#the big thirty five woot woot

[allylikethecat]

Chapters: 1/4 Fandom: The 1975 (Band) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: George Daniel/Matthew Healy Characters: Matthew Healy, George Daniel, Adam Hann, Ross Macdonald, Denise Welch Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Birthday Series: Part 5 of The Infection 'Verse Summary:

He never thought that was a milestone he would reach, he never thought that he would live past twenty seven. He was a tortured artist, a heroin addict, it had all but been accepted, it had all but been decided that he would be joining the twenty seven club. He would be laid to rest well before his twenty eighth birthday. He wondered how many more birthdays he would have, and he wondered if they were all going to hurt this much.

.

AKA The Birthday Fic™️

[ittybittypbandj]

The Internship - Chapter 2

A multi-chapter Bittyparse fic with fluff and angst! Woot! 5 chapters, weekly updates. Also on ao3. <3

Summary:

Eric Bittle arrived in New York two weeks ago, newly single and ready for a fresh start. This internship was just what he needed to jumpstart his life.

Kent Parson loved his life in New York. He was at the peak of his NHL career. He had friends, the world’s greatest cat, and everything he thought he needed.

He never expected a small Southern blonde to burst into his life and turn everything on its head.

“Lordy, Bun, he winked. Winked! What on earth was I thinking, stayin’ late like I could just make myself at home?”

Señor Bun listened patiently, all floppy ears and non-judgmental beaded eyes. Bitty turned away from the desk, where he’d just finished organizing video clips on his laptop for work the next day, and pulled back the covers to climb into bed. He settled Señor Bun into the crook of his arm and tugged the quilt up around his chin.

“You’re the best listener, Bun.” Bitty nuzzled the worn rabbit and closed his eyes. He hadn’t talked to Señor Bun when he lived with Jack – it seemed too juvenile for his serious-NHL-star boyfriend’s bedroom – but he always felt better after spilling his feelings to his rabbit, and today’s events definitely needed Señor Bun’s comforting touch.

The thing was, Bitty had liked Kent’s wink. Really, really liked it. He’d enjoyed the whole day, in fact. Kent was surprisingly warm and welcoming. He’d been a great host, offering them drinks, chatting with the crew, picking up lunch from the Cantonese restaurant on 10th Ave.

He was also easy to look at, and Bitty wasn’t blind – built like a daydream with his blonde waves and solid muscles. He was only a few inches taller than Bitty, but Bitty would bet he had thirty pounds on him, all pecs and abs and quads, mercy.

But he shouldn’t be thinking about all that. It was too soon after his and Jack’s breakup to be thinking about someone else, and Kent Parson of all people. What on god’s green earth was he doing?

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in the dark. Sometime last month, he’d stopped counting the number of days since the breakup. One day it just didn’t make sense anymore. It was like he’d looked down at himself and found a millstone in his hands he never realized he’d been carrying, and once he realized its weight, he could finally drop it.

He still had sad days, and little things sometimes knocked him off-balance like a gust of wind. Jack had been his first boyfriend, first real love. Bitty missed a lot of things about their old life. He’d hear a person speaking Quebecois on the subway, or see ducks in a neighborhood park, or smell maple syrup as he walked past a café, and memories would wash over him.

Bitty hugged Señor Bun tighter and sighed, feeling guilty for the little part of him that desired Kent Parson and his muscles. It was disloyal. Kent was the Bad Guy. Wasn’t he?

“We’ll get through this, Bun, just you wait and see. We’ll be courteous and professional. It’s a business relationship, that’s all.”

As reassurances went, it felt a little hollow, but Señor Bun didn’t comment and Bitty let the conversation drop. He closed his eyes, burrowed a little lower under the covers, and focused on his breath until he drifted off to sleep.

_/_/_/ \_\_\_

Kent: [image07194421.jpg]

Jack: Is Kit wearing a Rangers jersey?

Kent: dude

Kent: read better

Kent: it says Purrson 90 on the back

Jack: Hah, you got her a personalized cat jersey. You’re ridiculous.

Kent: you’re just jelly cuz she could own ur ass at hockey

Kent: her FO% is .52

Jack: I repeat, you’re ridiculous. How’s your day?

Kent: her slapshot tops 90mph

Jack: Did you run today?

Kent: yeah but it was muggy as balls

Kent: u?

Jack: 6 miles, 39:50, light hills

Kent: slacker

Jack: What was your time?

Kent: a gentleman wouldn’t ask

Jack: C’mon, Kenny…

Jack: Please?

Kent: haha

Kent: oh man I forgot I ordered delivery. gotta go, food’s here [sushi emoji] [grinning cat emoji]

Jack: OK weirdo.

Kent dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ugh, why did all of his texting turn into piles of steaming shit?

He was texting Jack to build their friendship. Back when Kent was seeing his therapist regularly, they’d talked about what Kent would do if Jack started communicating with him again. They’d written down a list of strategies that Kent could use to help rebuild their friendship as adults, without the tangle of hormones, stress, and unresolved mental health issues that led to their first fiery downfall.

This – texting Jack pictures of Kit – was part of Kent’s Being-Friends-With-Zimms List. So far Jack had initiated most of their text conversations, sending Kent his workout stats and asking him for Netflix recommendations. Kent figured it was his turn, and Kit looked hella cute in her Purrson jersey. He wasn’t about to offer Jack his morning run time; he was always faster than Zimms and it wasn’t polite to brag.

He wanted to eventually get around to asking about Eric, since he was pretty sure adults asked each other if it was OK to be friends with their exes. But, like, one step at a time.

And then Jack had called him Kenny in his text. It was the first time since that party at Samwell years ago. Kent called Jack ‘Zimms’ all the time, and Jack called him ‘Parse’. Those were hockey nicknames, Parse-and-Zimms, Zimms-and-Parse.

Kent’s stomach felt twisted in knots. ‘Kenny’ wasn’t a hockey nickname. It was intimate, and a decade ago it would have been followed by desperate, whispered Quebecois. Kent had convinced himself ages ago that Jack didn’t think of him as ‘Kenny’ anymore.

So, Kent totally freaked and aborted the conversation with made-up sushi. Fuck his life.

He sighed and flipped his phone over. This friendship plan was therapist-approved, damn it. He wouldn’t waste his best chance at being friends with Jack on one stupid texting freakout.

