#using blue lights to promote a baby blue product are they stupid

[the-firebird69]

And he's looking at the beers and they're really there's not a cheap beer or inexpensive they're all around $16 without tax for 24 and that's the lower level mass produced beers and even the new one is not ours it's the same price and yeah we don't make keystone. So really they're all that price for more regular cores would be more it's about 20 same with bud and Bud lights a little bit more $1 but really by comparison until we're talking about we would be $6 cheaper a case of 24 beers across the board I'm soon you arrive at the grocery store that's what you come in with you you want to mark it up a couple bucks and it's good our son says the case would be like 12 bucks or $12 and something cents and they would mark it up with their code and it's not bad number they say they're looking forward to it what's going on now and Walmart is fixing weeks baby blue figures something and doing renovation work and finally charcoal prices are reasonable $4 for a big bag at Walmart. And they cleared the aisles you can walk down them that's not stuff in the way they expect a lot of sales I think people are going to be moving into these houses little different and they're getting ready and it was the max who had it done and these guys think they're going to move in but the house is recording off from them it's going on now and it's going to be a huge day gigantic check again sales are coming up huge and essence being funny I can drive the truck for a day and things like that and people saying we'd like him to do something for cash and with the beer companies has a lot of cash jobs a lot of them and people think we're getting trouble accidents cash jobs hiring the wrong people with more and that's going to go on and they're sending social security they think they don't want to get too much and they don't know how to handle it so but still they have ideas and a lot of them are a lot smoother than their sons and he'll think he's getting away with it they say. What to do like a promotional by wearing something things like that but he doesn't know what the name of the beer is it's going to be kind of tough

Thor Freya

Things are changing and for the better and we are all excited about it the rearrange the store so people can get around is much more room and it's less stupid stuff and it is much better I can't believe somebody finally did something right and the prices are getting better too we are sending a lot of stuff

Hera

We're moving out we hear calls everywhere and we're doing it now

Mac

Us too

Olympus

This is a great day this is a lot of stuff happening here it's an unbelievable day there's going to be so many sales of our products and all of them it's going to be incredible and we're starting to see why people are sick of having nothing but really the mastering the factories too informers it's going to go very well and we mean orders for everything soup to nuts and these houses will be occupied in just a few days and tons and tons of home improvement will be ordered

Thor Freya

[misterewrites]

Intro to Caitlyn 101 (Mirror’s Edge)

Summary:  Caitlyn is a thief looking for the next big score. Used to taking wristwatches and wallets from rich folk, she's aiming to take down bigger game as she discovers the hidden magical world within her hometown. Her first mark is an unassuming shopkeeper and his collect of ancient relics. All set with a plan, Caitlyn makes her move. Though plans rarely go off without a hitch.

Hello everyone! E here, hoping you are all well and staying safe. So the next chapter of my little side project is here! Honestly wasn't planning on getting back to this so soon but I was having fun worldbuilding and character creating and here we are. You can blame my friend @hains-mae for enabling me.

Right so the next thing I write will probably be the part two to this then the next chapter of the Underground. Umm that's really it for me so have a great week, be safe, wear your mask, take care of yourself and your loved ones. Please feel free to reblog, share, leave kudos or leave comments with things you liked or feedback if you read it on a03. I promised I'd try to promote myself more and it feels weird haha.

E is out, have a great one everyone! and here’s the link to the doobly do 

---> https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/76014323

There was an arrogance that seemed deeply etched into every aspect of the magical world. She stood among valuable, ancient relics from throughout human history: Vases from Greece lined the shelf above her. A row of Roman gladius blades in various states of decay with only a flimsy glass case between them and Caitlyn’s pocket. Tarnished Victorian era slivered lockets left about like loose change.

Millions dollars worth of the past and she, a stranger, was left unattended with it all.

Technically she wasn’t supposed to be in here with the locked door and close sign but the fact in the 5 minutes it took her to pick the lock and scout the first floor without a single soul attempting to stop her really was a testimony to the haughtiness of the ‘shopkeeper’.

It had been only few months since she saw past the false reality that was superimposed onto hers and she was still readjusting: Magic was real. Elves, dwarves, little halfing folk? Real. People shooting bolts of lightning and flames while riding storm clouds? Real. The guy who kept awkwardly hitting on her every time she tried to get a hotdog from the cart at the corner? Just a regular creep BUT could’ve been magical.

Even their currency was a show of their excessive wealth: Sliver, gold, platinum coins Actual platinum traded away like it was nothing! People starving and helpless on the streets and these bastards just walked with some of the rarest metal on the planet in their pockets like chump change.

Anger bubbled within her stomach along with self righteousness and a bit of her breakfast but she took a deep calming breath, closing her bluish gray eyes. ‘Calm down Cait’ she scolded herself ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve seen excessive wealth squandered and wasted. You’re here for a job so do it and never come back.’

She glanced around the waiting room she found herself in. It was off to the side of the shopping front andthere were very few things of interest in the tiny room: Some old, tattered chairs that had seen better days. A very, very tacky abstract painting hung over a bricked up fireplace. There was a scattering of magazines older than her with loose stables and free roaming pages everywhere.

A place of show and very little use.

“Hello my angel.”

Caitlyn seized up. She had been so caught up in her rage she hadn’t been paying attention to anyone coming down the stairs. Three stories with a handful of people about and nary a sound could heard. Must be some sort of magic.

She shook herself out of her stupor, slowly exhaling to calm her nerves. She forced her lips to curve into the cutest, lost smile she could muster. She opened her purple jacket a bit further so the guy could get a clearer view of her tight white tank top and running shorts.

“Helpless. Remember you’re helpless.” She whispered to herself before whirling about, her long black hair with dyed purple coloring flowed behind her gracefully as if she was an actress in those stupid hair product commercials.

“Oh!” she spoke with mock surprise, scrunching her face cutely as possible “I’m so, so, so sorry! I’m lost and the door was open and sorry!”

She leaned forward, sheepishly scratching the back of her neck as she gave whoever it was a better view of her outfit.

Hook, line and sinker.

“No problem sweetie. No need to lie to me.”

Hook, line and sunk apparently.

She blinked, unsure if she heard what she thought she heard. She glanced up to find a strangely dressed man with the goofiest grin.

He was cute in a ‘I dress as an obscure, indie character for cosplay’kind of way: His messy, unkempt black hair sat under a black fedora. He wore a long black trench coat that had seen better days. At least he preferred more colors than black on black. His collared shirt was a nice baby blue with an equally nice light brown vest. Black dress pants because men’s fashion is incredibly boring and shiny loafers to completed the look. Whatever the look was.

She expected him to be taking a good look at her attire.

What she found was him staring at her.

His warm dark brown eyes were soft, gentle and he refused to break his gaze from her bluish grays even though there were more tempting sights on offer.

She was on the back foot. No wandering glances, no self pleasured smiles. Not even a creepy chuckle. Just a strangely dressed, inch shorter guy looking like he just found the love of his life in this moment.

“I…” she cleared her throat “Umm….did you hear me?”

He gave a quick nod “Yeah. You broke in and you were trying to cover your tracks.”

It wasn’t that he guessed correctly what was she up to that threw her off. It was how casually he said it. More discussing the weather than committing a felony.

She raised an eyebrow, not sure how to proceed from whatever this was. There were always some people who caught on about her intentions fairly quickly but no one had ever been so….indifferent about it.

“I don’t work here.” the man offered, slowly closing the distance between them but leaving the doorframe wide open “I really don’t care that you’re here to rob the place.”

This has to be a trap. This had to be. No one was ever this….laidback. Were the other goons on the side waiting to jump her when she bolted? Was she on camera and he was letting her go knowing full well he had all the evidence he needed to track her down?

Or maybe he really didn’t care. He seemed more interested in talking than stopping her and there was this strange presence about him. A calm she’d never felt before even when her parents were alive. It was odd and foreign to her but she felt safe. Protected.

She shook her head, slowly inching closer to the doorway. The man made no attempt stop her. He just stood there, smiling, hands in his pocket.

The rational part of her brain said to run. This whole thing was botched and it was better to cut her losses than find out first hand what magical creatures could do to her. The less rational side of her head told her to wait, to talk this guy. Lying was obviously pointless but she had a feeling he would answer any questions she’d had and she had plenty.

“So…” she rose a suspicious eyebrow “Not gonna stop me?”

He shook his head “I wish you’d stay but I understand if you don’t want to be found in Andor’s shop. He’s one of those new elves. Less honor more power.”

She blinked. He said elves right? Just threw it out there like it was an everyday matter of fact and not a deeply held secret of her hometown.

“Elves aren’t real.’ Caitlyn said matter of fact.

“We both know better than that.” The man gave a bright smile.

“What do you want?”

The words spilled out of her mouth despite her best attempts but this guy was throwing her off so badly she forgot how to function.

“Talk to you of course.”

The worst kind of people were the sincere ones. They were sappy and gooey. They just so happy it was sickening. They had to be up to something. They had to some scheme or scam or something they were waiting to drop on you. No one was that happy, that purely honest. They were the liars who were so good they convinced themselves they were good people. No one was good and everyone had a dark corner in their soul they hid from the world.

Caitlyn knew she had plenty in whatever was left of her ratty soul.

“And if we talk? Will you let me go?”

The man nodded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Caitlyn licked her lips anxiously “Promise?”

Promise? What was she 12? No one kept their promises. Not even her.

