some serial killer come to claim my next victim.”

   This had not occurred to me.  I was surprised when Roger had stayed behind for the movie but I didn't think about him just trying to be protective.  As much as he drives me crazy, over the last eleven years Roger has shown me time and time again he is an outstanding friend.  He did seem to approve of Shannon.  

   “Do you want to pick a different movie? I know we kind of railroaded you into this one.” Shannon asked.  

   I looked at him, those seductive eyes inches from mine, and thought about what Roger had said in the kitchen.  Maybe, in this case, I needed to make the first move.  I had never been any good at it though.  What if I was reading him wrong? What if he was just looking for a buddy? What if I was?

I noticed for the first time what full, kissable lips he had, a rarity on guys.  Maybe the best way to know if I felt something was to dive right in.

   “Jane?” Shannon was looking at me quizzically.  I was hypnotized by those lips but still unable to make a move.  Feet of clay, as they say.

   The phone rang just then, the sound so sharp and unexpected I jumped a few inches in my seat.  I took that as a sign and quickly hopped up to answer it.  

   “Hello?”

   “Hey, is this Jane? I think this is the right number, I'm looking for a girl named Jane.” It took me a second before I recognized the voice.

   “Jared?” I asked.

   “Hey, yeah.” He sounded relieved he had the right number.  “You haven't seen Shannon, have you? He left a note that he was going over there but I didn't know if he actually made it....”

   “Yeah, he's here.”  I looked up at the sofa where Shannon, having heard me say Jared's name apparently, had thrown his head back behind him in exasperation. “Did you want to talk to him?”

   “Yes, please.”

   I held out the phone.  “Shannon, it's your brother.” With a sigh, Shannon got up from the sofa and took the phone from me.  Not wanting to eavesdrop I excused myself to the bathroom for a few minutes. When I came back out Shannon was putting his coat on.  

   “Everything okay?” I asked.  

   “My brother is impossible. I'm really sorry Jane.  I'm going to go.”

   I was a little surprised at the strong twinge of disappointment I felt. I looked outside where it was still storming though not as violently as before.  “Do you really have to? Is there some kind of emergency? It's still pretty nasty out.”

   He shrugged in resignation.  “No, but... “ he trailed off, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “I'm sorry.  It's for the best really. I...” He seemed like he wanted to say a lot more but just shook his head.  “I really did have a great afternoon.  Thanks for asking me over.”  He leaned in to give me a soft kiss on the cheek, and I caught myself inhaling deeply for one last whiff of his scent.  Roger was right, there was definitely something going on there.  As soon as Shannon closed the door behind him I fell back onto the sofa with a whimper.  That was the most confusing afternoon with a guy I had spent since High School.  I didn't know how much more of this I could take.  

[newbyimagines]

Out Of Town Part 2: The Vampire Diaries

Long time no post so I finally Finished this and I hope you enjoy it the link to the first part is on the top and as classes wind down for the year I’ll be able to post more often.

I started this before the latest season so most of the details start from then (Ignore the ending of season 7 as well) 

Part 1  Master List

You had stolen enough money to get you a train ticket on the first train you saw. It was going to Mystic Falls in Virginia. You had never been to the east coast. You had basically slept the entire train ride there. When you got off you stretched your arms and felt a cold breeze tickle your skin.

You walked into the the little town and admired the historical buildings that you never saw in California, you sat down in the grass in the middle of the town square.

You sat there and watched the leaves fall as the wind chilled you to the bone. This was the longest you had gone with an incident in a while, albeit was going on three days since the issues in Beacon Hills.

You got up and walked across the street to a restaurant called the Mystic Grill. You got a booth in the corner before opening your laptop and looking into hotels or really cheap apartments in town.

“This is for you.” The waitress set a tequila flight on your table.

“I didn’t order that.” You looked up at her.

“It’s from that guy over at the bar.” she pointed to a guy with dark hair and wore a black leather jacket that looks like it came from your high school graduating class of 1999. Yes you had graduated high school but because of your powers you stopped aging at like 17 so you forever be IDed at bars. Hiding in a high school was your best idea to be able to stay in Beacon hIlls longer but that wasn’t the truth.

The guy turned around and smiled at you. You sneered at him and went back to house hunting, with your focus completely on your computer you didn’t notice him sit across from you.

“Hello,” You looked up from your computer to see him sitting across from you.

“What do you want because if you can’t tell I’m a little busy?” You continued to type away without a second glance.

“A nice guy buys you a drink and you return the favor with bitter cold?”

“I don’t drink I’m not even 21.”

“Well that’s a lie because you are a siren.” Your hands stopped cold and you looked up at him.

“How…?”

“Did I know I could sense it the second you walked into town but I wasn’t sure who it was until you came in here and every guy couldn’t help but look at you.” You went back to typing; writing him off as friendly.

“So what does that make you mr broody suck in the 90’s leather jacket?” You found this place called the Salvatore boarding house you started to look into it more and noticed there was a lot of odd animal attacks near it in the last five years.  

“DO you really want to know because most people freak out.” He was looking around the bar, “You don’t seem like you know to much about the supernatural and the fact that you have no control over your power means you’re younger.” You pulled up an article and saw a picture of the guy sitting in front of you in the late 80’s from the Salvatore boarding house. You looked him up in the city records you hacked into in less than 2 minutes as he looked at you.

“Are you even listening to me?” You looked over at him the at the picture to make sure you weren’t mistaken.

“You’re Damon Salvatore, you live in the Salvatore boarding house with Stefan Salvatore, your brother I assume, and the deed belongs to an Elena Gilbert. Judging by all the animal attacks that started around five years ago where your bank records show you coming here and this picture from the 80’s I’m finding it safe to assume you’re a vampire.” You turned the computer around to face him. As he stared at you dumb struck

“You’re good. Wait did you say bank records? How did you get a hold of those?”

“I need somewhere to stay.”

“And I don’t like people getting into my personal business,” You turned the laptop around again and started to type away.

“I could keep digging and find some more stuff you think the city would love to know. Like maybe the reason behind that gas leak a few months ago? Or maybe I should dig into your uncle’s disappearance?”

“Okay fine just shut up before someone overhears you.” He slammed your laptop shut before slamming back the flight of tequila. “I am so going to regret this.”

You followed him from the Grill after he paid his bill. He got into a baby blue car.

“Get in here you little stinker before I leave you here on the sidewalk to fend for yourself.” He opened up the door from the inside and you climbed in the passenger seat. “Before I let you in my house do you mind telling me your name?”

“It’s (Y/N). Which isn’t that the first thing most guys who buy a stranger drinks wants to know?”

“What did I get myself into.” Damon pulled out of the town square and drove to the boarding house. “Home sweet home, don’t get to attached most of our renters don’t stay too long.”

“HaHa very funny where’s my room?” You walked in the doors and stopped in shock at the sheer beauty of the place. The first room you walked into had a old looking fire place,lavish sofas and chairs, swords hung from the walls, compared to your last place it was a presidential upgrade .

“This way my lady.” You followed him out of the room and to the right. He lead you up a set of stairs and brought you down a hall. “The other way leads to the library. Down this way we have my room, the stairs that leads to Stefan’s room in the attic, Caroline’s room is that one, mainly just for her clothes because Stefan’s closet isn’t big enough,and the rest of the rooms down this hall are up for grabs.” he waved his hand down the hall before turning around towards the Library. “I need some burban.”

“Hey Damon where is the bathroom?”

“Use mine I really don’t care anymore just don’t break anything.” You went into the room and set you bag by the fireplace. It was such a large and empty open space. The bed was neatly made and you turned around to find his open concept bathroom. You turned the shower on and pulled your two day old clothes off and stepped in. You just stood there as the hot water ran down your body and the room started to fill with steam.

You heard the door open and Damon’s voice started to echo to you.

“So how exactly old are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” You didn’t usually tell people where you came from never the less when you were born it usually freaks them out.

“You’re avoiding the question (Y/N). Are you afraid that I’m gonna think you’re some old lady?”

“Are you afraid that I am? Damon you seem overly curious, What if it turns out I am older than you?” I could hear his footsteps coming closer to the shower but the stream didn’t allow me to see him yet. Then you heard his belt unbuckle and fall to the floor before the shower door opened. You stood there your face turning red and jaw almost on the floor.