Kent: sorry Zimms, the delivery guy was downstairs

Jack: It’s no problem.

Kent: so, tell me about ur run. get passed by any little old ladies?

_/_/_/ \_\_\_

Bitty and Kent emailed frequently in the two weeks leading up to launch. There were a surprising number of details to iron out. They exchanged photos. Bitty sent a list of proposed posts for Kit’s Instagram and Twitter. Kent replied with changes (Kit always wrote in first person, #NYClife was better curated than #NYC, etc.). Bitty appreciated Kent’s thoughtfulness.

He didn’t appreciate sorting through a deluge of emails from Kent, though, and he wished they could do some things over text. Kent had a habit of sending an email half-written, then replying four or five times with additions and random thoughts. Was it weird to give a professional contact his personal number? It wasn’t, right? He had Meesha’s number. But with all the weird history between him and Kent, what if it was a bad idea?

The night before launch, after sifting through another forty emails from Kent, Bitty finally bit the bullet and emailed Kent his cell number.

Tomorrow’s the big day!!!, he wrote. The advertising placements go live at 3am, social media at 9am. We’ll monitor the comments and retweets from the office. You and Kit are going to do great.

Here’s my cell if you need anything. Shoot me a text if you want help replying to Kit’s comments, or if you need me to use the admin functions to block a troll (not that Kit will have any trolls, she’s the sweetest li’l thing and the internet loves her).

Talk to you tomorrow!

Eric

An hour later, Bitty’s phone dinged with an incoming message.

[Unknown Sender]: hey this is Kent

[Unknown Sender]: texting so you have my number for tomorrow

Bitty: Hi Kent! How y’all doing tonight?

Kent: good, watching minority report and drinking wine. Kit’s practicing her autograph

Bitty: She’s such a sweetie [grinning emoji]

Kent: u?

Bitty: I’m waiting for a batch of mini-pies to finish baking, then I’m off to bed. You & Kit should get some sleep too, big day tomorrow

Kent: pie??? [pie emoji] [heart-eyes cat emoji]

Bitty: I’m a bit of a baker. It helps when I’m nervous [blushing emoji]

Bitty: Someday I’ll bring you some, how’s that sound? My blueberry cream cheese pie was first runner-up at the Georgia state fair

Kent: you are my hero

Bitty: Lol talk to you tomorrow Kent

Kent: night Eric

_/_/_/ \_\_\_

“Can I get something started for you, sir?”

Kent stepped forward and smiled at the barista. He ordered a latte and a morning bun. She rang him up and efficiently prepared his order, handing him a to-go mug and a pastry the size of Kit’s head. He squeezed into a booth with rustic benches and a bud vase of daisies, and waited for Eric.

This was Kent and Eric’s first Post-Launch Monthly Touchbase, or whatever businessy name Eric had called it in his email.

The day was gorgeous – cool and dry, which was unheard of in New York in August – and Kent didn’t want to waste it by meeting in an office. He’d asked if they could meet somewhere else, and Eric had recommended this sunny café near Washington Square Park. It was eclectic and cute, and Kent was going to chirp Eric to hell and back over the hipster croissant/bagel hybrid – cragels? bagants? – the café was supposedly famous for.

After ten minutes, Kent spotted Eric through the window approaching the café, tugging earbuds out of his ears and looping them around his thin fingers. He wore a pale yellow sweater over a light blue button-down and navy khakis that hugged his thighs, and Kent silently, sternly reminded his dick that this was a business meeting.

Eric ordered and made his way to the table. He set down a small pastry between them and looked at Kent with his warm, inviting brown eyes.

“Have you tried the cragels? They’re just lovely. I got us one to share, they always sell out.”

Kent groaned.

The business part of the meeting was efficient and smooth, like all of his and Eric’s interactions so far. In the two weeks since launch, they’d texted regularly and kept up with the marketing plan, so really all they needed to do was confirm the advertising placements for September.

Kent enjoyed working with Eric. He was capable and self-assured. Although Kent was starting to discover he was something of procrastinator, if the number of emails Eric sent after midnight was any indication.

Bitty tapped lightly on his phone screen. “Let’s see now, you’re in training camp starting September third…any dates we need to work around before then?”

Kent tore off a strip of morning bun. “Well, we’re already back to training every day, with morning workouts and ice time most afternoons. I don’t think there’s any conflicts though,” he took a large bite and paused as he chewed, “I’ll text you if something comes up.”

Bitty looked up and his lips quirked into a smile. “Lord, I forgot y’all’d be in daily practices already. I can’t believe how quickly I’ve forgotten the hockey schedule. This meeting wasn’t at a bad time, was it?”

Was Eric making a reference to Jack’s schedule or his own college days? Kent wasn’t sure, so he politely ignored it.

“Nah, you’re golden. I started early and did upper body work before coming here.”

“Bulking up for the season?”

“You hadn’t noticed?” Kent asked, fake-sweetly. He flexed comically and Eric laughed.

“Well you keep workin’ on that morning bun, hon. I’m sure that helps.”

Kent gawped. Eric was chirping him. He grinned. It was on.

They joked and talked as customers filed in and out around them. Kent’s cheeks hurt from smiling. Eric’s short hair had gone a little fluffy where he kept unconsciously running his fingers through it. Kent had an irrational desire to grab Eric’s wrist and gently kiss each of his fingertips. He squashed the impulse and rearranged their empty plates in the center of the table.

Somehow the conversation turned to Vegas. It was less weird than Kent expected, although he knew they were both dancing around some of the particulars.

“Why did you move to New York? The Aces wouldn’t have traded you, right? Not right after the Stanley Cup win. I expected them to give you the C or something.”

Kent nodded. “They wanted to. They were ready to re-up my contract, add a no-move clause, the whole nine yards. I just, I never really settled in Vegas, I guess. I’d made a few friends, some guys on the team I’m still close with, but it was hard being all the way across the country. When the Rangers put out feelers – Smith was retiring as Captain, they were looking for something long-term…” He shrugged. “I was interested.”

Eric made a supportive noise. “I reckon it’s nice being closer to family. I know I’d love to have my mama closer than a plane ride away.”

Kent shrugged again. “I’m not really close with my mom and stepdad. It’s cool to be near my sister, though.” He couldn’t hide a grin as he bragged a little. “She’s a senior at NYU, majoring in Biomolecular Science. A total whiz kid. I have no idea where she gets it.”