He placed his hand over his heart “Cross my heart.”

“Let’s talk,”

He jerked his head towards the door “Outside. Don’t want you to ruin your heist.”

-----

Today was not going how she was expecting. She was thought she was going to break into an elf ran front, scout the area and come back in the middle of the night. She hadn’t been expecting to have coffee and bread with a random stranger on the street.

Well she had coffee, mystery man opted for hot chocolate.

They stood in a strangely comfortable silence a block from Andor’s. The man offered to pay for whatever she wanted and she took him up on it. Couple of baked goods, a sandwich for lunch, some water and of course her cup of wake up juice. If he was mad at her for her splurging at his expense, he hid it well. He just took his coco and some fancy elvish bread. Looked good but Caitlyn wasn’t up for trying other beings food. She didn’t know how it would sit with her stomach.

The elf who ran the cart, a few months ago human to her, waved goodbye to the pair as he counted the human cash the man gave him.

The trench coat cosplay stood patiently, sipping his drink and waited for her to break the silence.

She refused to break the silence first. Not wanting to sound too eager. Eagerness was a weakness and this guy was already throwing her off her rhythm.

“I’m Finnrick by the way.”

She turned to him, unsure if he was messing with her or not.

He gave her the same goofy smile “Finnrick Drift, private investigator.”

“Ah huh.” She nodded slowly “So you’re a magical P.I.? Like elves cheating on their wives, dwarves dodging their taxes P.I.?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugged his shoulders “Ironically elves like dodging on their taxes more than dwarves.”

“Right.”

“You’re new to the whole other side of Newton Haven huh?”

She glanced at her coffee “Lived here my whole life. Really makes me wonder if I lost my mind.”

“Don’t worry, we’re all mad here Alice.”

Why was she talking to him? Why was she being honest? This was weirder and getting weirder every passing second.

Finnrick changed subject “So, robbing Andor? Any particular loot you are after?”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes “Trying to fish something out of me Finny?”

“Guilty as charged” He beamed with pure happiness “Don’t want you wasting your time on shiny trinkets he cares nothing about.”

Caitlyn remained silent. She wasn’t used to such transparency. Normally this would be the point where the guy would lie or pretend to not have heard or awkwardly switch the subject but Finnrick answered openly and honestly. So far.

“So” Caitlyn straightened up, pulling her jacket wide open “What do you think? Great outfit right?”

Finnrick turned to her with a grin, his cheeks turning a pinkish hue as his eyes locked onto hers “Your body is absolutely lovely but your eyes even more so.”

Caitlyn could feel the flush coming. She coughed loudly, focusing on her drink as she willed the embarrassment away.

Finnrick chuckled lightly but returned to his drink. The silence returned, still comfortable as before.

This is was bad whatever this was. She needed to regain some level of control and stop acting like a teenage girl on her first garbage fire of a date.

“So” she cleared her throat “Mister P.I. what would you recommend taking if not all those millions of dollars of historical items he leaves about?”

Finnrick crushed the foam cup effortlessly as he gestured to the third floor of the shop “His office has a pretty simple safe. He keeps loads of paperwork. His various contracts, accounts, treasure hoards”

Caitlyn scoffed in disbelief even though her eyes shone with excitement “Treasure hoards? Elves? I thought dragons were the hoarders. Weren’t elves supposed to be above all that lovely corruption?”

“No one is above corruption.’ Finnrick answered “Elves are just like everyone else.”

Caitlyn crossed her arms and leaned back with a cocky swagger “And why, pray tell, would I care about boring paperwork?”

“Because it really hurt him in the pride.”

Damn Finnrick was good. Not only she was eager to learn more, she could already feel the smug satisfaction of bringing a powerful prick down a peg fill her cause.

Finnrick seemed to notice this because he went on “Andor is a young elf. 100 years give or take.”

“A hundred years is young?”

“When you live a thousand years every other race is a child to you. Andor’s old man is a swell guy. He’s one of those good elves you see in Tolkien.”

“Tolkien?” Caitlyn furrowed her brow “He wrote the books that those Lord of the Rings films are based on right?”

“Yeah actually.”

“Oh and the Hob…”

“We don’t talk about that.” Finnrick quickly added “But see the problem is Andor’s old man doesn’t know his son has become the small time crime lord. Thinks he’s running an antique business selling off old junk that was gathering dust in the family’s attic.”

Something clicked into place for Caitlyn “Wait. Junk from the attic? You mean all those relics on the shop floor?! THAT’S OLD JUNK!?”

Finnrick gave a casual shrug “Elves are weird. Andor don’t know shit about selling, all his money comes from his illegal business practices. That’s how he keeps the shop afloat.”

“I see” Caitlyn spoke, her bluish grays sparkling with mischievous intent “If those records disappeared, his shop sinks and he has to run back home to daddy.”

“And out of the city” Finnrick finished with a smile “And those records are pretty valuable to loads of people. Easier to fence and less messy to explain than a long lost Greek vase showing up in someone’s private collection. You’d get good prices for those hoard locations alone. Better than trying to carry tons of stolen and lost treasure back to your house.”

Caitlyn eyed Finnrick carefully “And you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart? Trying to do your ‘civic’ duty to our fair city?”

“Among other things” Finnrick admitted “But mostly for the greater good.”

“Pfft, greater good? Yeah sure buddy. Like you know what’s the greater good.”

“Will you do it?”

Caitlyn paused, allowing all this information sink in. It was much better than she had planned and while she wasn’t sure of Finnrick’s angle, he seemed honest enough. Of course everyone seems honest enough the first time you meet them.

“Let’s say I do” she spoke, placing her hands on her hips to play the part “What’s in it for you?”

“A favor” He replied simply.

She rose a curious eyebrow “A favor? It’s not date with me, is it?”

“No, I plan to earn that one myself.” Finnrick answered cheerfully.

Caitlyn coughed “Fine, good. Not a date. Least you’re not a creep. But a favor is pretty vague.”

“It’ll be simple I promise.”

Caitlyn narrowed her gaze suspiciously “You promise?”

Finnrick put his hand over his heart again “Cross my heart.”

Caitlyn took a moment, weighing the pros and cons of the situation.

Caitlyn offered her hand towards the trench coat cosplayer “You got yourself a deal.”

He gently took her hand in his own and gave it a firm shake. She was surprised when, as he pulled back, she felt a strange metallic item left behind.

She looked at the crystal butterfly hair clip he placed in her hand: It was a beautiful with sliver hues and multi-colored shards of glass across its wings.

“What’s this?”

“A gift.”

Caitlyn felt uneasy with the ornament in her palm: It felt cold and distant like it was feeling her out and wasn’t liking what it found.

“It’s attuning to you.” Finnrick explained “It’s syncing up to your whole aura.”

“Aura?” Caitlyn shot him a glare of disbelief “This isn’t one of those new age hippie things is it?”

Finnrick shook his head “It’s a magical item. Yours specifically. Everything alive has a deep and very convoluted to explain connection to this plane. The hairclip is trying to match yours so you and only you can use it.”

“It feels wrong.”

“Because it doesn’t know you yet. It will.”

Caitlyn felt unease about whatever this was. Part of her wanted to toss it as far as she could. The worst part was she felt the item probing at her, changing temperatures as if trying find a comfortable setting for both of them. Burning one moment and too cold the next. This was magic and it made her felt like she knew nothing.

But part of her felt it slowly and subtly trying to match her, focusing on her and on her place in the universe. It felt more natural each passing moment and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious what mister detective over here was letting her borrow.

Caitlyn blew a strand of hair out of her face “How long does this usually take?”

“An hour.” Finnrick reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone “Oh shoot I have a meeting to get to.”

He turned to leave and suddenly Caitlyn felt alone. Awkward just standing in the street without someone to talk to.

“Wait!” She reached for him but quickly pulled back when he faced her “….any advice?”

Finnrick scratched his chin for a moment “Red tiles. Avoid them or they’ll blast you off the roof.”

“G-gotcha.” Caitlyn didn’t want to know what blast off the roof was code for “A-and the hairclip? What’s it do?”

Finnrick gave a cheeky grin and Caitlyn could feel her face flush “I guess you’ll have to find out angel. Bye for now. May we meet again soon.”

And like that, he was off. Strolling down the straight with a bounce in his step and humming a tune.

Caitlyn glanced at the ornate hairclip in her hand.

Turns out there was a lot more to this magical world than she thought.

[blouisparadise]

Here are so many amazing bottom Louis fics that were posted or completed during the month of November. We hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!

1) Work Me Breathless | Explicit | 1678 words

Note: this is the sequel to this fic.

Louis visits Harry at work after the doctor got a new promotion. They christen his new office...

Louis leaves a little breathless.

2) Skeletons In My Closet | Not Rated | 2051 words

Basically soft core porn. Harry decided to treat Louis on Halloween.

3) Looks Like We Made It, Look How Far We’ve Come, My Baby | Teen & Up | 2161 words

Louis and Harry are going to officially move in together, they’ve chosen the house and everything is ready, they just need to wait a few months before the owner gives them the keys.

So what’s the problem, you may ask. Well, they’ve been arguing for days and Louis is honestly considering strangling his alpha with one his ridiculously ugly designer scarf. Okay, not really. But he’s going to lose it soon if they don’t stop fighting.