“Close your mouth you might catch flies.” His hand came up to your chin and lightly closed your mouth. “So are you going to answer my question (Y/N)?”

He was reaching around you to grab the soap while you stood there like a statue.

“Damon why couldn’t you wait your turn?”

“I said you could use my bathroom I never said it meant that I was gonna change my habits for you.” He handed you the soap and you looked down at your hand for a second before it registered that you were both naked. You dropped the soap before you walked out of the shower ran down the hall and going into one of the spare rooms.

You sat on the bed with your hair dripping down your back slowly soaking into the bed.

“You’re getting the bed wet.” A towel hit you on the back and you instinctively wrapped yourself in it. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s me Damon usually only really old vampires can resist the pull of my powers.” The only one I’ve meet was Elijah Michealson back in Sunnydale.

“I don’t feel any different around you (Y/N).”

“It’s like being compelled you don’t notice or remember it exactly you just know you want to be near me. It’s worse for other creatures depending on what they are.”

“Other creatures?” He sat down on the bed next to me.

“Werewolves partially, because werewolves have the heightened smell the main part of my abilities comes from smell. For you, you have heightened senses but not heighted to the point where your smell drives you completely. You smell it in my blood mainly so the longer you go without eating the more you’re attracted to me.”

“I swear this isn’t just because of your gifts (Y/N) I really do enjoy your company.”

“Damon go eat, I need to change so we’ll talk later.” You got off the bed and went towards Damon’s room to find your bag.

“Damon where are my clothes?” You had left your bag by the fire place and it was gone along with your clothes you were wearing previously were missing as well. He casually walked in the room and leaned against the door frame.

“I guess you just have to go around the house naked from now on.” You pulled the towel around yourself tighter before storming over to him.

“Where are my clothes Damon or I will shove a piece of wood so close to your heart that you’ll be at death’s door.” He laughed at that as we brushed past me into his room.

“You wouldn’t last a day against me, just because you have your powers doesn’t mean you can control me.”

“I’d beg to differ.” You walked over to him and placed your hands on his knees and held your face an inch from his. “Still feel like the big bad vampire Damon?”

“Okay um….” His eyes drifted down to your chest. “They’re in the closet.” He got up and walked out of the room and slammed the door.

You went over the walk in closet in the corner and there was your bag. You dug out a pair of jeans and an old t shirt. You didn’t really have any super fancy or flattering clothes considering you didn’t want to attract attention to yourself.

He walked back in drinking something red. He was feeding and I hope it did the trick or we we’re going to have some problems.

I had been staying at the boarding house for about a week now and Damon had been keeping his distance. In other words he had been avoiding me altogether, leaving in the morning and not coming back until one or two in the morning.  

I sat in the parlor with a glass of bourbon waiting for Damon to walk in the door. The fire crackled and sputtered next to me as I paged through my old journal, cringing at my old writings.

“You’re drinking my bourbon.” I turned around to see Damon leaning on the door frame. I could see hints of dried blood on the corner of his mouth.  

“Yes I am is that a problem?” I set my journal down on the mantel.

“It is if you’re not planning to share.” He walked over to me and grabbed the glass out of my hand and downed it. He kept the glass and walked away and went towards the library.

“Steal my drink and walk away from me?” I followed him into the library, he poured another drink and handed it to me. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“Why won’t you tell me your past?” He walked around and ran his hand on the books. “In here you can find the entire past of my family. Even the unfortunate history of me and my brother Stefan. I’ve been around a lot lately trying to find a single think about you. Records, Birth certificates, maybe a tax refund but all that comes up is nothing. So who are you exactly except for a nosey siren girl who isn’t very good at controlling her power.”

I sat down on the chair and faced him, “I’ll tell you but it might take some time because there is a lot to tell.”

[lovemesomesurveys]

Would you consider yourself very flexible? So, fun fact: My left leg is missing part of the femur bone (due to a surgical procedure that required some of it to be removed), so it’s kinda flippy and flex-y. lol.

Do you embarrass easily? Yes.

Have you ever tried to talk your way out of getting a ticket? I’ve never been in the position of getting a ticket, but knowing me I wouldn’t even try to talk myself out of it. I’d be all nervous and intimidated. If anything, I’d just apologize a bunch.

Did it work? --

Have you ever been banned from anywhere? Nope.

Do you have a ringtone or do you leave your phone on vibrate? I have a ringtone. I’ve had it for like a year; though, I need a new one.

What was the last thing you drank from a mug? Coffee.

Were you born in the 90’s? No. I was born in ‘89; just missed the 80s and too soon for the 90s. I’m still a 90s kid, though.

When was the last time you paid less than $1 for something? *shrug*

Have you loaned anything out to anyone recently? No.

Are any of your siblings married? Nope. My older brother has been in a long-term relationship, though. It’s been quite a few years now.

Who was the last person to spend the night with you at your house? My aunt and cousin did last year sometime.

How many different picture ID’s do you have in your wallet? Just one.

Do you have a hard time making decisions? Yes. I’m the worst. I’m indecisive, I overthink everything, and I’m afraid of making the one.

Who was your date to senior prom? I didn’t have one. I tagged along with my friend and her date. I ended up having a good time, though. I even got to dance with the guy I was majorly crushing on at the time, so hey.

Does your dad smoke? No.

Is your mom over 50? She is 50.

Do you want to get married? It’s not something I’m thinking about right now. I really can’t imagine it ever happening for me, though.

Have kids? I really don’t know. Again, it’s not something I’m thinking about right now. Maybe someday.

Are there any movies coming out you wanna see? Yes. I want to see Get Out and Beauty and the Beast.

Do you have any plans to get a new tattoo or piercing? Nope.

Do you know anyone named Christine? No.

Do you know anyone who’s biracial? Yes.

Do you know anyone who works at Walmart? No.

Are black bras sexy? Sure.

Are you currently listening to anything? Yep. I’m listening to/watching a YouTube video.

Would you ever consider getting breast implants? No.

If you could spend 30 minutes with someone who’s gone, who would you pick? My grandma.

Are you on birth control? No.

Does anyone call you babe? Nope.

Do you hate it when people try to play with your hair? No one tries to, but I like when people play with my hair.

Who would you tell, or who did you tell when you lost your virginity? I wouldn’t feel the need to tell anyone.

Were you in a relationship 6 months ago? Nope.

Are you still with that person? --

Are you the kind of person who has crazy mood swings? My mood fluctuates.

Who was the last person to call you? My Nana did this morning.

Did you see your dad today? No. He goes to work early in the morning before I’m up. I’ll see him when gets off in a bit.

What was the last movie you watched? On TV it was Freaky Friday the other night. As for the last movie I saw in theaters, it was Split.

Are you wearing anything blue? My jeans are.

How is your hair right now? Messy.

Have you ever been to the White House? Nope.

What time will it be in 20 minutes? 5:52PM.

Does your birthday come before or after the 15th of the month? After. My birthday falls on the 28th of July.

What are your plans for tomorrow? Nothing.

Is it raining right now? No. It’s supposed to rain next week; though, which is good. It’s been too hot for my liking lately.

How old were you 5 years ago? Twenty-two.

Do you own an umbrella? No.

What are you listening to at the moment? A YouTube video.

Do you have a debit card? Yes.

Why did you stop working at the last place you were employed? I’ve never been employed.

Have you ever made out with a complete stranger? No.

Do you have freckles? Yes, I have some.

What would you do if you found out your ex was pregnant/fathered a child? I wouldn’t do anything.

Who was the last person to smoke a cigarette in front of you? I don’t recall.

Are you very close to your siblings? My younger brother and I. It’s not that my older brother and I don’t have a good relationship, it’s just different.

If you could trade places with the opposite sex for a day, would you? I don’t know.

Do you use soap or body wash when you shower? Soap.

What day of the week is it? Friday.

What does that mean you have to do today? I don’t have to do anything.

Are you currently in the second story of a building? No.

Look past your computer screen, what’s in front of you? A lamp.

Who was the last person you spoke to in person? My cousin.

Is there anything written on the shirt you are wearing? Nope. It’s just a plain gray shirt.

Do you own a tie dyed shirt? No.

Did you make it yourself? --

Are you currently wearing a belt? Nope.