Eric smiled at him and something warm fluttered in Kent’s belly.

“What about you? How are you liking New York?”

Eric tensed subtly, a tightness in his shoulders and jaw, before he relaxed and leaned forward.

“It’s great. I mean, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, y’know? I always wanted to see the world outside Georgia, and this is my chance.” His smile faltered and he picked at the napkin in front of him. He appeared to be thinking.

“I never really thought New York was where I’d end up, but it’s been a good change. When–”

Eric stopped. Kent held his breath as Eric exhaled and squared his shoulders.

“When Jack and I broke up, I was worried I wasn’t gonna find anything up north and I’d have to move home with my parents. I felt like such a failure. When Shitty – he’s a friend of mine from college – when Shitty helped me land this internship, I was nervous as all get out. New York City, lord. But if this was my chance to stay and make something of myself, I wasn’t going to waste it.”

Kent nodded and watched Eric’s face. This was the most personal conversation he and Eric had ever had – shit, it was the first time either of them had mentioned Jack – and he watched Eric’s eyes for any sign of regret.

Eric glanced up and caught Kent’s eyes, then returned his gaze to his napkin and huffed a little laugh.

“Listen to me, ramblin’ on. You’ve probably got all sorts of important things to do today and here I am, monopolizing your time with my life story.”

Kent wanted so badly to reach out and press his fingers against Eric’s face, smooth the frown from his cheekbones. He squeezed his fingernails into his palms under the table.

“I like your life story,” he offered.

Eric looked up, questioning.

Kent smiled in a way he was sure looked dopey, but whatever. “I mean, I like talking to you. Although your choice in cafes is abhorrent. I’m totally choosing the next location. Us New Yorkers gotta educate you newbies.”

His chirp had exactly the desired effect. Eric’s eyes lit up and he straightened in mock indignation.

“Abhorrent? Mister Parson, this café is adorable. Where would you have us meet, a hot dog cart?”

“Somewhere that respects the sanctity of the bagel, for starters.”

Eric laughed, full and rich. He shook his head as he began to bus their dishes. “Well, you just let me know what New York institution you think I need to try first, and we can meet there for next month’s meeting.”

Kent smiled and grabbed their things. He wants to do this again, his sentimental brain thought stupidly.

When they got outside, Eric turned to walk toward the subway at the same time as Kent started walking the other way. They both stopped and turned quickly to face each other, and Eric nearly collided with Kent’s chest. Kent grabbed Eric’s upper arm instinctively, steadying him as he laughed.

Eric’s cheeks flushed at the contact, and at that moment Kent wanted Eric so, so badly. Eric was handsome and bright. He lit up Kent's day like a ray of sunshine through clouds.

And okay, Kent realized that was a corny metaphor. And the whole 'cloudy day' thing wasn't totally accurate – Kent loved his life in New York. He was at the peak of his NHL career, leading the league in assists and taking his team to the playoffs for three consecutive years. He liked the guys he played with, he’d made friends, and he kept in touch with Troy and Scraps.

Hell, he’d even dated a little, something he couldn’t have imagined as a rookie in Vegas. Neither of his recent ex-boyfriends had been endgame material, but he was proud of himself for the serious therapy that finally helped him feel stable enough for a relationship.

In short, he hadn’t expected a small Southern blonde to burst into his life and turn everything on its head. But right now, he felt like there was an Eric-sized hole in his world, and here was Eric, right in front of him.

Eric’s laugh faded and he looked up at Kent with wide, vulnerable eyes. Kent stared at his eyelashes, flitting open and closed as he blinked.

Oh god, Kent suddenly realized he’d been staring for way too long. Had Eric noticed? He dropped the hand on Eric’s arm.

“I, um–” he started, stopped.

Eric jumped in, “I, uh, I’ll email you about the advertising placements.”

“Yeah, the advertising placements,” Kent echoed.

They watched each other in silence. Eric licked his lips, and Kent’s mouth went dry.

“I have to get to the office,” Eric said finally. He waved a hand in the general direction of midtown, but kept his eyes glued to Kent's.

Kent nodded. “I should get home, feed Kit before she gets hungry and starts hunting the neighbors.”

Eric laughed, and just like that the moment passed.

“Take care now, Kent. I’ll be talkin’ to you soon.”

Kent returned the smile. “You too, Eric.”

He watched as Eric walked away. He lifted his left hand and lightly traced his lips with his fingers. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine the feeling was Eric's lips brushing his.

Fucking hell, he was such a sap. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, when Eric’s blonde head finally disappeared down the subway stairs, he turned and walked toward home.

[elialys]

P/O fanfic - Moon, Stars, and Celestial Bodies

This is a result of Anna and I spending wayyy too many hours of our lives talking about P/O and their sex life, especially their sex life in the aftermath of Etta’s birth. As usual, this is something I started so long ago it’s depressing, but LOOK IT’S FINISHED WOOT. So here, have over 5,000 words of mostly fluff and a bit of smut.

This is for you Anna. And also a bit for Annie because Annie loves fluids.

MOON, STARS, AND CELESTIAL BODIES

Night had fallen by the time Peter made it home, that evening. When he entered the house from the garage, all was quiet, yet anything but dark.

He walked into the kitchen, distractedly hanging his key-chain on its hook as he took in the state of the room. These thirty seconds of observation were usually enough to give him an idea of what Olivia’s day was like, as she’d left trails of each of her passages in here.

The milk pump had been left unclean and in pieces near the sink, and there was an opened box of cheerios on the counter, next to a half-empty bowl – he sincerely hoped this wasn’t the only thing she ate today. Another familiar sight was the many, many used wipes scattered over various surfaces. He wrinkled his nose when he spotted a rolled-up diaper on the ground, having missed the trashcan by a good two feet.

Peter got to work, picking up today’s debris and tidying it all up; this was part of their routine, had been for a long time, long before Olivia’s entire focus was stolen by their newborn daughter. The fact that he was neat when she really wasn’t, was one of these things that made them undeniably compatible.

He liked to iron his shirts, always making sure they were tucked in his pants, and she’d tried hard not to laugh the day she’d found out how precisely he shaved, insuring his stubble was the right length at all time. He’d tried explaining to her that when you made a shady living conning people, your appearance was seventy-five percent of the work.