4) Little Devil | Explicit | 2241 words

The pair had just finished taking a round of shots when the one and only Harry Styles saunters over, clapping Niall on the back to say hello. “Louis,” he drawls out, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s raking his eyes over the smaller boy. “You know this is a costume party, right?” Louis rolls his eyes, starting to ramble on about how he is in a costume and what a nit Harry is when he gets it. Harry is saying Louis is a devil.

“And what are you supposed to be Styles? An angel, really?”

“It’s a costume Lou, ’s not supposed to be real,” he says with a smirk, sliding past Louis but stopping long enough to whisper, “I can assure you, I’m no angel baby.”

5) After the Lilo Kiss | Explicit | 2477 words

"I guess I need to show you who you belong to, hmm baby boy?" he growled in my ear while choking me with his other hand.

6) Oh So Thankful | Explicit | 3034 words

Or the one where Louis and Harry both stay at college for Thanksgiving break, and decide to spend the holiday together.

7) Tell Me What You Want (What You Need) | Mature | 3246 words

Louis didn’t plan on getting laid tonight. When he invited Harry over the day before, it was completely innocent. Just two lads hanging out. He still doesn’t plan on it, no matter how hard he’s getting as Harry’s fingernails start scraping over his nipples lightly every time they pass.

8) Calling Out For Someone To Hold Tonight | Not Rated | 3819 words

Harry’s straight. Louis isnt. They still manage to fall in love.

9) Your Love Delights My Soul | Explicit | 4186 words

"Alpha..." Louis moaned against Harry's lips, chasing the friction against his thigh.

"You are my one and only," Harry bit his jaw, "And you know it quite well. Pretty sure I remind you every night, but you have to rile me, have to make me angry. Why, Omega?"

10) Life and Death | Explicit | 4122 words

In which Louis is Life and Harry is Death.

11) When You Turn Off The Lights | Explicit | 4305 words

Gothie Louis/Normie Harry.

12) On My Mind All The Time, Say You're Mine | Explicit | 9261 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

“Dude, we’re inside, and it’s night time. Those don’t look as cool as you think they do.” Louis could kick himself, he sounded so stupid, but it certainly got the guy’s attention.

It was at that unfortunate moment that he noticed several other things about this hot asshole, that he hadn’t noticed just staring from afar. First, when Louis spoke to him, his gaze was kind of unfocused behind his sunglasses, and secondly, that he had a red and white cane folded up under his arm.

“I’m… Blind,” the man chuckled, awkwardly.  

Louis wanted to melt into a puddle out of pure embarrassment.

“I— am so sorry. I have to go.”

“Hey, wait, wait,” the man soothed, grabbing at Louis’ shoulders before he could get away.

“I’m sorry,” Louis repeated, looking down at his shoes.

“It’s alright,” He cackled. “I get it a lot. More than you know.”

13) Let's Break The Internet | Explicit | 9505 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here. Please note that the pairing for this fic is Louis/OMC.

The one where Louis is an Only Fans baby.

14) With the Certainty Of Tides | Mature | 13980 words

“Love you,” Louis whispered in the dark. He didn’t know what time it was or where the light had gone, he knew that he was in Harry’s arms, basking in the afterglow of all their love and he’d be a fool to not tell Harry that. As if Harry didn’t know.

“Love you,” was whispered back, as if Louis didn’t know. They confessed to each other as if it was their first time saying it, raw and painful, and listened to it the very same way, but they knew those words to be the only ones true.

With all the certainty of the tides, with all the light from the sun, with all the steady beats of their hearts, they were deftly in love, in secret and so loudly. They were brave and fearless and strong and hopelessly devoted in every sense of their breaths.

“We made it, baby,” Harry mumbled, bringing their lips into a final kiss, sweet and soft and the color of pink. They already knew that, didn’t fight tooth and nail and argued through every petty year and bleed their hearts into the words they sang and on their skin for them to have not made it home.

They were home.

15) A Moment In Time | Explicit | 14004 words

The one where Harry and Louis used to be together, until they weren’t, but with a twist of fate and a bit of magic, could this be their chance to find forever in each other’s arms?

16) I'm Still A Little Bit Yours | Mature | 14921 words

“Harry?” Louis asked to the empty apartment. "What the hell?" He sat up on the bed, his comforter pooling around his waist. The place wasn’t big enough to lose someone. Harry must have left in the middle of the night. And then he felt it. The new twinge of pain in his already bruised heart. He forcefully threw his upper body back and grunted in frustration. Then he looked over to the bedside table and noticed a note under the cup of cold chamomile tea he never got around to drinking.

He reached over and there were only two words scrawled on the otherwise blank page, “I’m sorry.”

He was so damn stupid! He curled up on his side sobbing and trembling. He covered his face with the comforter, tears soaking his pillow, as he begged his body to go back to sleep.

17) I Couldn't Face A Life Without Your Lights | Mature | 15538 words

Louis and Harry are college students who haven't been the same in the past two years.

18) Practice In Pencil, Seal It In Pen | Explicit | 16486 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Harry is in love with Louis but he doesn't know.

19) Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) | Not Rated | 16683 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

The one where Harry wants a little more in the bedroom and has a habit of putting his foot in his mouth.

20) The Animals, The Animals | Not Rated | 16721 words

Admittedly, it’s not the first time Louis Tomlinson finds himself in handcuffs.

The difference this time is these handcuffs are attached to a year long sentence. Not just that, but a year long sentence sharing a cell with a possibly mute 19 year old with dark eyes and even darker secrets.

21) Colder Weather | Mature | 19103 words

When Harry comes around, it’s the coldest time of year. Louis, for once, just wants Harry to take him away from colder weather.

22) Across the Grey, Salty Sea | Explicit | 19968 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Prompt 212: Alex from Dunkirk and French escort/prostitute Louis who ends up in Alex’s quarters more nights than not. Alex gives him his dog tag to wear maybe just a lot of smut and dirty talk with Louis being a pretty princess.

23) Blinded By The Sparks | Explicit | 22205 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Harry is a scammer who drifts from casino to casino. Louis is the new waiter who wants in on the scam.

24) Rainbow Bloom | Mature | 22711 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Louis is in denial. Louis has been in denial for far too long. Then Harry enters his life and everything changes.

25) What A Sight For Sore Eyes | Not Rated | 24216 words

Louis’ playing Danny in their uni’s production of Grease. They’re missing a Sandy, and Harry’s sort of been in love with Louis for a year.

Everything else just kind of happens.

26) MISSING | Mature | 26950 words

Louis brothers report Louis missing after they can’t get hold of him for 24hours

Harry Styles and Charlie Stone, detectives of the teenage homicide and missing persons division, are long time friends of the Tomlinson's and take the case.

27) Even The Best Laid Plans | Explicit | 25175 words

Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

28) Sunflowers, Sunshine, And You | Explicit | 28778 words

Sunshine county is small but mighty and Harry takes pride in knowing nearly each and every person that lives inside of it. For nearly eleven years now he’s been sheriff, and not one of them he’s ever regretted settling down here.

He knows the road names like the back of his hand, knows the people and the animals and the way the world works here. In all of the time he’s been here, not a thing has changed.

So, all things considered, when he starts seeing a beat up pickup truck roaming through town with plates he’s never seen before, Harry, to be frank, jumps on that like a fly on fresh dog shit.

29) Blue Songs Are Like Tattoos | Explicit | 30739 words

“Good morning, University of California, you’re listening to KALX 90.7 FM Berkeley, this is DJ Harry Styles. If the owner of the tapes I’ve been finding around the studio doesn’t come forward and introduce himself, I’m going to continue tossing them straight in the trash!”

or the DJ Harry and Rockstar Louis fic.

30) Sweet Like Honey | Explicit | 33117 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Harry and Louis need money and they find an unconventional solution in the form of PornHub. It’s not supposed to be a big deal.

31) When Our Worlds They Fall Apart | Explicit | 42228 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Harry put his hand over his heart as if Louis had wounded him. “You’re so harsh, my liege! Perhaps you need to relieve some tension…” He let his voice trail off suggestively.

“The day I ask YOU to relieve tension is the day I lose all my wits and join the Imperials,” Louis said. “It will never happen”

Prompt 325: Star Wars AU with Harry as Han Solo and Louis as Leia.

32) Somewhere In Between | Explicit | 42765 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Louis wakes up early. He brushes his teeth and can only stomach a piece of toast for breakfast, dressing quickly and heading for the car. He pulls into the parking lot of the Department of Dominance and Submission just as they’re unlocking the doors. It takes him all of an hour in the uncomfortable chairs to fill out the paperwork to the best and most accurate of his ability, handing it over to the receptionist as soon as he’s finished and wiping his sweaty palms on his business trousers.

There’s a high chance that within ten to fifteen business days, Louis will be matched with a dominant.

Shit.

33) Spoonful of Sugar | Explicit | 42900 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here. This fic is also a sequel to this fic.

Louis Tomlinson cares for his family above all else, a fact that’s led him on a twisted path peddling drugs to support them. Just as he’s made the decision to jump ship, Louis gets snared between the two largest crime syndicates in the city. To keep his family safe he’s forced to trust the man that failed to keep his promise two years ago, the resident drug lord he’s unknowingly been working for, Harry Styles.

34) Breakable Heaven | Explicit | 44594 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

“What do you think?” Louis gets captured by Harry’s green eyes, unable to look away or even take a breath.

“I think you’re the most magnificent creature I’ve ever met.”