How many days is it until Christmas? We have a ways to go.

Will it be Christmas before it is your birthday? No. My birthday is in July.

How much was gas the last time you looked? It’s $3 something, I’m not exactly sure how much.

Is there someone who would support you no matter what? Yes.

Do you know how to make hemp jewelry? I’ve never tried. I’m sure I could learn if I wanted to.

Do you still get carded when you try and buy things you’re old enough to? Yes.

What was the last movie you saw in theaters? Split.

What was the last movie you watched by yourself? Freaky Friday.

Is there someone you’d drop everything for if you could see them right now? No. I’m not feeling too great right now.

Do you believe in saving sex for marriage? Do what you believe in.

Do you think the drinking age in the US should be lowered to 18? No.

Do you have any relatives who were born in another country? No.

Would you rather visit Iceland for a week or Rome for a day? Iceland.

Who was the last person you rode in a vehicle with? My mom.

What were you doing at this time yesterday? My mom and I just finished our shopping at Wal-Mart and were heading home.

Do you believe most people are good people deep down? Most people, yes.

Do you tend to hold grudges? I just don’t forget stuff and dwell on things forever.

Who do you look more like, your dad or your mom? My mom.

Do you get along with your parents usually? Yes.

Are you an optimist? No. :/

What’s the date today? March 17th, 2017.

Are you wearing jeans? Yes, surprisingly. Usually I’m in pajama pants.

What comes to mind when I say the word ‘pink’? Cotton Candy.

Do you believe in finding the good in people? Yes, I try to.

What was the last thing someone said to you? “Bye.”

What was the last thing someone asked you? I don’t remember.

Did you sleep alone last night? Yes. I always do.

What will you be doing tomorrow around 2 pm? Tumblr-ing, I’m sure.

Do you tan? No.

Have you ever spent the night on a rooftop? No. I’d be terrified.

What is the nearest big city to you? Los Angeles.

[torentialtribute]

The only way to win a World Cup! (In a maelstrom of emotion, energy and pure elation)

England won the World Cup and then lost it. And then won it. And then it lost. And won it again. And lost it. And then won it. Because keep this time.

Hands on the trophy, the full part. It was, it is reasonable to say, insane. For some reason it is always when England abolishes world domination in the field of sport

Remember 1966, and the helpful Russian linesman. Germany still debates its validity 53 years later. The next time, Jonny Wilkinson in 2003. From 14-5 leading against Australia in Sydney during the break, 14-14 when the final whistle blew and 20-17 ahead of what was actually the last kick of the game. And then this.

England conquered New Zealand under the most dramatic conditions to win the World Cup most dramatic conditions to win the World Cup "

England conquered New Zealand under the most dramatic conditions to win the World Cup

The first Cricket World Cup decided by a super-over, a result as expected and trusted, commentators received crash courses in how it worked seconds before it returned to the microphone.

In fact, the super not even ended these teams, it was a draw, just like the game, and England eventually won the World Cup because they reached more boundaries than New Zealand combined in their 51.

Perhaps we hear more about that release in the aftermath.New Zealand, remember, was the nation that wanted three points for sanctions on rugby. bring it back to one when Wilkinson was at its peak. They won't be happy with this either.

Nor the ricochet that somehow brought England back into a game that seemed lost in the final phase of what could be called normal time. Ben Stokes hit Trent Boult for one, went for two, and dives to make his ground, unintentionally distracted Martin Guptill & # 39; s pitch from his bat and the boundary line for four: six.

Accidentally led Martin Guptill off his bat and out for four [BenStokes(left)ledanunintentionalattackbyMartinGuptilluit<imgid="i-48f2d6354cf13395"src"https://idailymailcouk/1s/2019/07/14/22/16045292-0-image-a-9_1563139214481jpg"height="423"width="634"alt="<imgid="i-48f2d6354cf13395"src="https://idailymailcouk/1s/2019/07/14/22/16045292-0-image-a-9_1563139214481jpg"height="423"width="634"alt="BenStokes(left)unintentionallyledMartinGuptill'spitchfromhisbatandoutforfourhisbatandoutforfour

New Zealand complained that the acci I had the ball dead, but that is not true. Stokes had not looked at the throw as much as he crawled to the end of the guard.

He did not want to make contact, let alone score four. This was indeed a fluke. And the rules state that the ball stays in play under these circumstances.

Look, nobody says that England was not lucky. But they were unfortunate, not Machianistic. It was not even a decision of the referees. It is just one of the strange deviations from cricket.

As a method to tie the tie that went beyond England's side. If the competition had returned to wickets taken over 50 overs, it would seem more logical and that was the case in the one-day matches that New Zealand would have won. England was completely out for the last ball.

So swings and roundabouts. And swings. And roundabouts. And then many more swings. And a few good roundabouts.

On the other side of the capital, Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic played an epic five-fold final from Wimbledon, but here every individual was fascinated by what was for the most part a low score, fairly low quality game of cricket, of which many claimed it could put the sport back two decades by being broadcast for free.

New Zealand scored above 250 only once in this tournament and did not reach it on Sunday – allowing optimists within the Lord & # 39; s environment to speculate that the cricket was quite literally home now .

A reverie that was quickly expelled by the batsmen of England was bogged down by a slow wicket and an attack on bowling in New Zealand, which stoically defended low in the league. Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow (photo) could not send England to their usual 50 "class =" blkBorder img-share "/>

Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow (photo) could not send England to

Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow (photo) could not send England to their usual 50

Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow could not send England to their usual 50 for the first wicket and by the time Joe Root played the type of shot that was ashamed of tail rabbit, it was clear that the exciting afternoon was ahead of us.

Well, tense, maybe it doesn't do it justice Think juggling explosive devices On a cord While trying to catch grapefruits In your underpants That kind of tension was what the Lord enveloped like the stock market of England

It's the hope that kills you, it's cliché, but with on this occasion every ball did the v for someone. Swing and hit: we have this. Swing and miss: we are doomed. It was not only that England lost valuable wickets, but that the bowlers in New Zealand had caught them in a slow, debilitating, cold oblivion.

The run rate intensified and even the coming together of Stokes and Jos Buttler for an eternal partnership could not completely dispel the feelings of unrest. If one of them fell, people whispered, the World Cup could be lost again.

Then one of them did that. Butler ran forwards to replace Tim Southee with a deep cover and omit England, as 46 points went from five overs. Achievable, but far from guaranteed.

And every time a border was struck, the spirits went up and people danced folk in the aisles and, yes, that included some MCC members. And then, every time a wicket fell – and enough in this furious climax – the shoulders collapsed and the spirits were moistened, and pessimists came to the conclusion that England would again fall short in the World Cup final. Stokes (right) and Jos Buttler (left) set up an eternal partnership when England needed it "class =" blkBorder img-share "/>

Stokes (right) and Jos Buttler (left) and Jos Buttler (left) set up an eternal partnership when England needed it "<img id =" i-ee0d320bc4c61f62 "src =" https://ift.tt/2RO5vlL 14/22 / 16037700-0-image-a-13_1563139455848.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-ee0d320bc4c61f62" src = "https://i.dailymail.co .uk / 1s / 2019/07/14/22 / 16037700-0-image-a-13_1563139455848.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" (left) established an eternal partnership when England needed it had

Three, here – including one on this turf. But losing New Zealand with the alleged best one-day side of the world would especially hurt. And then the border would be crossed and it would be decided, hey, these guys could do it anyway.

It was an insane, schizophrenic existence. One moment higher up, the next lower. Was it like that in 1966? Sir Alf Ramsey, it is said, told the players after 90 minutes that they had won the World Cup eleven, now they had to go out and do it again, so emotions had to be looked at several times.

There was certainly in 2003, when all momentum seemed to be going with Australia in extra time, until Wilkinson achieved timely clarity of purpose.

Perhaps that is the only way to win a world Cup: in a whirlwind of emotion and energy, and fear and elation.

And there were no reports of victims, beyond fingernails bitten by the fast ones, of bladders being violated by those who steadfastly refused the call of nature in case they missed a single moment.

Mathematics also grew more easily, as always with one-day cricket; 59 out of seven – oh come on, who knows sevens – became 24 out of two and finally 15 out of one.