In comparison, her ability to sprout messes in the most improbable places was remarkable, but it did not bother him. He might even have found that trait of hers endearing, during the honeymoon phase of their relationship – or at least in one of the many they had. While the endearment had faded, his love for her certainly had not. He liked to think that the couple of years he spent living with Walter had been the universe(s)’ way of preparing him for what he hoped would be a lifetime spent by her side. Being forced to cohabit in a cramped hotel room with his crazed father for months had rendered him immune to anything mess-related.

To her credit, Olivia had gotten better at cleaning up after herself, even though he never complained about it, the way she’d never commented on how grumpy and irritable he could be when awakened in the middle of the night, yet he’d found himself making a conscious effort not to be short with her when it happened.

The fact that she’d become so scattered again lately was excusable.

As soon as he was done tidying up the kitchen, Peter made his way upstairs, quietly. He stopped by their bedroom, first, although he didn’t enter it, peeking at the bed through the crack in the door. Unlike the kitchen, this room was dark, Olivia’s body difficult to discern, twisted as she was between the covers; he smiled a little, glad she was sleeping at all.

Before long, he was pulled away, drawn toward another door, left equally ajar. As soundlessly as possible, he sneaked inside the nursery.

This room was only lit by the trusty device projecting moving pictures upon the ceiling; moon, stars, and celestial bodies travelling high above their daughter’s head, while it gave out an endless flow of sounds, ocean waves slowly crashing upon the shore. Peter did not give many thoughts to the machine itself, simply appreciating the soft light it cast in the room, allowing him to see the fine traits of the tiny human being asleep beneath the stars. 

While at first, he simply stood there, he quickly ended up leaning against the crib’s side, bent over to be a little closer, nothing short of drinking in the sight of his child.

He recognized the thick pajamas she was wearing, a white, fluffy fabric adorned with a cow pattern; like most of her clothes, it was slightly too big on her. Despite having been born a week overdue, Henrietta had been tiny – except for her cheeks. Although she had quickly regained the weight she lost in the first few days out of her mother’s womb, she was only now starting to ‘thicken up’ a little.

Peter spent an unknown amount of time watching her sleep, fighting a familiar need to pick her up because it’d been hours and he missed the feel of her in his hands; missed how perfectly she fit on his forearm when she lay on it, belly down. He missed her smell and every little sound she made, missed the sharp blue of her eyes.

He knew better than to disturb her sleep, though, aware that if he did, the sounds she would make wouldn’t be the cute kind he loved. And so he let her be, eventually leaving the room as quietly as he entered it.

Back in the hallway, he briefly thought about going back downstairs and cooking up some dinner for him and Olivia, because he knew the cereals he’d found were the only she’d eaten. He went to their bedroom instead, drawn to their bed and the body half-concealed in it as much as he’d been to Henrietta. 

While he hadn’t had the opportunity to hold his daughter in hours, he felt like it’d been days since he’d spent time alone with Olivia.

When he climbed into bed, she startled awake before he even got a chance to settle down. Despite her exhaustion, she remained on edge at all time, responsive to the slightest of noises, and her blurry gaze found him with a hint of alarm.

“Sorry,” he whispered, moving closer to her. “Go back to sleep.”

But Olivia shook her head groggily, before curling up into herself, almost disappearing completely beneath the covers. When she uncurled and reemerged, she looked back at him with heavy eyelids.

“Hey...” she breathed out, a lazy hand sneaking out from under the comforter to grab his near her pillow, and he squeezed her fingers.

“Hey yourself,” he smiled, bringing their joined hands to his lips and kissing her knuckles. “How long has she been asleep?”

She pushed herself up to glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand. “About an hour,” she guessed, before falling back upon the bed. Doing so, a waft of air rose from her.

While Peter had always been fond of her scent, the smell that attacked his nostrils was anything but pleasant. Before he could stop himself, his nose wrinkled up a little, an instinctive grimace most people would make upon smelling the sour hints of vomit.

He caught himself at once and forced his face to relax, but it was too late. Olivia had seen his reaction, and judging by the changes in her body language, she was not pleased.

First she frowned at him in disapproval, before averting her eyes, pinching her lips together. Next thing he knew, she was sitting up, putting some distance between them, and her quickening breathing sounded almost obnoxious in the otherwise silent room. Peter sat up as well, cursing at himself.

“She regurgitated all over me, last time I fed her. I changed, but I haven’t had a chance to shower. I was too tired.”

She said the words quietly, but her voice was tensed, as tensed as her body.

Peter knew there was nothing he could say, no appropriate answer, that whatever he chose to reply, she wouldn’t take it well. Although she hadn’t become ‘irrationally hormonal’ the way movies and books liked to depict pregnant women and new mothers, she was tired and physically uncomfortable, had been for weeks, now. He’d seen her go through an impressive array of emotions, these past six months, enough to recognize the signs...and to know he’d fucked up.

He had to say something, though, because each second of silence that went by was as good as him telling her that he was, indeed, extremely grossed out.

“It’s okay,” he said, quietly, already bracing himself.

Sure enough, Olivia took a sharp intake of breath, throwing him a nasty look, before averting her eyes again, as if he’d just told her her excuse wasn’t good enough. She was off the bed, then, agitated and incensed.

Within seconds, she was bending down and picking up discarded items from the floor, the way she often did when agitated; from what soon reached his nose, he guessed some of these were the clothes their daughter had ruined earlier, although he made sure his face wouldn’t betray him this time.

“I am trying, Peter,” she snapped at him as she threw the heap of dirty clothes in their humper, not even looking at him anymore. “I wish you could come home and not find me passed out in a pile of vomit, but I barely have time to pee.”

Peter watched as she zoomed to the bathroom’s door, a door she would have banged closed behind her, if not for fear of waking up the baby. She closed it quietly instead, making the click of the lock loud in comparison; her message was clear. While they usually gave each other privacy in there, they never locked the door either.

He could only stare at it, hearing the shower being turned on the other side of the wood, trying to make sense of what had just happened, although aware that there was no logical explanation to this. Her intense reaction came from somewhere, though, hormones or not, and Peter was perceptive enough to have an idea of what was bothering her.

They knew things would be different once Henrietta was born. They had talked about this, lengthily, the way they’d discussed dozens of topics related to parenting, and on how to keep a brand new human being alive, using the many books Peter had bought and read as survival manuals. Reality was turning out to be harder than anticipated, though, and they had anticipated this.