“You must not have met many creatures then.”

Harry’s eyes glance downward to Louis’ lips and his tongue darts out to wet his own. “None like you.”

35) You're The Habit That I Can't Break | Not Rated | 44940 words

When Louis crosses paths with a green eyed stranger in prison, he learns that some habits aren't so bad.

36) Fine Line (The Story of Us) | Not Rated | 46191 words

Walking through Harry's album Fine Line. Each chapter reflects a song off the album.

Harry knew he was a lucky guy, really he did. He knew that in the cosmic pulling of straws he had pulled the long one and basically won the lottery. With a number one debut album, millions of adoring fans, and many a celebrity praising his work Harry should feel happier. He should be skipping instead of walking, singing instead of talking, and grinning from ear to ear. Maybe he was ungrateful. Maybe he was numb to it all. Or maybe he had a big, ocean-sized crush on his best friend.

37) Tastes Like Summer, Smiles Like May | Explicit | 47519 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

A cold prince, an alpha with nothing left to lose and a kingdom with a secret.

38) A Silent Whisper (That's Left Unsaid) | Explicit | 50842 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

A Fake Relationship & Exes to Lovers AU ft a failed proposal ten years ago, an oblivious Harry, an overworked Louis, Zayn as the protective best friend, a meddling aunt and a lot of talks about weddings and rings.

39) Lost And Found | Explicit | 51736 words

Where Louis is just looking for his dog but finds love along the way.

40) Don't You Know That I'm a Moon in Daylight? | Explicit | 58770 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

Prompt 79: Louis and Harry fell in love in the 18th century, Louis wanted Harry to convert him into a vampire, but he ended up resenting Harry for it. Fast forward to our modern days, they haven’t seen each other since then, but one day they meet again through a mutual friend. Harry was bitter for a long time, but he accepted that being angry wouldn't erase the fact that Louis was the love of his life. He wanted to court and spoil Louis like in their original time period, but Louis avoided him every time Harry tried to reconnect. Happy ending!

41) The Guesthouse | Explicit | 61951 words

Louis has a secret that could break him. With every trip to the Guesthouse, with every fuck he offers himself up for, he gets a piece of the freedom back that he's lost.

Seven nights a year he goes to the exclusive sex club; every day he fights to keep that little bit of information to himself.

And there's another thing - his unwavering and pointless obsession with his bandmate.

There's the Guesthouse, and then there's Harry, and Louis works tirelessly to keep the two apart. Soon, very soon now, he won't be able to.

42) My Friend Lost A Bet | Mature | 74965 words

The one where Louis ends up on the list of potential fake-boyfriends for Harry Styles because Stan really sucks at football bets.

43) In A Sea Of Mist | Explicit | 126725 words

Note: This fic was written for the Bottom Louis Fic Fest. Check out the full collection here.

A Greek Mythology/Camp Half-Blood AU where Harry is lost, the road to peace is a wretched one, and somehow, through a mist of confusion and regrets, Louis seems to be the only thing that makes sense and everything Harry needs.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

You can find other monthly roundup fic rec lists here.

[sambergscott]

your son is going to love you

Summary: Peralta dads are cursed, destined to have terrible relationships with their sons. When Jake finds out *he's* going to have a son, he spirals. Amy helps.

goes without saying that if you haven’t watched 7x10 yet maybe don’t read this

She wakes up at 2am needing to pee.

She’s been waking up needing to pee a lot lately.

It’s like their baby has no respect for her sleeping pattern, perfectly honed over the years to maximise productivity, while still fitting in the full 8 hours of sleep needed a day. Their baby doesn’t care about the 8 hour recommendation, he laughs in the face of scientists. With the bad back and heart burn and constant kick, kick, kicking of her bladder, she’s averaging 4.7. She thought babies didn’t start keeping you up all night until they were born but, oh, how wrong she was.

She pats her husband to wake him up and come keep her company. If she’s awake because of their baby, then damn it, he’s going to be awake, too. But he’s not there, leaving her hand awkwardly patting a bare mattress.

“Jake?” She murmurs groggily, sitting up and switching on her bedside lamp. She’s half-expecting him to be sitting in the armchair playing Mario Party on his Switch (he has become a little bit addicted in the last few months and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s found him trying to beat Wario in the early hours of the morning) or have left a note beside her bed that he had a lead on a case and needed to go in with a scribbled ‘love you’ underneath and a lopsided heart. The armchair is empty, but there’s a light on down the hall and since there’s no way she forgot to turn it off before bed (she triple checks), she figures that it must be Jake.

Forgetting the whole reason why she woke up in the first place, she grabs Jake’s hoodie from the floor for warmth and pads into their living-kitchen-dining area. It’s the open plan-ness that made her fall in love with the apartment upon first visit and submit all her paperwork as soon as she was out the door. It’s the open plan-ness that would make the Property Brothers proud and the dumb people who go on that show foam at the mouth with jealousy. It’s the open plan-ness that allows her to see her husband straight away, snacking on the unfinished party food.

(Apparently people don’t feel like eating after a man cuts his thumb off and spurts blood everywhere. Who’d have thought?)

There’s a weird, pensive look on his face that draws her towards him.

“You OK, babe?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he responds. He pops a tomato from the salad bowl in his mouth, then another, then another.

She narrows her eyes. He never eats tomatoes unless they’re in ketchup or on top of a famous Sal’s pizza. Something is wrong.

She thinks back on their day, mentally rewinding the events from waking up to the morning briefing to their private sex reveal in the break room and finding out they’re having a boy (the empty cake box and blue frosting around Scully’s mouth was very surprising indeed). They were both floating on Cloud 9 all afternoon, came home and Zoomed the entire family, falling asleep on the couch around 9.30pm because pregnancy is exhausting.

Nothing particularly awful stands out.

Unless...

“Are you thinking about your Grandpa?”

He’d been so excited to see him again, so excited to reunite Walter Peralta  with Roger, The Admiral with the Captain. To be honest, Amy was less than impressed. He’d been nice enough to her, asked her about her job, about the baby, small talked about the weather. But he never asked her about Jake, probed about the 20 odd years of his grandson’s life that he’d missed out on. Which is frustrating because she has a lot of embarrassing stories ready to tell and a whole photo album of Jake on her phone. He couldn’t care less about Roger or Jake, storming out of the sex reveal party after calling his son a screw up and turning off his phone so they couldn’t get in contact with him. He’s a selfish dick and her husband deserves better. Still, he won’t be thinking about what a monster Walter turned out to be, he’ll be finding ways to blame himself that yet another father walked out of his life again.

He nods silently and she leads him to the couch.

“Talk to me, Jake.”

He releases a shaky breath. “The Peralta’s are cursed.”

“With devastatingly handsome good looks?” She half-jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Because, hello, her husband is hot; she constantly overhears other women in the precinct talking about his glow up and it would be impossible to ignore the female attention he gets in bars and even just walking down the street before he scratches his face to show off his wedding band and wraps one arm proudly around his wife’s shoulders. She’s seen the pictures of a young Roger Peralta, too, and with that charm smile... she gets it.

“Thank you,” he smiles briefly, “but no. Peralta dads are cursed with terrible relationships with their sons.”

“That’s not going to be you,” she says without hesitation, without a shred of doubt.

“How do you know?” He launches into a scathing personal indictment that leaves his cheeks stinging with tears. “I’m immature, obsessed with my work, messy, always late. My dad was never around when I was a kid. I don’t even know what dads do with their sons! And what if it’s in my genes? To be a crappy dad, abandon my kid like a dozen Peralta fathers before me. Your parents still don’t think I’m good enough. You didn’t even like me at first. It only makes sense that our baby would hate me, too.”

“Woah, babe. Slow down. Let’s unpack that one at a time.” She wipes away his tears with his hoodie sleeve and squeezes his hand. “First of all, you are way more mature now than you used to be. We bought a family friendly Sedan. You read parenting books. You were eating fruit, like, two minutes ago.”

“Tomatoes are fruits?”

“What? Yes, how do you not - not the point.” She shakes her head. “And so what, you enjoy your job. That’s a good thing, Jake! Do you understand how rare that is? You’re doing the thing you love while providing a decent income for our family. And besides, I’m way more obsessed than you. I have FOMOW, but that doesn’t mean I won’t love our kid more than anything. And as for the messy, late thing, if I can look past it because of how much I love you, so will our son.”

“Love you, too,” he mumbles.

“Now onto your point about not knowing what dads do, that is a straight up lie and we both know it, Peralta. You’re always hanging out with Charles and Nikolaj and Lord Knows Terry doesn’t shut up about all the activities he does with his girls.”

“I know what they do when I’m around, but what do you do when it’s 5am and they won’t go back to sleep?” He frets. “At what age do you introduce them to Die Hard? In Cry Hard With A Vengeance,” he quotes the parenting book she originally bought him as a joke but has kind of become his Torah, “Bruce Willis says right away, but what if he’s not ready to understand the complex plots? What if he prefers Timothy Olyphant to William Atherton? Oh my God, what if our son doesn’t think Die Hard is a Christmas movie?”

He’s spiralling and it’s a good job he’s with the only person who can truly calm him down.

“I think Bruce Willis is just trying to promote his franchise and that we’ll be watching more Paw Patrol than Die Hard for the next few years, babe, but I’m sure when he is old enough, he will love the movies as much as you.”