And when Stokes hit sixth Boult & # 39; s third – and then got the ricochet six next ball – Lord & # 39; s momentarily became a Box Box Park a year ago, minus the beer showers because, it's cricket and we have has standards.

<img id = "i-99feb6162d647182" src = "https://ift.tt/2JJop9P -14_1563139662210.jpg "height =" 434 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-99feb6162d647182" src = "https://ift.tt/2lhXgCp 22 / 16045424-0-image-a-14_1563139662210.jpg "height =" 434 "width =" 634 "alt =" Busy on Trafalgar Square in the final produced a nail-biting finish "

Crowds on Trafalgar Square watch closely while the final produced a nail-biting finish

<img id = "i-47a76d1a5902bf60" src = "https://i.dailymail.co. uk / 1s / 2019/07/14/22 / 16040140-0-image-a-15_1563139756857.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" The English played around the field to explode the fireworks "players sung around the field to celebrate the fireworks exploded "

Yet New Zealand even tied the brilliant Stokes in that last lifetime to force the World Cu p & # 39; s first super over, a concept that would not even have crossed the minds of those who first drafted the rules for this competition five decades ago.

And again, it was won and lost and won and lost. Won when Butler and Stokes made eight times from Boult & # 39; s first three deliveries; lost as the next two; won when it became clear that New Zealand needed 16 off six balls for the win and Jofra Archer had never admitted that much in a one-day game;

And then, with the last game, deliriously, thrillingly, delightfully, won again: with the last game of the first ball no return. Roy the fielder, stopped the second, the scores were equal with 15-15, everyone in the ground now realized that this meant that England would become world champion.

The players were cheering around the field in honor of the fireworks, and the gigantic screen conveyed the message: the decision pending. Another gut-churning twist? Not this time. It was not the best pitch, but Guptill was eliminated. Way out. And England was home. Way home. Just like cricket finally.

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[rebeccahpedersen]

Either You “Get It,” Or You Don’t

TorontoRealtyBlog

People.  Honestly.  They’re the worst.

I’m channelling my inner-Seinfeld with that quote, but seriously folks – I was just shocked by some of the people I met two weeks ago when I had a hot listing for sale, and I couldn’t believe how they approached both the price of the property, as well as the process surrounding the sale.

I’m constantly amazed at how a person can be so intelligent, yet have so little common sense.  And during the course of this listing, “those” people were lined up in droves.

You either “get it,” or you don’t.  And try explaining to somebody who doesn’t “get it,” and you’re wasting your time…

Remember the good old days of including a photo of your family, and a hand-written note with your offer?

Those days are almost gone, right?

Once upon a time, when prices were lower, and when the spread between the lowest and highest offers was smaller, those personal touches did have an effect.

I remember submitting an offer for a family member back in 2006, with a cute photo, and a note.  And although we weren’t the highest offer, we were in the top two – out of twelve.  And we were given a chance to improve our offer, and we won.

I’ll be the first person to suggest that no seller out there (save for the one that spawned a much-shared newspaper article a few years back) is going to take substantially less money for his or her home, because the buyers are nice.

But it certainly doesn’t hurt, and in some very unique cases, the home-owners might want to sell to you, and give you a second chance, or give your agent a push.

Whether those days have passed, or not, I don’t think a buyer should take the opposite approach, and go out of their way to be rude to everybody involved in the process.

The following story might be lost on some of you, but I see things through a different set of eyes: those of an agent.  I’m constantly amazed by buyers who are completely out of touch with market reality, whether it’s the price of real estate in 2018, or the process, and who fail to accept current market conditions for what they are.

Two weeks ago, I had a listing in North Toronto where the sellers were 90-years-old, and had been in the home for almost a half-century.

The sellers were going to be home for every showing, which ordinarily, as you know from reading this blog, I would never suggest, or allow.  But as we had expected 30+ showings in a week, and with the age of the sellers, it just wasn’t feasible for them to leave the property for an hour, several times per day, and we didn’t want to restrict showings by asking for 4-hour’s notice.

In the end, the sellers being home became an asset, as “Gramma,” as we’ll call her in this story, bonded with just about every single set of buyers that came through the door.

I’ll be honest – the interest level was far higher than expected, and although I figured builders could be all over this property due to the age, most of the buyers looked at the home as a classic gem, and planned to do a modest renovation, or even move right in after some minor repairs.

This house was charming, historical, and full of character.  I know that real estate agents say that about just about every property in Toronto, but you’ll have to take my word for it here.  And as a result, almost every buyer through was looking for the history and character that a house like this could provide, and they loved meeting the owners, and exchanging stories.

For the owners, who had been here for 49 years, this was like a Broadway play being acted out in front of them all day, every day.

They loved it.

Perhaps it’s cliche to say “old people love to chat,” but in this case, it’s an understatement.

“Gramma” got the down-low on every person that came through, and for the most part, it was a two-way street.

I think the word was out pretty quickly that there would be action on this home.

I’ll spare you the surprise – we had nine offers, and we would have had more, but one rescinded right before offer presentation, and several others just didn’t want to get involved.

Suffice it to say, I think most buyers through the house figured, with the sellers present, they should try to make that personal connection that might help them on offer night.  As a result, every time I came by the house to do a showing, or check up on the property, I found the sellers engaged in the middle of a story-exchange with the buyers.

Wow, did they talk.  Talk, talk, talk, all week long.

But these buyers were savvy!  They knew it was a small city, and you’re bound to know some of the same people.

One set of buyers came back with their parents, and their grandparents!  And the grandparents lived in the same condo that the sellers would be moving to.

Another set of buyers had a connection to the same vacation complex that the sellers frequented.

Another set of buyers knew the sellers’ friends from bridge.

Over and over, buyers paraded through, and spent an equal amount of time looking at the house, as they did chatting up the sellers.

I showed up one night and saw “Gramma” holding both hands of one young buyer, facing eachother, in a heartfelt moment.

Just about every buyer through, “got it,” and knew how to play the game.

Just about, as the story goes…

I received a cold call on the property, and I had arranged to meet the buyers there at 7:00pm one night.

The house was a revolving door of action, all week.  7pm most nights, there were 3-4 groups through.

So by 7:25pm, when I sent a text message to the cold-caller to ask where he was, he responded, “In the basement.”

Unbeknownst to me, this young couple had waltzed through the front door, didn’t look for “the agent,” being me, and took it upon themselves to walk through at their convenience.

Upon meeting them, and introducing myself, I was asked, “So what can you tell me?” by the 40’ish young gentleman, with his wife in tow.

I gave him the rundown of the home, the pros and cons, and each time I finished a sentence, he responded by essentially putting words in my mouth.

“The house was built in 1936,” I said, to which he replied, “So it clearly isn’t in good shape, right?  That’s going to affect the price?”

“There’s a beautiful ravine lot in the back,” I said, to which he replied, “So a lot of buyers looking to put in a pool won’t like it, you mean?”

Over, and over, and over.  I know this “type,” and hey – whatever floats your boat.  But in this market, and for this property, the attitude made no sense to me whatsoever.

He constantly disagreed with me at every turn, and feigned a real estate expertice that just wasn’t there.

Things went a bit off the rails when I told him that we’d be reviewing offers the following Tuesday.

“Offer date?” he said, with a deliberate throw-back of his head.  “You have an offer date?  Why?  This house isn’t worth even close to the asking price.”

I’ve mentioned on occasion that I don’t blow up, I don’t take bait, I don’t fight back, and I always take the high road.  I wasn’t going to argue with him, but I did engage him.

“Well,” I began, “We’ve had over 40 showings so far, I’ve had agents ask about bully offers, and if I had to guess, I’d say we’ll get our asking price, who knows – maybe more.”

“But an offer date?” he said.  “Nobody is doing offer dates anymore.  That time has passed.”

“Actually, just about every freehold house in Toronto has an offer date,” I told him.  “The market is alive and well again.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, so matter-of-factly that your average Joe would be convinced.

Not wanting to belabour the point, I simply said, “Well, I’ll know if I’m wrong, next Tuesday.”

He shrugged, and walked away, and continued to point out issues with the home.

As I said, I know the type.  He figures he can create this scenario whereby what he wants, and what he believes, could come true.