Put simply, having a baby put a strain on any couple, there was no way around it. He’d read that no matter how close the parents were before the birth, there always was an adjustment period, as they learned to be parents. Exhausted parents, at that.

Peter was aware of how challenging motherhood was to Olivia, on a sheer physical level, in ways she never encountered during her pregnancy. Even at forty weeks pregnant, she’d been exercising almost religiously, albeit more slowly and with some difficulty. The yoga mat she used to lay right there in front of their bed was rolled up in a corner, untouched for a while, now. He remembered watching her go through her third trimester workout routine every morning, giant belly and all, admiring her resilience while (inwardly) admonishing her inability to take it easy.

He was partly to blame for Olivia’s current distress. When she was pregnant, all of his focus had been on her, pampering her as much as she allowed herself to be pampered – which hadn’t been much, but he still devoted himself to her and her needs, having become an expert at making things easier for her, without her realizing that he was, in fact, spoiling her rotten.

Since Etta’s birth, his focus had changed, mirroring hers, split unequally as all of their efforts were directed primarily towards their daughter, and very little towards each other. And while he knew physicality was never enough to keep two people together, the lack of it, combined with stress and exhaustion, could shake the strongest foundations.

This wouldn’t do.

Filled with renewed enthusiasm, Peter left the bed, glancing at the clock again, trying to determine how long they had before Etta needed to be fed. She’d been sleeping longer around this time of day, this week; if she stuck to this pattern, they should have a couple of hours to themselves.

He briefly thought about calling Astrid to ask her to baby-sit for a few hours, but he quickly discarded the idea. He had no doubt the young woman would jump on the opportunity to come coo over Etta, but he could picture Olivia’s mortified face when he announced their friend was in their living-room with the baby monitor, so that they could stay in their bedroom to try and rekindle the flame.

No, this was a time for improvisation – one of his best skills.

Just as swiftly as he’d cleaned the kitchen, Peter tidied up their room, the sound of the still-running water letting him know Olivia had allowed herself an extended shower. While it worked to his advantage, it also told him just how annoyed at him she was. It did not discourage him, confident that he could change her mood, as long as their little princess cooperated, two doors down, and gave him a chance to try.

First, he extracted the candles that had been stuffed in his nightstand drawer for a few months, since that one (and only) time he’d tried being ‘romantic’ in here. Olivia had been six months pregnant, then, and prone to bouts of hilarity. Having found his intentions more amusing than sweet, their love making that night had been filled with the sound of her snorts and laughter, which she’d let out every time she looked at one of the lit candles. Eventually, he was laughing with her, for no reason at all, except the beautiful silliness of it all.

The memory of her laughter was what made him light up the candles again tonight, not to facilitate romance, but intimacy. Once done, he changed into his sweat pants and night shirt, before going back down to the kitchen, where he checked the fridge and freezer, making sure they had plenty of reserve. He grabbed a glass, then, opening a bottle that hadn’t been touched since they’d moved here.

He tiptoed back upstairs, re-entering their room as Olivia was exiting the bathroom, wearing nothing but her black robe. As he closed the door, she kept on rubbing her hair with a towel, a bit aggressively, her eyes narrowing as she realized the room was only lit by candlelight, anything but amused. When her eyes moved to look at him, her gaze quickly deviated to stare at the glass he was holding.

Her shoulders dropped, as did her hand from her hair. “Really?” she asked, her voice low. “That’s your solution? Putting up some candles, while you torture me with something I can’t have?”

He shook his head. “This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”

She frowned, pursing her lips with a sharp tilt of her head. “You know I can’t drink.”

“No,” he replied in an even tone. “What I know is that you can drink, as long as you don’t nurse for a few hours afterwards, long enough for the alcohol to metabolize and leave your system. We’ve got plenty of milk stored, we can give her a bottle next time she needs to feed.”

She’d walked to her bedside table while he talked, grabbing the brush she kept on there. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Even though she didn’t look at him, and despite the small edge in her voice, the note of sarcasm in her tone made it impossible for him not to smile. When she turned to face him, brush in her hair, he made a face, pouting a little.

“There’s hardly a mouthful in there,” he said, holding out the glass for her to see just how little whiskey he’d put in it.

Olivia did not smile, but she eyed the glass with definite intensity. He knew she missed it, probably as much as she missed coffee, although he never once heard her complain about either.

“I checked it out,” he said. “I promise it will be harmless to her by the time you feed her again in six hours or so. I’ll even take both feedings tonight if it makes you feel better.”

She’d stopped brushing, now nibbling at the inside of her lip, a clear sign that she was starting to cave, staring at the glass as if it was some kind of forbidden fruit.

“Liv,” he called her out softly, and she raised her eyes to meet his. “You’re doing such a good job with her, every day, and every night. You’re allowed to give yourself a break.”

This had been one of their ongoing ‘arguments’ since the day they met, obviously, her inability to focus on herself and her wellbeing; he’d always been quite skilled at making her slow down and breathe, though, if only for a while.

He hadn’t lost his touch, her eyes almost too bright in the flickering candlelight, as she took a few steps closer to him, and he extended his hand.

She took the glass from him, almost cautiously, looking at the amber liquid with a mix of longing and wariness. When she met his eyes again, he heard her unspoken question.

“It’s safe, honey,” he promised with a small nod.

Olivia spent a few more seconds staring at the alcohol, before raising the glass to her lips, taking all of it in in one go. He watched as she kept it in her mouth, eyes closed, her first taste of liquor in almost a year, now. She tilted her head back, then, and he followed the rippling path the liquid traced down her throat as she swallowed. Reopening her eyes and meeting his gaze, she licked the last of it from her lips.

Something was stirring in him, and she could tell.

She pursed her lips, shaking her head a little. “I’m not sure I’m up for this, yet.”

Peter sensed both her fatigue and frustration, heard the hint of embarrassment. He answered with a smile, the soft kind he reserved for moments when he found her particularly endearing. He took that one step that had been keeping them apart, grabbing both the brush and the glass from her hands, putting them down on the dresser.

“All I had in mind was a massage,” he told her as their eyes met again. “No borrowing,” he added, which earned him his first small smile of the evening.