“Right,” he agrees, “you’re totally right. Action thrillers aren’t very baby friendly. I’ll just watch it on mute with subtitles.”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling in the corners. She loves him so much. Which segways them nicely onto his final two points.

“My parents do love you. Sure, they’re critical, but that’s just the way they are. They’re the same way to all of us. My mom complains to everyone she meets about how I can’t cook, how Tony hasn’t settled down and made her any beautiful grandbabies yet, even Perfect David faces her wrath when he goes a week without phoning her. If the worst thing my mom has to say about you is that you’re below average in height, you’re doing OK. And as for me apparently not liking you at first, I did like you.”

He furrows his brow. “But you said you found me annoying and difficult to be around.”

“Yet I didn’t ask to switch desks, continued working cases with you and went to Shaw’s whenever I was invited.” She stares at him pointedly. “If I really found you difficult to be around, I wouldn’t have stayed. I thought you were cute and funny and good at your job and yeah, you were annoying too, but,” she shrugs, “it never put me off.”

“So what you’re saying is that you had a crush on me first,” he grins.

“No. You obviously had a crush on me back then, too. What I’m saying is that I love you, our son loves you and you’re going to be a great dad.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “My dad said the same thing. About our son loving me.”

“He’s right,” she replies. “I feel him kick every time you get home from work, every time you sing to Taylor Swift in the car, every time I mention your name. Why didn’t you believe him?”

“I don’t know, still nervous about the curse, I guess.” He twists his wedding band on his finger.

Amy bites her lip. “Are you not excited about us having a boy?”

She has to ask. His excitement looked genuine in the break room, but it’s no secret that he was hoping for a girl. A mini-Amy, he said. While she’s always been more accustomed to boys considering the Santiago’s have, like, a million of them, Jake couldn’t get over the image of a little girl in dresses and doing ballet and with long, dark hair that he eventually learns to braid.

“Of course I am,” he’s quick to assure her. “Stupid excited. Never been more excited for anything. Not even the Ninja Turtles reboot. But still... nervous.” He rubs his hand over his face, muffling his voice. “Everyone is assuming what kind of dad I’m going to be. Whether I’m going to be good at it or not. To be fair, the only person who doubted me is that murderer I arrested last week, obviously not my biggest fan. Everyone else is convinced I can do it. What if I can’t? What if I’m genetically wired to be a bad dad? What if I disappoint you and our baby and Charles who has been dreaming about this forever?”

“Jake,” she softens her voice, pulling his hand away from his face, “the fact you are so worried about being a bad dad proves that you will not be one. Nor could you ever disappoint us.”

“But you’re my wife. You have to say that.”

“I would never have married you and become your wife if I thought you were the kind of person who could abandon your kid,” she promises him. “You have been perfect so far, dealing with all the vitamins and over-scheduled sex and washing my clothes when I sweat through them and holding my hair back when I’m being sick. You’ve been to every doctor’s appointment, read every binder, bought me every weird food craving. You hang out with the bump every night, talking and singing to it. I know you’re going to be a great dad, Jake, because you already are one.”

She kisses him and it’s soft and tender and filled with love, only interrupted by the kick, kick, kicking of their son.

“Hey,” Jake says in his best authoritative dad voice/John McClane dealing with German terrorists voice (he’s been practising in front of the mirror following Bruce’s advice), pointing a warning finger at the bump. “I’m going to kiss your mom as much as I want, Peralta. I loved her first.”

Amy giggles, stroking her fingers through Jake’s unruly curls. His bedhead is always wild and it’s maybe her favourite thing in the entire world. She silently sends a message of her own to their son to inherit his dad’s hair. And eyes. And handsome smile.

He kicks again as if to say ‘OK, mom’.

And then she really needs to pee.

[pongpalace]

it’s a word, not a sentence (chapter 1/2)

jack zimmermann x eric “bitty” bittle, alternative meeting, photographer jack, single parent bitty, terminally ill child character

inspired by that one tumblr comic  

Jack’s had a long day.

Most of his morning was spent arguing with a client who didn’t like the way her daughter’s birth pictures turned out because Jack didn’t photoshop out the redness in the newborn’s cheeks to make her look as doll-like as possible. Then he had what had to be the longest photoshoot he’s ever had because the dad thought that one photography class at Micheal’s made him an expert on how to light Jack’s set and would make changes as he saw fit. Bouncing between trying to keep the eight-year-old’s attention so he wouldn’t strip naked—again—and fixing what the dad did without outright calling the man an idiot was exhausting and because of it, Jack worked through his lunch to edit the pictures he needed for the magazine shoot he’d done weeks before. He wasn’t happy with the results so in between his afternoon sessions, he’d open up his laptop and poke at it right up until he needed to send them off to the editor.

Squinting at his computer screen, adjusting colour balances and saturations made Jack more tired than being behind the camera so he’s feeling the long day now that he’s sat down at the front desk, without anyone else to worry about in the studio. He should be answering emails and double checking he has all the backgrounds and costumes he’ll need for his big pregnancy shoot tomorrow morning but Jack can’t bring himself to do more than stare at the clock as it counts down the fifteen minutes until he locks the door and gets to go home.

It’s a testament to how tired Jack is because he watches the clock for five whole minutes before he remembers that he’s his own boss and he technically can close his own photography studio any time he wants and no one will yell at him.

He’s just pushed himself out of his chair when the bell above the door rings, signalling someone coming in. Jack bites back a curse, but he can feel the glare on his face when he looks at the blond man and his son who just came in, bundled in their winter jackets and stomping off snow that must’ve come down sometime in the last hour.

The man approaches the front desk. “Hello, um, I know it’s almost closing time, but I have a really big favour to ask,” he says.

Jack stares for a beat, vaguely wondering what someone with a southern accent is doing this far north, in the middle of a Boston winter no less. The man colours under Jack’s stare, wrinkling his nose and in any other setting, Jack might’ve found him more than a little attractive considering his messy blond hair, freckles, and big, dark brown eyes check off everything on Jack’s list. As it is, it’s been a long day and Jack wants to go home.

“Any inquiries about bookings or appointments are usually better done over the phone, during the day,” Jack says, giving the standard response to walk-in clients and letting his voice fall flat. He doesn’t mention that the current waiting list for a shoot is at least six months.

The man winces. “Yeah, I um, I know that. I saw your website.” He pauses and looks around the studio, taking in the wall that showcases the portraits Jack’s most proud of, the series of geese postcards that Jack worked on with Lardo, and the vintage camera equipment that he has on display because it makes him happy to look at.

The man bites at his lip while he looks at the wall, and Jack is about to remind him of the studio’s hours, but then the kid peaks out from behind their dad’s legs and Jack’s heart goes into his throat.

He’s going to be staying a little bit longer.

The kid is small. His puffy jacket hangs off a thin frame, hands lost in the too-long sleeves, though he keeps pushing one up so he can hold onto his dad’s hand. He wears a bright red toque, pulled all the way down his forehead. No hair peaks out from underneath, but Jack doesn’t think it’s because they’ve tucked it up into the knit fabric. The boy and man have the same big brown eyes, matching all the way down the deep bruises underneath, though the boy’s might be a shade darker. There’s a tube taped to the boy’s cheek, feeding into his nose, the other end tucked around up into his hat before it disappears into his collar. It’s clear that the boy is very sick.

The man clears his throat, and Jack guiltily looks up from where he knows he’s been caught staring.

“Gavin saw your postcards in the hospital gift shop,” the man says. “He loves geese.” Gavin looks up and smiles big at his name, nodding as much as he can without dislodging the tube. He unzips his jacket and Jack’s heart clenches to see that he was wearing a big hoodie underneath the jacket and still looks so tiny. Gavin shoves his hands into the hoodie pocket and pulls out a folded piece of cardstock. He unfolds it carefully before standing on his tiptoes to reach the counter and push it towards Jack.

“The babies are the best,” Gavin says. His voice is rougher than any child’s voice should be, sounding like it hurts him to talk, but he’s smiling the whole time Jack looks at one of his postcards. It was one of the last shots he got that day, after having crouched in goose shit for hours to get pictures of the adults interacting, he managed get a shot of a gosling using the toe of his dirty yellow runner as a pillow.

“Yeah,” Jack says softly, looking at where he has it posted on the wall across from him. Gavin follows his gaze, grin widening when he sees it, tugging at his dad’s jacket to point it out.  

“The woman who works there says you had other things up in the hospital so on one of our good days, we went on a search and found some of your other pictures.” The man swings back around once he looks where Gavin wants.

“I like the unicorn,” Gavin says, again standing on his toes to see over the desk. He stretches to take his postcard back, almost losing his balance, but the man steadies him with a hand on his back easily.

Jack can’t think of a picture session he’s done with a unicorn, or even with the unicorn background he has, but most of what he’s given to hospitals are the landscape photography that he was really focused on while working towards opening his own studio.

“There’s a picture of a horse near the cancer ward and the shadow makes it look like a unicorn,” the man explains, smiling down at Gavin. He puts a hand on Gavin’s head and gently tugs at the toque, huffing a laugh when Gavin bats him away. He steps a little closer to Jack’s, voice lowering as he continues. “Look, I did go on your website and check for appointments and I know that y’all are booked solid for the next six months or so but-” His voice breaks. Jack’s stomach drops; six months might be too long for Gavin to wait for an appointment.