Meanwhile, there was a young lady in the kitchen with “Gramma,” laughing and sharing photos of her children.  Gramma was one minute from going upstairs to get a photo album…

I walked to the front door with Mr. 40-something and his wife as we finished our tour, and he asked about offer night.  He then added, “We don’t have an agent,” to which I said, “I know, I had asked your wife that when we spoke two days ago,” and amazingly he said, “Well…..heh….I mean, we would get one.  We know a couple of guys that will do the offer for us and just refund their commission.”

Now the reason I ask cold callers, “Are you working with an agent?” isn’t because I’m trying to pick them up as buyers, and the issue has nothing to do with commission – at least not for me.  It’s about clear and identifiable representation, and I’m not going to show somebody else’s client a home, because it puts me in a position I don’t want to be in.  It’s a clear conflict of interest.

In any event, I told Mr. 40’ish, “Your wife had told me last week that you didn’t have an agent, that’s why I’m showing you the home.  I have to ask, why didn’t you get your agent to show you the home?”

He replied, with an aggressive undertone, “Well, I obviously didn’t waste his time.”

And here’s where I really fail to this guy’s “strategy.”  He’s snuck into the house, he’s already gone through the house and criticized it, he’s made no effort to speak to the sellers, and now he’s effectively telling the listing agent, “I want to waste your time.”

I wasn’t hurt, and I wasn’t fussed about the wasted time.  I would have lived in that listing if I had to, but I just couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t see the error of his ways.

He went on to explain, “I’m a lawyer, you see, and if I make an offer, I’m going to put some pretty complex language in my offer regarding commission, so I don’t want you to be caught off guard.”

So now he was telling me I’m a moron as well.

I could have told you this guy was a lawyer from the moment I met him, and I’m not knocking lawyers – my father just retired after a 40-year career as a criminal lawyer.  My uncle is a lawyer.  My aunt is a Supreme Court justice.  But I knew this guy was a lawyer, and perhaps it explained why he was trying to create his own narrative.

That following weekend, an agent called me from a brokerage I had never heard of, and said he would have an offer on Tuesday for the property.  He said, “My buyer wants to be in the presentation room though, is that okay with you?”

It was an odd request.  Sometimes buyers will accompany their agent to the brokerage, but to be in the presentation?  I’ve never see that.

I asked the agent simply, “To what end?” and he replied, “He wants to explain his offer, maybe chat with the sellers a little bit.”  Right.  I read that as, “He want’s to present his own offer.”

My spidey-sense was tingling, and I thought of Mr. 40’ish, so I asked the agent, “Is your client’s name John Smith?”

Of course it was!

This young lawyer, who’s occupation is to make arguments, wanted to come into the presentation room with the sellers, and berate them with reasons why his offer was the best, why they should sell to him, and probably why they should take less money too.

In any event, offer day came, and we had nine offers.  We were shocked by the response, as we really didn’t intend to under-price the home, but as is the problem with all of the city right now – there’s just nothing on the market.

The first agent came in to present his offer, and he had with him a letter written by the buyers, complete with a family photo.

I handed it to “Gramma” to read, and she immediately started to cry.

So then I started to read the letter, and as she gently sobbed away, and as “Grampa’s” lip began to quiver, I got emotional as well.

I eventually handed the letter to their grandson to read, which he did.  By the end of it, “Gramma” was wiping away tears.

She remembered the buyers from both of their visits to the house.  I recall she looked up at the lady at one point and said, “How come you’re so tall……..and I’m so damn short?” while sitting at the kitchen table, knitting away, with people pouring through her home.

They had a good laugh, she explained, “You know…..I used to be a lot taller,” as any old-lady would, and she got to see the whole family on the second viewing when the kids were running rampant through the home.

Their offer was certainly in the mix, but it helped that the sellers liked them.

We went through a few more offers, and eventually in walked an agent I had never heard of, from a company I had never heard of, in an Ontario suburb.

He had a letter of his own, but this one would be very, very different.

The offer, and the letter, was from Mr. 40’ish.  And it began with something to the extent of:

“I would have liked to be sitting with you in person right now to present our offer, but unfortunately, your agent advised us this wasn’t possible, so we will have to rely on our agent to present our offer instead.”

Great start.

As I’m the one reading this, and his letter is already taking a swipe at me, again, I couldn’t understand what he was thinking.

The letter went on to talk a whole lot about the buyers themselves, and less about the sellers and their home.

Then came the clincher:

“Rather get enter into a prolonged negotiation with you, we’ve instructed our agent to make an unconditional offer at your full list price.”

Do you see the problem here?

We had nine offers.

The property sold for a quarter-million over asking.

And his offer was the lowest of the nine offers.

Now at this point, I may have already lost some of you.

Some of you might think this was just a guy, trying to do what was best for his family, or that he didn’t “need” to “over-bid” for the property.

But I don’t see it that way.  I see things in black and white, and I live in the reality of our Toronto market.

This young man decided that he was smarter than everybody else, and that he was going to talk his way through the process, and win.  That’s his legal background working its way into his personal life, and the competitive world of Toronto real estate.

But honestly, folks, he made a mistake at every possible juncture.

He called the listing agent and said he didn’t have an agent, when he did.

He walked into the house when the front door was open, rather than calling the agent, or ringing the doorbell, and saw nothing wrong with doing so.

He made no effort to connect with the sellers, let alone, say hello to them.

He belittled the house.

He insulted the listing agent, on multiple occasions.

He “hired” a bum agent who was completely unprepared and unqualified to present his offer, because he thought he could save money.

He asked to present his offer in person, which is something I have never seen done before.

He wrote a “me, me, me” letter to the sellers, in which he threw the listing agent under the bus for not allowing him direct access to the sellers.

He offered the list price, and tried to use some sort of reverse psychology in saying “I don’t want to negotiate, so here’s your list price,” to try to sway them.

He did everything wrong, at every possible opportunity.

And in the end, the nice “tall lady” got the house.  Her family had the highest offer once the process was completed, and the sellers saved their personal note, along with two others that were just beautiful.

Mr. 40’ish’s letter went in the recycling.

I’m not faulting Mr. 40’ish for not wanting to bid higher; that’s not what this is about.  I’ve re-read this post twice now, trying to see it from the perspective of your typical Toronto buyer, to see how the view might differ from that of an agent, and the one thing perhaps you might see, that I didn’t, is that I’m somehow blaming a buyer for not having a crystal ball, or not wanting to spend past their budget.

But this wasn’t about the sale price.

This was about the buyer, who just didn’t “get it.”

From start to finish, there was no common sense.  And while I don’t want to turn this into an advertisement for hiring buyer-agents, certainly if this guy had a buyer agent who had two wits about him, the agent would have told him to be a little more courteous, and perhaps that the list price up against eight competing offers, wasn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.

There are a lot of buyers in this market who just don’t “get it.”

Buyers who want to create their own narrative, and who hope, pray, wish, and dream about and for market conditions that don’t at all reflect reality.

We can all dream, but most of us snap out of it, and get back to our lives.

Many buyers don’t.  And they’re left in the false reality they’ve created, forever.

I have other stories from this listing, and from the last couple of weeks, that underscore this idea of “getting it,” or failing to live in market reality.  Perhaps I’ll come back to it on Thursday…

The post Either You “Get It,” Or You Don’t appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

Originated from http://ift.tt/2ojChx5

[daroberts-author]

This weekend, I was a guest at VisionCon in Branson, Missouri. It was an amazing convention and the staff did an incredible job taking care of every detail. I’d like to say a big thank you to everyone who put so much time and effort into making VisionCon 2017 such an awesome experience. I can’t name everyone involved, so please, you know who you are, accept my deepest gratitude and respect. You all are amazing. If you haven’t attended VisionCon before, I strongly urge you to attend in 2018.

They featured some incredibly talented people there and I was proud to be considered one of them. I didn’t get to spend much time with them since I was busy at my own table, but I was thrilled to get to know a few of them. I found the people that I spoke to were both friendly and gracious. The represented the best in their fields and it was a pleasure to work beside them.

I’ll go into a bit about the people I got to know. First, the “Brothers on Whatever” are a radio show out of the St. Louis area. The show is ran by brothers, Brandon and Nate Shaw. They are very cool guys and I was honored to be featured for an interview on their show. When they are finished editing and post the links, I’ll be sharing them on my social media.