“Just a massage, uh?” She asked, her hands instinctively falling upon his sides as he slid an arm around her, his other hand finding its way to her face, lightly cupping her cheek.

He kissed that little line between her eyes, feeling her softening in his arms as she sighed upon the skin of his wrist, letting herself sink into him. He leaned his forehead against hers, then, closing his eyes.

“I will touch you any way you’ll let me touch you,” he said softly, and he didn’t imagine the shiver that ran through her. “Anything to help you relax.”

She let out a soft, soundless chuckle. “Nice,” she said, quietly. “And here I was, thinking you were too grossed out to even want to try anymore.”

From her tone, it seemed she was trying to be derisive about this, but she didn’t quite succeed; all he heard was her uncertainty. He pulled away slightly to meet her eyes, finding the same doubts there. “I’m sorry I’ve made you feel this way,” he said, softly. “I can assure you I very much still want to touch you, all the time.”

She was blushing, now, the skin of her face warmer beneath his palm. But before long, she was averting her eyes, her traits constricting.

“What is it?” He asked.

She shook her head in his hand. “I guess the problem is me, then...again,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I thought...I figured that if I kept in shape all the way through the pregnancy, it would be easier, to get my old body back. And it’s not that I’m being vain, I’ve never cared much about the way I look, but I care about being fit, if only because I have to be, with my job. But it’s been weeks, and even though I haven’t gone back to work, yet, I don’t workout either, because I’m just too damn tired. So here I am, with floppy skin and stretch marks, feeling like a walking milk dispenser with those...things.” She tilted her chin toward her robe-covered chest, a chest that was noticeably larger than it used to be.

Peter brought his second hand to her face, “Olivia,” he said in a familiar voice, drawing her gaze back to his, and that wrinkle between her eyes relaxed ever so slightly. 

“You’re a mother,” he told her with emphasis, trying to convey all of his admiration in these few words. “You literally grew a human being inside of you for nearly ten months, one precious little soul that still depends on you to survive. This is just as remarkable as any of the things you could ever do, as an agent, or because of the Cortexiphan. So...” he continued, briefly tightening his hold on her to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, before pulling back, “...I hope you’ll understand if I feel nothing but fascination and reverence toward your body.”

He almost felt the air being sucked from that small space between their lips. He definitely felt her pushing in and up, then, seeking him back. As he slowly ran his tongue over her lower lip, she began to twist his shirt in her fists against his sides, shivering deliciously. She pulled him closer, pressing his hips to hers as she opened up to him, letting him taste her like he hadn’t in weeks.

The remaining traces of whiskey took him a few months back, if not a few timelines. Above all else, the feel of her, so close and responsive, was as much a homecoming as it ever was.

When they eventually broke apart, long enough to breathe, the air came in and out of their lungs in hot and short bursts, his fingers entangled in her wet hair, as hers were in his shirt, the fabric now pulled tight over his lower back.

There was no hiding the way his body had responded to hers. Judging by how she let go of his shirt to grab his sweat pants, pulling them down in one swift movement, she was far from bothered by it. He frowned, excessively on purpose, even as he let go of her hair to focus on the loose knot keeping her robe closed.

“I feel like I should make it clear I meant it, when I said all I had in mind was a massage,” he pointed out, leaning down to kiss her more innocently.

But she bit down on his lip in response, hard, wrapping one arm around his neck to pull him back down as her other hand went to grab his throbbing length. Her fingers squeezed and moved in a way she knew would drive him mad, before using her thumb to tease his head, until he was moaning against her mouth.

“You also said you would touch me any way I wanted, so...” Her voice was low, almost raspy, a tone she’d often used in this very room. Olivia’s insecurities might be real and too numerous, when her mind was set on something, she became unabashed. He therefore was not in the least surprised when she let go of him to grab one of his hands, pulling it inside her open robe and down between her legs, “...touch me.”

Peter did not need to be told twice, finding her warm, always so warm; she might know how to tease him, he was just as knowledgeable. He pulled her closer, tighter, covering her tensed neck with open-mouthed kisses. Soon, she was gasping near his ear as he touched her indeed, first under her guidance, then of his own volition, both her hands gripping him for balance.

They managed to let go of each other long enough to discard of what was left of their clothes, his shirt joining his pants, followed by her robe. His hands were back on her as soon as humanly possible, pinning her back to him to kiss her languidly, already intoxicated by the feel of her skin upon his own.

Despite her uncertainties, the weeks that had passed, and the risk of being interrupted at any moment, this was familiar, the feel of her as much as his aching need for her, throbbing both within him and against her.

“How do you want to do this?” He managed to ask the next time they came up for air.

She began pushing him toward the bed, and he followed, walking backward. “On your back,” she said simply.

As he sat down upon the bed, he barely had time to move back that she was straddling him, half his legs still off the mattress, pushing on his chest until he was lying upon the crumpled comforter, and she hovered over him.

He loved that he’d reassured her enough for her to want to be on top, a position that did give her more control, but undeniably gave him a broader view as well. Not that he could see much at the moment, as she’d followed him down, resting upon his chest, swaying as she squeezed him between her thighs, kissing him with a need that equaled his own.

He felt her breasts pressing upon his chest with each of her moves, felt the light graze of her nipples, and before long, she was letting go of his mouth, hissing in discomfort, pushing herself off him to create some distance. To distract her from her soreness and oversensitivity, he brought his hand between them, swiftly making his way back to her warmth, finding her even slicker than before. He did not hesitate, curling two fingers inside of her, using the rest of his hand to apply a calculated pressure upon the nub that hid there.

His distraction had the desired effect; she grabbed his upper arms, arching upon him, head thrown back. She was gasping his name, then, a call he recognized all too well. His hand left her warmth to grab both her hips, and she guided him to her.

She slowly lowered herself upon him, as if afraid something would be fundamentally different. When it all felt wonderfully familiar instead, her entire body began to relax around him. A blissful little smile stretched her lips as she settled more comfortably upon him, both her forearms resting on his chest, bringing her face close to his to breathe against his lips.

He let her take her time, the feel of her enough to drown him in a kind of bliss that had to have killed more than one man on this Earth. When she began to move, slowly but decidedly, he allowed his hands to leave her waist. He made sure to stay away from her chest, roaming the expanse of her back instead, before moving down to squeeze her buttocks, aiding the rocking movements of her hips and increasing the pressure, swallowing her next moan.