Jack looks around his desk, searching for the box of tissues he knows he keeps now that everyone has the sniffles in the cold weather. He finds them and passes the box over to the man, who takes a couple to press roughly to his eyes. Gavin reaches up and pulls on the man’s elbow until he drops his hand so Gavin can reach it. Gavin takes it and the man lets out a water breath.

Jack clears his throat, once, twice, to get past the lump he’s suddenly developed. He probably needs a tissue of his own but he blinks rapidly instead.

“Well, luckily, there’s a special promotion going on for people with these postcards,” Jack says, talking through the hoarseness in his voice that always comes when he’s feeling emotional. He leans forward over the desk to pass the postcard back to Gavin. Gavin takes it, looking up at his dad with big eyes. “I’ve been waiting all day to take pictures of someone who has one.”

“You have?” Gavin asks. He bites at very chapped lips, brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure Jack out. The directness of his stare is startling, his eyes the brightest point amongst the purples and blues of deep bruises and sharp cheekbones that don’t belong on a child’s face.

“I have.” Jack nods. “Now why don’t you take your dad back there,” Jack points over his shoulder, towards the studio he uses for kids’ portraits. “and I’ll meet you there to pick out what you want to wear in a second.”

There’s an entire wardrobe of different sized costumes, ranging from princesses to hockey players to doctors and everything in between that goes along with his extensive collection of backgrounds. It’s not as organized as it usually is when he has a session with a kid, but Jack’s more than happy to let Gavin go and chose what he wants. He might not get many more chances.

Jack locks the door while Gavin takes the man’s arm and leads him to the doorway. He’s chatting a mile a minute to his dad, but the dull roaring in Jack’s ears means he doesn’t catch any of it as he flips the lock so they’re not interrupted. He rests his forehead on the cool glass of the door, breathing in and out and in and out, while he takes a minute to compose himself. He’s not sure his bursting into tears would be productive for anyone tonight.

“Thanks for doing this.”

Jack jumps, knocking his head against the glass at the voice. He turns, feeling guilty for some reason, to see just the man leaning out of the studio doorway, eyes big with a concern Jack doesn’t feel like he deserves. He steps into the hallway.

“I’ll be right there, sorry,” Jack says, rubbing his forehead. The skin is warm to the touch, even after being pressed against the cool glass and Jack hopes he didn’t lose track of time.

“You’re apologizing for me scaring you on top of making you stay late?” The man raises a blond eyebrow.

“Er, yeah?” Jack says. He drops his hand from his forehead, and hopes he doesn’t look as stupid as he feels. The man came in here with his obviously very sick child and Jack is the one who can’t keep it together.

The man shakes his head, looking more bemused than annoyed. “Well, thank you. Seriously. This is gonna be the highlight of Gavin’s year.” He’s still smiling when he finishes, but it looks a little pinched around the edges.

“Uh,” Jack clears his throat. “Of course.” He stares at the man and the man stares back.

“I’m Eric, by the way,” the man says, suddenly. “If you wanna know who’s extended your work day.” Eric chuckles slightly, a little self-deprecating.

“Jack,” Jack replies, taking the hand Eric offers. His palm is dry but warm and a little rough. He squeezes Jack’s hands for a beat before letting go.

“Yeah,” Eric says and Jack flushes, realizing Eric must’ve known his name right from the start if he’d been able to google his website.

“Right.” Jack nods. “Er, should we?” He gestures back over Eric’s shoulder, following when Eric steps back inside the studio.

In the studio, Gavin’s found the building blocks on the low table in the corner. He’s still wearing his jacket, but he’s pushed the sleeves up to his elbows. Despite all the time Jack spends around children, he’s not great with telling kids’ ages, though it’s pretty obvious even to him that Gavin’s wrists and arms are too small for his age. He struggles for a moment to move most of a completed rocket ship that Jack’s earlier appointment left behind.

“Now I know Mr. Jack didn’t say come back here to play with the blocks.”

Eric’s voice makes Gavin jump and look guilty at his dad.

“Sorry,” he says, eyes wide. He puts the rocket down, though not before tweaking the nose slightly so it sits straighter. Jack bites back a smile.

“C’mere,” he says, gesturing over at one of the overflowing wardrobes along the back wall. The doors aren’t completely closed, different colours of tulle make it over stuffed and the bane of Jack’s existence to keep clean, and Gavin lights up when he catches sight of it fully open. “Let’s pick some things out to start with.”

With practiced hands, Eric helps Gavin tries on every single one of Jack’s costumes, guiding limbs through arm and leg holes, careful not only of the tube on the side of Gavin’s face, but also of the toque on Gavin’s head. Gavin grins at his reflection each time, twirling and running his hands over any silky fabric, before standing in front of Jack’s camera and posing like a superhero or a ballerina or whatever strikes his fancy. Jack makes sure to capture each pose. It’s the easiest photoshoot of a kid that Jack has ever done; Gavin must be the politest, most well behaved kid he’s ever met. When he says as much to Eric between costume changes, Eric snorts.

“He’s just trying to impress you so you’ll let him take some photos,” Eric says lowly. Jack twists from where he was watching Gavin pick out a princess dress by touching all the tulle to look at Eric.

“Geese are his favourite animal,” Eric repeats, shrugging. “And because photography let you get close to them, he thinks he should be a photographer to get close to them. I can’t wait till he learns about zoo-keeping.” Eric grins wryly.

It’s a challenge for Jack to tear his gaze away from Eric’s smile, somehow still the brightest thing in the room despite everything Jack knows it’s been through, but he turns away to adjust the tripod.

“What’re you doing Mr. Jack?” Gavin’s come over dressed in kid’s sized Providence Falcons jersey that still falls to his knees. He’s strapped elbow pads on over top, and is dragging the smallest hockey shorts behind him. They look giant beside Gavin.

“Making this the right size,” Jack answers, pointing at the tripod. Gavin’s brow furrows and he looks between Jack and his dad. Jack’s not sure what Eric’s doing behind him, but Gavin still looks suspicious as he takes another step towards Jack.

“Why?”

Jack crouches down to check that the tripod is level and won’t fall on Gavin.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He drops his voice into a whisper. Gavin’s still looks confused but he comes to stand right beside Jack so he can hear, still dragging the hockey pants.

“Your dad just told me that he wants his picture taken,” Jack says, whispering loud enough for Eric to hear as well. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to do a good enough job… Do you wanna try?”

Gavin’s eyes are as big and as wide as Jack’s seen them all evening, and for a moment he just looks like an excited kid, bouncing on his toes, tubes and tiredness completely forgotten.

“Can I?”

Jack nods and turns to make sure the the tripod is properly locked in place. Satisfied nothing is going to fall, Jack beckons Gavin over and when he’s in place behind the camera, Jack points out where to look and what buttons to click.

Gavin listens and nods seriously at Jack’s easy explanation, beaming at the viewfinder screen after he takes a couple of practice shots of the empty background, a dark sparkly blue that Gavin had picked out to go with his firefighter costume.

“Look dad!” Gavin says, pulling back from the camera and almost knocking Jack in the nose in his excitement. Jack sits back on his heels to dodge anymore stray limbs, knee walking even further back when Eric comes to crouch beside Gavin too. Gavin explains everything that Jack just told him, and even though Jack is sure that Eric was listening the first time around, he nods and makes understanding sounds every time Gavin pauses for breath.

“We’ll frame some of these for Great Moomaw, what d’you say Gav?” Eric asks. Gavin blinks and thinks about the question.

“Can we print some for my room too?” he asks. “I want to see you for always.”

Jack’s lost count of the amount of times his heart has clenched painfully this evening, hating the fact that now he’s picturing Gavin’s small body in a hospital bed, but Eric hardly blinks before he answers.

“‘Course sweetpea.”

Gavin nods, satisfied.

“Let’s take some with someone in them too though, eh Gavin?”  Jack says, as he finally stands up from his crouching position, brushing dust off his knees.

“Do you want to pick out a costume for me?” Eric asks. He gently pushes Gavin back up onto his feet from where he’d been leaning back against Eric and stands, making small steps towards the row of costumes. There’s probably not much there that’ll fit him, but there’s something to be said for dads who’ll stretch a child’s costume across their shoulders to see their kid happy.

“No, I wanna remember you like this,” Gavin says, matter-of-fact like. Eric freezes, holding a pair of rainbow wings. Jack bites his tongue to keep from audibly reacting, and finally Eric’s smile breaks.

“Well, alright then,” he says softly, turning his face away from Gavin and into the closet. “Lemme just hang these back up.” He clears his throat, once, twice, and Jack has no camera to fiddle with when Gavin’s still happily taking pictures of the background, and a clear view of the first tear that falls onto Eric’s cheek. He feels absolutely helpless as Eric closes his eyes and rubs a hand roughly across his face.

Even with his eyes closed, Eric looks tired, like he’s been carrying the weight of the world for far too long on his shoulders. And he probably has, Jack realizes. He doesn’t have kids sure, but he’s still haunted by the broken expressions on his parents’ faces when he woke up in the hospital, like their whole world was on the verge of collapsing before he opened his eyes. And just from watching Eric and Gavin interact, it’s not much of a stretch to assume that Gavin is Eric’s whole world.

Jack’s heart breaks for them both.

“Daddy?”

Eric’s eyes snap open and if he catches Jack staring at him, he doesn’t say anything, twisting towards Gavin, who’s looking over a little impatiently.