Samuel Rikard is a fellow author and great guy. He’s the author of the fantasy series, The Eldarlands. If you haven’t read them, check them out on Amazon. You’ll be glad that you did. He’s a very cool guy and fun to chat with. If you happen to see him at a show, swing by his table and talk to him. Tell him D.A. sent you.

Shane Moore is another author. He writes a wide array of genres, including the zombie genre. He took the time to give me advice on several things and even helped my son by doing an interview on his youtube stream. He’s larger than life and easy to spot with his signature mohawk. If you see him at a show, stop by and say hi. Check out his work on Amazon.

The highlight of the show, for me, was meeting John Wesley Shipp. I’m sure you all know him as Jay Garrick on the C.W.’s hit shows, The Flash and Legends of Tomorrow. Those of you closer to my age will remember him from the Original Flash Series in the early 90’s where he played Barry Allen, aka The Flash. So, he’s played “the fastest man alive” for quite some time. The story on how we met is kind of cool.

I was walking by his table with Phil Morrissey, the artist who does all of my book covers. Phil wanted to stop and speak to Mr. Shipp’s assistant about having a few items signed for friends. While he was speaking, I was standing behind him just waiting for him to finish. John was behind the table, but I didn’t really want to bother him. After all, he’s a celebrity. No one was more shocked than I was when he came around the table to speak to me.

He had seen my Dark Water Fiction ID badge that I wear at every convention. It has my name, the Dark Water Logo and the word Author on it. He noticed it and wanted to ask me about my books. John Wesley Shipp wanted to know about MY work. How awesome is that?

Well, I was surprised, but I started telling him about my work. He was thrilled and said that it sounded like something he would enjoy and that his friend would also enjoy. I told him that I would bring him one of the books. I brought him the first of the Ragnarok Rising Saga, The Awakening. He read over the back and said it sounded very cool and seemed genuinely interested in the book.

I was excited to have someone that was a well known star interested in my books. I decided that I was just going to give him the book and asked if I could get a picture with him holding it. He went well beyond that. He posed for several pictures with me and the book, then he tweeted about my book and shared the picture on his twitter feed and Facebook page. He even asked me to autograph the book for him. Me autograph for him! How amazing is that?

John is an amazing guy. Very genuine and friendly. On the final day, as the show was ending, I happened to see him making his way out of the venue. I thanked him again and went to shake his hand. He smiled and hugged me, telling me that he was glad he got the chance to meet me. He has an incredible way of making other people feel special. It’s great to meet someone so talented and yet so down to earth. He treated everyone he met like they were old friends.

All in all, VisionCon came to an end far too quickly. It was three days of fun. I’m already planning my return next year. The Dark Water Team will be making VisionCon a regular stop on our promotion schedule. Although John won’t be back next year, I sincerely hope I get the chance to see him again at another venue. Maybe he’ll show my book to someone over at the CW.

LOL.

Hey, a guy can dream, can’t he?

DA

02/27/17

  VisionCon, Branson and John Wesley Shipp This weekend, I was a guest at VisionCon in Branson, Missouri. It was an amazing convention and the staff did an incredible job taking care of every detail.

[torentialtribute]

Two tribes: How Liverpool and Everton became unbeatable in the 80s

A new film, Two Tribes premieres this week, counting the tale of Liverpool in the 1980s.

Scarred by riots, political unrest and economic decline, the city was in turmoil and on collision course with the Government. Amid this troubled backdrop two football teams.

Liverpool and Everton dominated the domestic and European game, offering Liverpudlians fresh hope and identity.

Liverpool and Everton dominated in the 80s and shared eight out of 10 league titles

The league title stayed on Merseyside for eight out of 10 years but then, in tragic circumstances, the sport that had given its people a voice shook the city through disasters at Heysel and Hillsborough.

Lord, Sportsmail recalls how the decade unfolded with two of the film's contributors, Everton's Peter Reid and Liverpool's Mark Lawrenson …

Peter Reid

Everton midfielder, 1982-89

Unemployment had ripped the heart out of Liverpool when I signed for Everton in 1982. You couldn't ignore the political landscape.

I'd grown up in Huyton where Harold Wilson, the former Labor Prime Minister, was my MP.

It's fair to say we weren't great lovers or Margaret Thatcher's government. There'd been riots the year before, companies were closing down, my dad Peter's job had been affected, my brother Michael had to join the Merchant Navy and my other brother Gary went down south for work. It was difficult.

Peter Reid represented Everton for seven years between 1982 and 1989 before joining QPR

But Liverpool is a city of strong opinions and it is ground to bite back. There was great music, the comedians were sharp and there was Derek Hatton.

Derek was a left winger, not in Kevin Sheedy terms, but the Labor movement. He wasn't equally popular in his own party but he was passionate about his beliefs and one happened to be Everton.

We struck up a report on a few drinks in town where he spoke eloquently about his love for the club and its importance to fans.

One night we were having a drink with Adrian Heath and his dad, and Derek promised to get Adrian mentioned on Question Time.

Sure enough, in the heat of a political debate, Adrian's name pops up. But Derek had a point. Football had become an emotional crutch for supporters whose lives were in a downward spiral.

Liverpool were in their pump and Everton had a leg in the doldrums. Howard Kendall was under extreme pressure when the FA Cup came round in 1984 and we were away to Stoke City.

Howard opened the slats of the window in that Victoria Ground dressing room and said, "Just listen to that." All you could hear was this wall of noise from our fans. That made us feel 10 feet tall.

They gave us confidence and we were fed off to become a good team.

We couldn't believe how half of them got into Wembley for the Milk Cup final against Liverpool. Climbing roofs, sneaking in vans, scaling walls.

England midfielder celebrates Everton's Cup Winners' Cup victory over Rapid Vienna in 1985

The game wasn't much and it's lashed down with rain but I can remember welling up seeing reds and blues walking across Wembley Way and afterwards when the whole stadium sang 'Merseyside'.

Whether it was a cry of defense, unity – whatever, it was powerful.

When we got to the FA Cup semi-final against Southampton at Highbury, it was absolutely packed with Evertonians. Every vantage point was blue. It was electric and we said to each other: "We didn't come off this pitch without winning."

Claiming that first trophy, the FA Cup against Watford, was the best feeling. Seeing Howard's broad smile that day will never leave me.

He knew it was the watershed moment. Standing in The Quiet Man pub back in Huyton with my dad surrounded by reds felt fantastic. I was a winner.

The following year, we did a Cup final song, Here We Go, and turned up at the recording studio in party mood. The studio told us that we couldn't go on unless we took it seriously, so we refused and cracked open a few drinks.

Next thing they relented and one of my mates from school, John Fargin, is on the record as only him and Paul Bracewell were fit to do any singing.

Some fans who were our mates even ended up on Terry Wogan's show in tracksuits singing at the back.

Brian Clough said Everton should have dominated the 90s but the Heysel tragedy meant that never happened.

As champions in 1985 we knew we would challenge for the European Cup but whatever disappointment we felt we had to put into perspective against the lives that were lost that night.

Reid battles with Tottenham defender Gary Stevens during a league match in August 1984

When Hillsborough happened in '89, I had joined QPR with Nigel Spackman, who had been at Liverpool. I'll never forget that day.

We were playing Middlesbrough and Don Howe the coach pulled Nige and me at half-time to say: 'It looks like there's been fatalities at Hillsborough, do you want to carry on ? "

We finished the game then took what was happening on TV, devastated. I knew Everton fans had been leaving their semi-final against Norwich at Villa Park to check on family and friends.

In the week afterwards, Nige and I went up to Anfield to see Kenny Dalglish and Alan Hansen. What I saw was heartbreaking, the messages, the flowers and what hit me was the number of blue scarves tied across the ground.

That our two teams should play that year's Cup final was only fitting. On the eve of the game we bumped into some fans at the Royal Lancaster Hotel and I offered to get a round in for the three or four who were there and put it on my room.

The next morning I came down, got the bill and it was £ 2,000 for drinks. The cheeky sods had obviously got my number and had a good night on it. But hey, if anyone deserved it, they did.