It had been a while, but they’d done this often enough for him to know the familiar patterns of their love making. Although she seemed to enjoy the position they were in, it did not quite give them the closeness they were accustomed to, the kind she always sought as much as he did, the more carried away they got by the feel of the other. While he was already far gone, and would have kept on prioritizing her comfort over his need to have her close, he knew she might not be as kind to her own body.

Sure enough, she was moving, then, pushing herself off him until she was sitting up, breathing out a “Screw this,” as she grabbed his arms and pulled, another call he recognized.

Unable to refuse her anything, he slid ever closer to the edge of the mattress and sat up. As soon as he was within her reach, she wrapped herself around him, as he did around her; in such position, and with this amount of contact, the press of her breasts upon his chest was unavoidable.

She seemed to mean it when she’d decided to ‘screw this’, more interested in keeping him as close to her as possible, twisting his hair in her hand as he tried to breathe into the crook of her neck, each sway and rolls of her hips sending wave after wave of heat throughout his entire body.

I love you... he found himself whispering against her skin, again and again, because he knew how much she loved to hear it, and he could never say it often enough, I love you I love I love you...

She came more quickly than any of them expected her to, the rasp of his name and the feel of her rushing heat quite enough to make him follow suit.

Once again, they had done this often enough for him to be intimately familiar with the various physical manifestation of the act itself, aware that it always resulted in various...messes, including sweaty and sticky skins, among other things.

When his brain managed to reconnect more properly with the rest of his body, however, he quickly became aware of a new sensation.

Definitely...warm, wet, and sticky.

She had felt it too, and she was the first to pull away, enough to create some distance and allow them both a view of each other’s chest. Together, they discovered a specific side effect of love making while one of them had breasts full of milk, the evidence of it glaring and glistening upon both their skin.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Olivia said rather loudly, in a tone so stern and fed up that Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek hard not to laugh, not even smile, his endorphin-heavy brain creating a fleeting image of her drawing out her gun and threatening her own breasts for being such a nuisance.

He did good, though, managing to remain perfectly composed and unsmiling, merely using his grip on her hair to pull her slightly closer, this beautiful woman, the mother of his child, pressing a sweet kiss to her flushed cheek.

Still holding on to her, he tilted them sideways, reaching out to grab the pack of wipes he kept on his nightstand. He took a couple of them out, handing one out to her without a word. Carefully, he started to clean off the milky trails from her chest, while she did the same on him, aware that her annoyance was already turning into mortification, feeling it in the way she was tensing up, seeing it in her changing expression.

This wouldn’t do.

He could have told her all about the physiological mechanisms behind this, about how pleasure caused her brain to produce oxytocin, which in turn led to milk release.

He didn’t.

“Good thing I don’t have a breastfeeding fetish,” he said instead, casually. “Can you imagine, having to nurse the two of us? I don’t think your nipples could take it.”

There was pause, one suspended instant when Olivia met his eyes again and stared back at him, and Peter knew that the probability of him getting slapped within the next five seconds was quite high.

Her whole body relaxed instead, her face soon breaking into a smile he hadn’t seen in weeks, the kind that brightened her everything.

She was sinking back into his embrace, then, and her soft, tired laughter was a beautiful music to his ears, her kiss a gentle caress against his neck, as were the three words she whispered upon his skin.

.

.

.

PS (included in the bloopers): “Peter, I’m aiming!”

[originaldetectivesheep]

Year in Review - Stuff I Wrote In 2017

In comparison to 2016, 2017 was a down year.  I wrote only about 285,000 words, down from 423,000 the year before, and put out three books rather than five -- two collections, one of which was mostly written in 2016, and a NaNo book.  I counted 37 pieces completed as opposed to 44, and was not able to finish the big project I started in April reviving Sword of the Spirit.

However, this is a "down year" mostly because 2016 was so stupidly huge.  I can accept O(300k) words as a yearly yield, and the projects that I did this year taught me a great deal about what I can do and what my real capabilities are, and where I go from here.  I'm probably getting ahead of myself if I'm thinking about publishing as more than a DIY sideline, but in all likelihood, I am not far from the point where I can submit to pubs and get non-form rejections back.  It remains only to try.

This, then, is how I see 2018 shaking out.  I want to move house sometime in late Q1 or early Q2, like I was leaning towards last year before work got in the way; in late January and February, then, I'll probably do another intensive as per Thirty and One Nights to generate non-reprint works to submit.  Early January will be about building the submission queue and priority infrastructure to consume those.  The normal delay in rejections will run into Q2, when I want to, in addition to keeping the pub queue fed, do another web series for summer release.  I'm currently collecting idea seeds for that, with a rough idea of two short or ultra-short stories per week, for the one cour only; probably more information as that comes.

That will run into October, which is right up to NaNo time again.  The idea that I'm developing for November is a SF take on the lines of Talbot Mundy or Gordon MacReagh on African survival; this will require a lot of work in concepting but not as much in research as it stands, but this also may change before I actually sit down and start hitting keys on it.  Depending on how the start of the year goes with regard to publication attempts, this may be live-published or held back for print submission; again, this is putting the cart way before the horse ten months out.

Takings-wise, I sold another copy of Three Pretenders... to someone in the UK in May, and made about another 55 cents between the US and Australia in July and August from Kindle Unlimited.  I also got my direct deposit set up, so that nearly-a-dollar has actually all been delivered, woot.  This sort of account balance is why I've been publishing more volume for free: since I'm not going to get paid for it anyway, I'd rather not get paid for stuff that people will be able to read with the least encumbrance possible.

[kivaqblog-blog]

It’s Never Too Late, or, Wishing Upon a Star

This one isn’t literature or memoir, it’s something for people who may be landing here for the first time, especially if you’re trans and you think it’s too late to start. (Hi!) Or even if you’ve been here before. (You know who you are.)

It’s never too late. I thought it was, but it wasn’t. That doesn’t mean it won’t feel that way sometimes. There are days, like a lot of you, when I literally cannot leave the house. This was one of them. A day wasted inside, writing and crying, or neither, or playing with my new tarot deck.