“I’m coming Gav, sorry!” Eric hangs up the wings and sets himself up in front of the camera. “How d’you want me?” He poses dramatically, jutting a hip out and pouting his lips. Gavin giggles.

“No, dad,” he says. “Just smile!”

Eric straightens out of the pose. “Alright sugar,” he says, and he smiles wide, any and all traces of his earlier tiredness gone. Gavin nods and presses the shutter down. He doesn’t pause to look at the viewfinder before he takes another one and then another one. Eric’s smile doesn’t waver, in fact growing softer and more natural the longer he watches his son. Jack finds himself mirroring the expression.

Jack has no idea how many pictures Gavin takes, but when Gavin starts to flag a little—the pauses to yawn between squeezing one eye shut and pressing the other to the view finder dragging on a little longer each time—Jack pushes up his sleeve to check his watch. His eyebrows go up when he sees it’s already almost 7:30, two and a half hours after Eric and Gavin first came into his studio. Eric must be paying more attention to Jack than he thought, because he’s got his phone out and looks just as surprised as Jack feels at the time.

“You just about done Gav?” Eric asks, sticking his phone back in his pocket. He takes a step towards Gavin.

“No,” Gavin says around another yawn. He snaps a picture of Eric mid-snort but lets himself be corralled over to the costumes.

“We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Jack’s time, hey sweetpea?” Eric says. Jack wants to say that he doesn’t mind, that he’d be happy having them around for as long as they’re willing to stay, but now that Eric’s said something about the time, Jack can see how hard Gavin was fighting his sleepiness, rubbing his eyes now. He yawns so widely that Jack sees his tonsils. Eric guides Gavin’s arms out of the Falconers jersey he’s been wearing, movements still practiced and careful not to dislodge the tube under Gavin’s nose as he pulls it over his head. Gavin droops forward, resting his head on Eric’s shoulder once he’s free.

“Long day?” Eric asks, expertly balancing keeping Gavin upright and stretching to get Gavin’s sweater and jacket. He mouths “thank you,” when Jack hands them over. Jack feels warm.

“You were there, daddy,” Gavin replies, managing to sound admonishing despite speaking mostly into Eric’s shirt.

“Oh that’s right.” Eric gets both their jackets on and stands, scooping Gavin up with one arm and holding the Falconers jersey in the other. He looks between the jersey and the hanger still on the ground, brow creased, and makes to bend over again.

“I’ve got it,” Jack says quickly before Eric can move. Gavin’s little fingers grip onto the back of Eric’s collar and he’s pressed his face to Eric’s throat as best he can, blinking slowly. Jack knows what an exhausted child looks like, and that’s without factoring in how sick Gavin might be so Jack takes the jersey and throws it over his shoulder, kicking the hanger out of Eric’s path.

“Are you sure?” Eric looks around reproachfully at the tutus that are still sticking out of the closet, the props that make the prop box hard to close, and the backgrounds still leaning against the wall, ready for whatever Gavin’s next chose was going to be. Eric winces when he sees the elbow pads around the tripod that Gavin stripped off and dropped on the floor at one point.

Jack nods and tries not to blush under Eric’s scrutiny. Gavin yawns loudly in his ear.

“Alright,” Eric sighs, running his free hand over Gavin’s back. It makes a swishing sound against the puffy fabric.“Gav, what do you say to Mr. Jack?”

Gavin picks up his head. “Thank you for taking my picture, Mr. Jack,” he says, managing to hold off yawning until the end. He blinks tiredly at Jack.

“And?” Eric prompts after a beat.

Gavin turns suddenly to look at his dad, almost hitting Eric in the face in the process. He squints at Eric until Eric whispers, “taking pictures,” in his ear.

“Oh! Thank you for letting me take pictures too. It was—” he yawns. “—was really cool.”

Jack smiles. “Anytime, Gavin,” he says, holding out a fist. Gavin’s whole face brightens as Eric’s falls, but Jack doesn’t think Gavin sees the expression when he touches his little fist to Jack’s.

Jack follows Eric out of the studio, closing the door behind him and deciding to deal with the little mess tomorrow. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have an immediate need for a clean kid’s studio, but he’ll double check later. He goes behind the desk to grab a pen and paper.

“So, if you wanna leave your email address here, and I’ll send you a link when I’ve done the edits and have uploaded them,” Jack explains, putting the paper on the counter. Eric shifts Gavin over to his left hip so he can write with his right hand. He pauses before picking up the pen, making sure Gavin’s toque is on. Gavin makes a noise in his throat, but his eyes stay closed.

“Um, do you have to edit anything?” Eric asks quietly. He sounds tired.

Jack clears his throat. “No. I can leave everything untouched.”

“Thank you.” Eric writes down his email address and then shifts Gavin again. It takes Jack a second to realise he’s reaching for his wallet.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks.

“Um, paying,” Eric says. He gives a Jack a funny look and tries to hand over his card.

“No,” Jack says. “Absolutely not.”

“What? No, you stayed late, you did so much,” Eric protests. “I know how much your shots are listed for, please charge me for that.”

“I’m not taking your money,” Jack says again, stepping back from the counter. It’s not like he’s lost any business letting Gavin take the pictures, so he can’t bring himself to put a price on the time he just spent with Gavin and Eric.

“This is a terrible way to run a business,” Eric huffs. “What’ll your boss say?”

Jack shrugs. “He’s a pushover.”

“Jack,” Eric says. He bites at his bottom lip.

“Eric, don’t worry about it. Honestly.”

Eric frowns at Jack but puts his card back in his wallet. “What’s your favourite dessert?”

That’s not what Jack excepts. “What?”

“When I have a minute, I’ll make you something.”

“Uh.” Jack looks at Eric, who’s looking back, expectant and completely serious.

“Do you like pie?” Eric asks.

“Yes?” Jack answers.

Eric nods, satisfied. “Good. I make really good pie.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says. “Honestly, it’s fine.”

“When I have a minute,” Eric repeats. “I will make you the best pie you’ve ever tasted.” He bounces a little, getting a better grip on Gavin. Jack doesn’t think about why or when that minute will come.

“Okay,” Jack says slowly. “I’ll uh, get those pictures up and send you the link as soon as possible.”

“Thank you Jack,” Eric says. He looks down at Gavin’s sleeping face. “Seriously. Thank you so much,” he says softly.

Jack just nods and unlocks the door so they can leave, a lump in his throat as he returns Eric’s wave after he puts Gavin into his carseat. He watches Eric walk around the car, wave one more time before getting and driving and Jack hopes with his whole heart that he sees them both again.

He locks the door and turns away from the window, hoping that he does get to see both of them again, and feeling sick at the thought of why he might now. Jack doesn’t blink away the tears this time.

[ethanalter]

The heartbreaking true story behind 'ALF's Special Christmas'

GIF: Alien Productions

The ’80s were a heyday for “Very Special Episodes,” those odd installments of a family sitcom and/or kids’ show where things unexpectedly got serious. Whether it was Alex P. Keaton spending an entire episode in therapy or Arnold Jackson having a harrowing encounter with a child molester, these half-hours admirably, if often awkwardly, tried to address complex subjects in ways that young viewers could process. At that time and still today, there’s never been a “Very Special Episode” quite like “ALF’s Special Christmas.” Premiering precisely 30 years ago on Dec. 14, 1987, ALF‘s hourlong Christmas tale separated the titular intergalactic immigrant from his adopted human family so that he could bring good tidings and joy to a dying young girl named Tiffany as she prepares to celebrate her very last holiday. Oh yeah, and he also prevents the hospital’s resident Santa, Mr. Foley — who is a grieving widower when not in costume — from taking a leap off of a snowy bridge.

It’s safe to say that dying children and suicidal Santas aren’t conventional ways of spreading Christmas cheer. And in the years since “ALF’s Special Christmas” premiered, the episode has frequently been written about in disbelieving tones by writers who are flummoxed by how it ever aired in the first place. Now the story can be told: Yes, Virginia there really was a Tiffany. Yahoo Entertainment learned this bombshell bit of news when we spoke with Paul Fusco, who created and voiced ALF, and writer Steve Hollander, who penned “Alf’s Special Christmas.” “The episode came out of a true story,” Fusco reveals. “I used to do a lot of Make-A-Wish things, because kids would write to ALF, and I would get calls from doctors. It’s heartbreaking when you think about it.”

Cleavon Little as Mr. Foley and Keri Houlihan as Tiffany in “Alf’s Special Christmas.” (Photo: Alien Productions)

One of the letters he received was from a girl named Tiffany Leigh Smith, whom the character in “ALF’s Special Christmas” is based on. “I don’t remember all the details, but I saved her letters and have them on file,” Fusco says. As Hollander recalls, the real Tiffany was a 9-year-old from the Midwest suffering from leukemia and eager to have a face-to-face conversation with her favorite Melmac citizen. “Someone at the local NBC station arranged a kind of video conference setup between her in her hospital bed and ALF,” he says. “He also had the presence of mind to turn on the tape and record it! [Former NBC president] Brandon Tartikoff saw it and thought, ‘We should make a Christmas special around this story.'”