Peter Reid was talking to Simon Jones

Mark Lawrenson

Liverpool defender, 1981-88

Mark Lawrenson moved to Liverpool in 1981 from Brighton and stayed for seven years

Talk about a different world. In 1981, when I was playing for Brighton, I lived close to our training ground in leafy Hove.

I had an old English sheepdog at the time called Barnaby and every morning I'd walk through the park to work with him. Barnaby would stay in the office while I trained, then afterwards we'd head home via the same route.

It's fair to say I couldn't do the same when I moved to Liverpool. Having been on the south coast, I hadn't fully appreciated the social problems Liverpool as a city had encountered and it would become worse in 1981 when the riots erupted in Toxteth.

For a footballer whose transfer fee was almost £ 1million, it made you think.

I can't be disingenuous and say I saw the issues on a day-to-day basis. I didn't. Like a lot of the players from both clubs, I lived out towards Southport. You would go to training and be cocooned from it all.

Not once did I think I'd made the wrong move. I had to contend with being called a 'Woolly Back' for the first six months, but as a lad from Preston, I knew I had made the right decision to come back north. As much as I loved Brighton, it felt like I had moved home.

But, just now, little things give you a sense of what it was like. It felt like Anfield was always full but if you ever see old footage, you can see the empty seats – a lot of fans simply couldn't afford to get to matches.

The one thing Liverpool and Everton provided, however, was escapism. You knew on Saturday afternoon that many of the crowd would have a bit of money together and you were left in no doubt exactly what football meant to them.

Lawrenson slides to ground to tackle Everton striker Adrian Heath in 1984 League Cup final

It was an incredible time. We were going with the hammer and tongs with Everton for much of the decade but the rivalry on the pitch brought camaraderie off it. I lived near Everton's Graeme Sharp and Pat van den Hauwe and we would see each other out and about.

What was really the period up for me at the 1984 League Cup final at Wembley.

It was the first time the clubs had played each other for a trophy – the first final played on a Sunday – and I think there were concerns in London about the mass movement of 100,000 coming down from the north.

The people of Liverpool had been battered, cut adrift by the Government, and the Police were braced for being the two clubs in London. But there wasn't a murmur of trouble. There was a show of solidarity and the fans showed the world they came from a proper city.

Unfortunately, the game didn't live up to expectations. Dear me, it was terrible and thank God VAR was not in play then.

Alan Robinson, who refereed the game, must have been the only person in the stage who didn't see Alan Hansen handle a shot that was going in from Adrian Heath.

Afterwards, as the teams walked around the pitch and the crowd were chanting 'Merseyside', we all got together and there was an impromptu photo of red and blue shirts alongside each other.

I think that summed everything up.

Two clean clubs, two clean teams and one clean city.

Mark Lawrenson was talking to Dominic King

Two Sports Tribes, the latest in award-winning BT Sports Films series, premieres on March 30 at 9pm on BT Sport 1.

Lawrenson goes on and on with Everton striker Gary Lineker during the 1986 FA Cup final

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Either You “Get It,” Or You Don’t

TorontoRealtyBlog

People.  Honestly.  They’re the worst.

I’m channelling my inner-Seinfeld with that quote, but seriously folks – I was just shocked by some of the people I met two weeks ago when I had a hot listing for sale, and I couldn’t believe how they approached both the price of the property, as well as the process surrounding the sale.

I’m constantly amazed at how a person can be so intelligent, yet have so little common sense.  And during the course of this listing, “those” people were lined up in droves.

You either “get it,” or you don’t.  And try explaining to somebody who doesn’t “get it,” and you’re wasting your time…

Remember the good old days of including a photo of your family, and a hand-written note with your offer?

Those days are almost gone, right?

Once upon a time, when prices were lower, and when the spread between the lowest and highest offers was smaller, those personal touches did have an effect.

I remember submitting an offer for a family member back in 2006, with a cute photo, and a note.  And although we weren’t the highest offer, we were in the top two – out of twelve.  And we were given a chance to improve our offer, and we won.

I’ll be the first person to suggest that no seller out there (save for the one that spawned a much-shared newspaper article a few years back) is going to take substantially less money for his or her home, because the buyers are nice.

But it certainly doesn’t hurt, and in some very unique cases, the home-owners might want to sell to you, and give you a second chance, or give your agent a push.

Whether those days have passed, or not, I don’t think a buyer should take the opposite approach, and go out of their way to be rude to everybody involved in the process.

The following story might be lost on some of you, but I see things through a different set of eyes: those of an agent.  I’m constantly amazed by buyers who are completely out of touch with market reality, whether it’s the price of real estate in 2018, or the process, and who fail to accept current market conditions for what they are.

Two weeks ago, I had a listing in North Toronto where the sellers were 90-years-old, and had been in the home for almost a half-century.

The sellers were going to be home for every showing, which ordinarily, as you know from reading this blog, I would never suggest, or allow.  But as we had expected 30+ showings in a week, and with the age of the sellers, it just wasn’t feasible for them to leave the property for an hour, several times per day, and we didn’t want to restrict showings by asking for 4-hour’s notice.

In the end, the sellers being home became an asset, as “Gramma,” as we’ll call her in this story, bonded with just about every single set of buyers that came through the door.

I’ll be honest – the interest level was far higher than expected, and although I figured builders could be all over this property due to the age, most of the buyers looked at the home as a classic gem, and planned to do a modest renovation, or even move right in after some minor repairs.

This house was charming, historical, and full of character.  I know that real estate agents say that about just about every property in Toronto, but you’ll have to take my word for it here.  And as a result, almost every buyer through was looking for the history and character that a house like this could provide, and they loved meeting the owners, and exchanging stories.

For the owners, who had been here for 49 years, this was like a Broadway play being acted out in front of them all day, every day.

They loved it.

Perhaps it’s cliche to say “old people love to chat,” but in this case, it’s an understatement.

“Gramma” got the down-low on every person that came through, and for the most part, it was a two-way street.

I think the word was out pretty quickly that there would be action on this home.

I’ll spare you the surprise – we had nine offers, and we would have had more, but one rescinded right before offer presentation, and several others just didn’t want to get involved.

Suffice it to say, I think most buyers through the house figured, with the sellers present, they should try to make that personal connection that might help them on offer night.  As a result, every time I came by the house to do a showing, or check up on the property, I found the sellers engaged in the middle of a story-exchange with the buyers.

Wow, did they talk.  Talk, talk, talk, all week long.

But these buyers were savvy!  They knew it was a small city, and you’re bound to know some of the same people.

One set of buyers came back with their parents, and their grandparents!  And the grandparents lived in the same condo that the sellers would be moving to.

Another set of buyers had a connection to the same vacation complex that the sellers frequented.

Another set of buyers knew the sellers’ friends from bridge.

Over and over, buyers paraded through, and spent an equal amount of time looking at the house, as they did chatting up the sellers.

I showed up one night and saw “Gramma” holding both hands of one young buyer, facing eachother, in a heartfelt moment.

Just about every buyer through, “got it,” and knew how to play the game.

Just about, as the story goes…

I received a cold call on the property, and I had arranged to meet the buyers there at 7:00pm one night.

The house was a revolving door of action, all week.  7pm most nights, there were 3-4 groups through.

So by 7:25pm, when I sent a text message to the cold-caller to ask where he was, he responded, “In the basement.”

Unbeknownst to me, this young couple had waltzed through the front door, didn’t look for “the agent,” being me, and took it upon themselves to walk through at their convenience.

Upon meeting them, and introducing myself, I was asked, “So what can you tell me?” by the 40’ish young gentleman, with his wife in tow.

I gave him the rundown of the home, the pros and cons, and each time I finished a sentence, he responded by essentially putting words in my mouth.

“The house was built in 1936,” I said, to which he replied, “So it clearly isn’t in good shape, right?  That’s going to affect the price?”

“There’s a beautiful ravine lot in the back,” I said, to which he replied, “So a lot of buyers looking to put in a pool won’t like it, you mean?”

Over, and over, and over.  I know this “type,” and hey – whatever floats your boat.  But in this market, and for this property, the attitude made no sense to me whatsoever.

He constantly disagreed with me at every turn, and feigned a real estate expertice that just wasn’t there.

Things went a bit off the rails when I told him that we’d be reviewing offers the following Tuesday.