I try to imagine what I’d wear if I went out: it certainly wouldn’t be this shirt, white cotton marled in purple. Or this bracelet I made myself, from those big European glass beads, I’m afraid to go out alone with that on. Just because I don’t want to attract attention. Last week I went to see my shrink wearing a black turtleneck and black workout pants. I go again in two days and I have a feeling it may be a sleeveless version of the same basic idea. I’m not afraid of not passing, because I’m not trying. I fucking hate makeup, so I don’t wear any. (I know, I’m lucky I live in New York City, sometimes I forget. Not for long, though.) 

I’ll bring the bracelet. I’ll wear it during therapy.

I’m looking out the window, it’s warm, it’s sunny, my old birthday is in a week….

I don’t feel old, exactly, just sore. I’ve felt more alive than in years since I started HRT last June 28th. Which turns out to be Stonewall Anniversary Day as well—it can be easy to forget since the day of the march is always Sunday and moves around the end of June—and my wife calls it my birthday. (Yes, I’m ridiculously lucky in love. Once I found her, of course; and that took years. But we’ve been together nearly 26 years. We have a wonderful son who’s in college now. I realize only lately, looking back over it all, how much Goddess has blessed me.) 

It was only lately that I was sure she really saw me, or at least that her followers did. Thirty years ago I was taking a course that changed my life, Women and Religion, at Hunter College. From Dr. Serinity Young, she’s at Queens College now. (She is awesome, btw.) While in that class, I learned just exactly how badly I wanted to find Goddess, to follow the Dianic tradition. And I found out how badly the Dianics, the only trad I was interested in -- because no men, and no gods -- that they hated women like me, back then. Trans women, I mean. Transsexuals, we were called then. It was 1987, and I decided that if I had to wait, I would wait. 

I finally attended a Dianic open circle for women last month. I can be awfully patient, if I have to be. 

So I’ll be 59, in June. One year of HRT. Woot.

But when my birthday was in April, about now is when I’d start to get really depressed. Which is happening this year, too.

I literally don’t know how to ask for help. I don’t know if you’re the same way, maybe just because you’re afraid you won’t get it. I don’t know if you’re a survivor of any kind of abuse, although a lot of us are; I am.

I have PTSD. This may be something I should mention at the top of the blog. I don’t even like writing it in upper case, lower case is safer: ptsd. See? But it’s as important as anything else in understanding what’s happened to me, and to a lot of us. It’s part of why I’m afraid to leave the house even if I want to; beyond violence and cruelty, it’s everyday, minor-league humiliation that terrifies me. 

I hate being laughed at. I don’t want to be on display. I’m not in the sideshow. I want to go out, I just want to not be so fucking noticed. That won’t ever happen. 

Unless I don’t go out.

___________

My wife Kathleen’s bff is in town, they went to lunch and for a long walk. They don’t get to see each other often, her bff lives in Wellesley, Mass. The last time I saw one of my besties was after Thanksgiving last year, she happened to come through town. She lives in Greenfield, Mass. My other bff lives in Medford, which is near Boston. I’m at least four hours away, on a good day, from either of them. Five, more like.

They dropped by, and I chatted with her for like five minutes. But she’s staying with her family in Williamsburg, which takes nearly an hour to get to on the subway from here even though it’s in Brooklyn, technically. It’s easier to get to Newark from here, and that’s in another state. So Kathleen drove her back there.

And I felt irrationally, or maybe rationally, jealous that her best friend was here, and I haven’t seen one of mine in months either, and I’m afraid to go out alone on days like this and I’m afraid to cry. For some reason I can’t tell her this. The brutal conditioning of everyday life as a boy, I suppose. It reminds me of Leslie Feinberg, who wrote Stone Butch Blues, although I’m not like that. Because I’m not butch, much less made of stone, I can cry; but I don’t want anyone to know. I hide. That’s bad, I know, but I do it anyway. Some kind of half-assed defense mechanism. Because we came from cultures where big boys don’t cry, didn’t we?

I wish I could tell you it was happy times every day, but it’s only on some days. I mean, there are wonderful days, I had some last week. Let me be clear: I’m so much happier now. A low bar to clear, but I so am happier. Then there are days like this, too, where it’s just fucking unrelenting sad and awful, and I don’t know how to ask for help even though Kathleen is in the living room. So I ordered Indian food instead.

But before I resumed my transition (first one was 1995-2001, had to pause my transition but I have a lot of material to write about, at least), there were weeks on end where I was unrelentingly depressed, just as depressed and a lot angrier, just losing it at random shit like a MetroCard dispenser that won’t take my card. Estrogen saved my life, I’ll tell anyone who asks. Taking estrogen, for me, is like finally taking my finger out of a live light socket after having it stuck there for years, so long I forgot (or never knew) that it isn’t normal to feel a constant electric current running through you. Taking spironolactone finally got the testosterone out of the way -- spiro is a miracle, we didn’t have it in the 90s and I can tell the difference -- and after a few months I started having feelings, even difficult ones. It didn’t kill me. And finally I was able to be happy, too, ffs. Sometimes. Now and again. Used to be, it just didn’t happen. I felt spent, consumed with anger, and kind of waiting to die. Not so long ago, either.

Since I started HRT I feel like I have the emotional energy, and emotional vulnerability, of a teenager, to be specific of the most unpopular, geekiest girl in her high school grade. “Even if I’d been born cis” is a game I try not to play with myself; but I have a feeling that even if I had been, some things would still be problems. I’m a nerdy recluse who likes to meet people travel, an introvert who can’t shut up once she gets going, the girl who can’t dance, the girl who didn’t get invited to the party everyone else in tenth grade went to anyway so who cares if you can dance or not? Some things never change.

There are lots of days I am able to reach out to people. I just have to open Facebook, right? Some days are like this one, though. I have this button pinned to my calendar of physical changes, what should happen and by when. It has the trans flag colors behind the words: “Sometimes, courage is the little voice that says I will try again tomorrow.” When I feel like I’m stuck, I look back at where I was this time a year ago, in astonishment, and try to keep in mind that I’m human. I can’t do five things at once, I’ve tried. But I can do a lot more than I thought was possible.

Because a year ago, we’d just gotten back from a conference that happened to be in Anaheim. I wished I could go to Disneyland when I was seven, more or less, but I grew up in Texas. That was that, I figured. And it didn’t happen until I was 57; but it happened. We stood there and watched the fireworks behind Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, like I’d always wanted, and I just kept thinking: It’s never too late. 

So, I’ll post this now.