“Offer date?” he said, with a deliberate throw-back of his head.  “You have an offer date?  Why?  This house isn’t worth even close to the asking price.”

I’ve mentioned on occasion that I don’t blow up, I don’t take bait, I don’t fight back, and I always take the high road.  I wasn’t going to argue with him, but I did engage him.

“Well,” I began, “We’ve had over 40 showings so far, I’ve had agents ask about bully offers, and if I had to guess, I’d say we’ll get our asking price, who knows – maybe more.”

“But an offer date?” he said.  “Nobody is doing offer dates anymore.  That time has passed.”

“Actually, just about every freehold house in Toronto has an offer date,” I told him.  “The market is alive and well again.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, so matter-of-factly that your average Joe would be convinced.

Not wanting to belabour the point, I simply said, “Well, I’ll know if I’m wrong, next Tuesday.”

He shrugged, and walked away, and continued to point out issues with the home.

As I said, I know the type.  He figures he can create this scenario whereby what he wants, and what he believes, could come true.

Meanwhile, there was a young lady in the kitchen with “Gramma,” laughing and sharing photos of her children.  Gramma was one minute from going upstairs to get a photo album…

I walked to the front door with Mr. 40-something and his wife as we finished our tour, and he asked about offer night.  He then added, “We don’t have an agent,” to which I said, “I know, I had asked your wife that when we spoke two days ago,” and amazingly he said, “Well…..heh….I mean, we would get one.  We know a couple of guys that will do the offer for us and just refund their commission.”

Now the reason I ask cold callers, “Are you working with an agent?” isn’t because I’m trying to pick them up as buyers, and the issue has nothing to do with commission – at least not for me.  It’s about clear and identifiable representation, and I’m not going to show somebody else’s client a home, because it puts me in a position I don’t want to be in.  It’s a clear conflict of interest.

In any event, I told Mr. 40’ish, “Your wife had told me last week that you didn’t have an agent, that’s why I’m showing you the home.  I have to ask, why didn’t you get your agent to show you the home?”

He replied, with an aggressive undertone, “Well, I obviously didn’t waste his time.”

And here’s where I really fail to this guy’s “strategy.”  He’s snuck into the house, he’s already gone through the house and criticized it, he’s made no effort to speak to the sellers, and now he’s effectively telling the listing agent, “I want to waste your time.”

I wasn’t hurt, and I wasn’t fussed about the wasted time.  I would have lived in that listing if I had to, but I just couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t see the error of his ways.

He went on to explain, “I’m a lawyer, you see, and if I make an offer, I’m going to put some pretty complex language in my offer regarding commission, so I don’t want you to be caught off guard.”

So now he was telling me I’m a moron as well.

I could have told you this guy was a lawyer from the moment I met him, and I’m not knocking lawyers – my father just retired after a 40-year career as a criminal lawyer.  My uncle is a lawyer.  My aunt is a Supreme Court justice.  But I knew this guy was a lawyer, and perhaps it explained why he was trying to create his own narrative.

That following weekend, an agent called me from a brokerage I had never heard of, and said he would have an offer on Tuesday for the property.  He said, “My buyer wants to be in the presentation room though, is that okay with you?”

It was an odd request.  Sometimes buyers will accompany their agent to the brokerage, but to be in the presentation?  I’ve never see that.

I asked the agent simply, “To what end?” and he replied, “He wants to explain his offer, maybe chat with the sellers a little bit.”  Right.  I read that as, “He want’s to present his own offer.”

My spidey-sense was tingling, and I thought of Mr. 40’ish, so I asked the agent, “Is your client’s name John Smith?”

Of course it was!

This young lawyer, who’s occupation is to make arguments, wanted to come into the presentation room with the sellers, and berate them with reasons why his offer was the best, why they should sell to him, and probably why they should take less money too.

In any event, offer day came, and we had nine offers.  We were shocked by the response, as we really didn’t intend to under-price the home, but as is the problem with all of the city right now – there’s just nothing on the market.

The first agent came in to present his offer, and he had with him a letter written by the buyers, complete with a family photo.

I handed it to “Gramma” to read, and she immediately started to cry.

So then I started to read the letter, and as she gently sobbed away, and as “Grampa’s” lip began to quiver, I got emotional as well.

I eventually handed the letter to their grandson to read, which he did.  By the end of it, “Gramma” was wiping away tears.

She remembered the buyers from both of their visits to the house.  I recall she looked up at the lady at one point and said, “How come you’re so tall……..and I’m so damn short?” while sitting at the kitchen table, knitting away, with people pouring through her home.

They had a good laugh, she explained, “You know…..I used to be a lot taller,” as any old-lady would, and she got to see the whole family on the second viewing when the kids were running rampant through the home.

Their offer was certainly in the mix, but it helped that the sellers liked them.

We went through a few more offers, and eventually in walked an agent I had never heard of, from a company I had never heard of, in an Ontario suburb.

He had a letter of his own, but this one would be very, very different.

The offer, and the letter, was from Mr. 40’ish.  And it began with something to the extent of:

“I would have liked to be sitting with you in person right now to present our offer, but unfortunately, your agent advised us this wasn’t possible, so we will have to rely on our agent to present our offer instead.”

Great start.

As I’m the one reading this, and his letter is already taking a swipe at me, again, I couldn’t understand what he was thinking.

The letter went on to talk a whole lot about the buyers themselves, and less about the sellers and their home.

Then came the clincher:

“Rather get enter into a prolonged negotiation with you, we’ve instructed our agent to make an unconditional offer at your full list price.”

Do you see the problem here?

We had nine offers.

The property sold for a quarter-million over asking.

And his offer was the lowest of the nine offers.

Now at this point, I may have already lost some of you.

Some of you might think this was just a guy, trying to do what was best for his family, or that he didn’t “need” to “over-bid” for the property.

But I don’t see it that way.  I see things in black and white, and I live in the reality of our Toronto market.

This young man decided that he was smarter than everybody else, and that he was going to talk his way through the process, and win.  That’s his legal background working its way into his personal life, and the competitive world of Toronto real estate.

But honestly, folks, he made a mistake at every possible juncture.

He called the listing agent and said he didn’t have an agent, when he did.

He walked into the house when the front door was open, rather than calling the agent, or ringing the doorbell, and saw nothing wrong with doing so.

He made no effort to connect with the sellers, let alone, say hello to them.

He belittled the house.

He insulted the listing agent, on multiple occasions.

He “hired” a bum agent who was completely unprepared and unqualified to present his offer, because he thought he could save money.

He asked to present his offer in person, which is something I have never seen done before.

He wrote a “me, me, me” letter to the sellers, in which he threw the listing agent under the bus for not allowing him direct access to the sellers.

He offered the list price, and tried to use some sort of reverse psychology in saying “I don’t want to negotiate, so here’s your list price,” to try to sway them.

He did everything wrong, at every possible opportunity.

And in the end, the nice “tall lady” got the house.  Her family had the highest offer once the process was completed, and the sellers saved their personal note, along with two others that were just beautiful.

Mr. 40’ish’s letter went in the recycling.

I’m not faulting Mr. 40’ish for not wanting to bid higher; that’s not what this is about.  I’ve re-read this post twice now, trying to see it from the perspective of your typical Toronto buyer, to see how the view might differ from that of an agent, and the one thing perhaps you might see, that I didn’t, is that I’m somehow blaming a buyer for not having a crystal ball, or not wanting to spend past their budget.

But this wasn’t about the sale price.

This was about the buyer, who just didn’t “get it.”

From start to finish, there was no common sense.  And while I don’t want to turn this into an advertisement for hiring buyer-agents, certainly if this guy had a buyer agent who had two wits about him, the agent would have told him to be a little more courteous, and perhaps that the list price up against eight competing offers, wasn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.

There are a lot of buyers in this market who just don’t “get it.”

Buyers who want to create their own narrative, and who hope, pray, wish, and dream about and for market conditions that don’t at all reflect reality.

We can all dream, but most of us snap out of it, and get back to our lives.

Many buyers don’t.  And they’re left in the false reality they’ve created, forever.

I have other stories from this listing, and from the last couple of weeks, that underscore this idea of “getting it,” or failing to live in market reality.  Perhaps I’ll come back to it on Thursday…

The post Either You “Get It,” Or You Don’t appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

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