While he can’t recall the specifics of his conversation with Tiffany, Fusco says that his general approach to those kinds of private appearances would be to keep the mood light and playful. “I would make jokes and small talk. I would try not to talk about their situation, which they didn’t want to talk about anyway. I would sometimes get a fact sheet about what they liked or didn’t like. And then I’d throw it to them, and ask, ‘Do you have any questions you want to ask me?’ I tried to make them laugh as much as I could and then say, ‘Hang in there, you be good — I hope to see you again.’ You leave them on a positive note; it’s about all you can do.” One rule he absolutely had was to never break character in front of the children. “These kids wanted to believe — it was magic to them. I was a magician early on in my career, and you never want to see what’s behind the curtain. You want to keep it real.”

That’s the same way that Hollander and Fusco both approached the task of turning Tiffany’s real-life story into the basis for “ALF’s Special Christmas.” Watching the episode, it’s striking how different it looks from a typical episode of ALF or, for that matter, a typical episode of any ’80s sitcom. Gone is the laugh track, the usual set, and the three-camera setup, replaced by a single camera (the episode was shot on film, rather than video), real locations — including a former hospital rented out by film and television productions — and the usual rhythm of setup and punchline. The dramatic shift is evident from the earliest scenes, when ALF’s misunderstandings of Christmas conventions lead him to exile himself from the Tanner clan, climbing into Mr. Foley’s van and ending up in the pile of presents he hands out to sick kids at the hospital. “I was unsure of how it would come off,” Fusco admits now of the special’s more serious tone. “I didn’t want it to look hokey or saccharine in any way. I was also worried how I would react in those scenes, but it was really one of the first dramatic roles that ALF had to play in the show.”

GIF: Alien Productions

In contrast, Hollander says that once he viewed the tape of ALF’s bedside chat with Tiffany and talked at length with the show’s co-creator, Tom Patchett, the story flowed easily. “In Tom’s mind, the central question for ALF was: What do you say to a little girl who is not going to see another Christmas?” Perhaps recognizing the unique tonal and narrative challenges presented by that question, Patchett allowed Hollander to pen his script outside of the writers’ room, where episodes were written and rewritten by the entire staff. “The staff was not involved in outlining the story or rewriting it. The person who could change anything was Tom.” And Hollander remembers that Patchett didn’t want to change very much about the script that he turned in. “Maybe 10-15 percent was cut out just for time. There was one scene in the beginning where the Tanners are driving to their family cabin, and ALF is in the backseat in a child’s seat with a little steering wheel. And every two seconds, he’s going, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’ That didn’t get filmed because of production scheduling. But other than that, nothing major was taken out or added.”

One scene that was always in the script, much to Fusco’s concern, was a sequence where ALF would play doctor to a pregnant woman, helping deliver her baby while they were both stranded in an elevator. Hollander wrote that encounter into the script as a way to generate some laughs in an otherwise serious episode. “I was kind of on edge about that scene,” Fusco confesses now. “Any time they could put ALF in a doctor’s suit or something stupid like that, I was always like, ‘No, no, no, no!’ But they said, ‘You need to balance the jokes off with the dying child.’ It’s probably the silliest moment in the episode, but I think the audience forgave us.”

GIF: Alien Productions

As per “Very Special Episode” tradition, “ALF’s Special Christmas” features a pair of very special guest stars. Blazing Saddles leading man Cleavon Little personally sought out the role of Mr. Foley, a character Fusco says he hoped veteran character actor Barnard Hughes might play. “Our casting person said that Cleavon was either a fan of the show or made some overture that he was interested in the part. I thought, ‘Wow, that’s a total 180 from where I was going with it!’ I don’t think he started out as a comedic actor and, because of Blazing Saddles, he probably wanted a dramatic role again. He was a fun guy to work with.”

And Fusco couldn’t resist injecting a little Blazing Saddles-style humor into his relatively few scenes with Little. While shooting the bridge sequence, where ALF talks Mr. Foley back from the literal ledge, the actor went off-script for the first take. “I yelled ‘Jump,’ and then said, ‘You’ve got nothing left; you might as well do it — it’s the right choice.’ The crew went crazy! I think that broke the ice with Cleavon.” (It’s worth noting that Little also shares scenes with another future star, Carl Franklin, who plays Tiffany’s doctor. Franklin has since become a respected director, alternating features like Devil in a Blue Dress with episodic work on shows like House of Cards and The Leftovers.)

GIF: Alien Productions

For the role of Tiffany, meanwhile, NBC indulged in a little cross-promotion by suggesting that the producers cast child actress Keri Houlihan, one of the stars of the Wilford Brimley drama Our House. Fusco says he’s uncertain whether Houlihan — who left acting after Our House ended in 1988 — was aware that she was playing a real person. But neither she nor NBC insisted on providing the fictional Tiffany with a last-minute reprieve via, say, a Melmacian serum or a Christmas miracle. The last time we see her, she’s sadly waving goodbye to ALF from the window of her hospital room, a clear signal that she won’t be going home. (A closing title card pays tribute to the real Tiffany.) “That never came up — maybe because there was a real story there,” Hollander says when asked whether the network wanted a happier ending. “Nobody thought, ‘We’ve got to make a cheerful Christmas story. It was a true situation; we weren’t trying to invent a story.” In fact, Fusco remembers receiving letters from Tiffany’s mother and doctor after the girl’s death. “They said that by just allowing her to talk to ALF, it prolonged her life by maybe a month. It gave her hope to hold on to.”

While “ALF’s Special Christmas” is often met with baffled reactions today, 30 years ago it helped the sitcom attain its perch among 1987’s most highly rated shows. And rather than be upset by it, young viewers seemed to take its serious storyline in stride. “The phone was ringing off the hook for sponsors as soon as that episode aired,” remembers Hollander, who went on to work as a co-producer during the show’s third season and also wrote a two-part Thanksgiving special where ALF aids a homeless man in the Tanners’ neighborhood. “My mother watched the show with some young kids from the neighborhood and said, ‘They didn’t laugh once!’ And I said, ‘That’s great, Mom. That’s just what I wanted.’ It was a true situation and we had this character that kids didn’t know was just a puppet. ALF had meaning to a lot of children.”

Photo: Alien Productions

Fusco expresses similar sentiments about kids’ affection for his alien alter ego blunting any emotional trauma from Tiffany’s story. “They believed enough in the character that we were able to pull it off and keep it real. They saw the emotion and felt that ALF had more range than just being a one-line jokester.” At the same time, he’s aware that “ALF’s Special Christmas” is more of a time capsule for a vanished era of TV as opposed to a source of inspiration for contemporary sitcoms. “What shows are doing that kind of thing today? The Big Bang Theory wouldn’t do something like that. Did we overdo it back then? Or is it because there’s so much horror in the world right now, we want to give audiences pure escapism? Buying into the character was the important part, and it apparently worked because people are moved by it.”

ALF is available to rent or purchase on Amazon, or stream for free on Amazon Prime with a Starz subscription.

Read more from Yahoo Entertainment: The 30 best TV moments of 2017  Celebrities who lit up 2017 All of ‘The Office’ Christmas episodes, ranked

[fluffyllamas-23]

Snake oil and miracle elixirs

*Cheers* It’s the last day of Sickdays, guys! Big thanks to @mypoorfaves for helping me think of this idea, because I was struggling lol. 

Prompt: You know that one remedy that grandmas all swear by? Or those ads promoting a miracle cure “that doctors don’t want you to know about”? This is the time to put them to use! Your character is sick, but their caretaker (or the character themselves) insists on trying something…. alternative. Whatever it is just makes them feel worse, and maybe even adds more problems onto whatever they already had. 

Warnings: Slight mention of nausea, but it’s very light. 

Victor didn’t get sunburned, he just didn’t.  He was lucky that way, he figured.

“Victor, please put on sunscreen.” Yuuri pleaded, rubbing the sunscreen into his cheeks. 

“Silly, Yuuri, I have sunscreen.”

“Not your…homemade sunscreen that doesn’t work.  Actual sunscreen.”

“I’ll have you know that this is a great sunscreen.” Victor said, offended.  “I read the review and made it myself.”

Yuuri raised his brows. “The review? As in singular? Vitya, you’re going to fry.”

“I will not! It’s natural.  Something natural can’t be bad for you.” He insisted.  “Besides, I’ve never gotten sunburned before.”

“Never?!” Yuuri gawked.  

“Well…maybe once or twice, but it was very minor.”

“Of course you’ve never been sunburned.” Yuuri grumbled.  “You’re just perfect aren’t you?”

Victor grinned.  “Some people might say that.”

Yuuri just scowled at him.

Victor and Yuuri had rented a boat and packed a picnic, and they were all set to spend the day out on the lake. Yuuri was nervous about this stupid natural sunscreen recipe he’d found online.  

It had baby oil in it. Baby. Oil. Yuuri tried telling Victor that it was a terrible, terrible, ingredient to use, and that he would end up red as a lobster, but Victor refused to listen to him.

Yuuri supposed that this was akin to a child touching a hot stove.  You could tell the kid that the stove is hot and to not touch it until you were blue in the face, but they had to figure it out for themselves.

He just hoped Victor didn’t get burned too badly, but they were going to be out on a lake, and Yuuri’s weather app said it would be in the 100s.  

“Are you ready to go, lyubov moya?” 

“Are you sure you don’t want some actual sunscreen?”

Victor gasped dramatically, clutching at his chest. “Yuuuuri.  I’m honestly very offended that you don’t trust me.”

“I’m sorry, Vitya…but I’m telling you, baby oil is going to make you burn.”

“It will not.”

“Victor! The directions called for coconut oil!” Yuuri cried, slamming the paper down on the counter.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT SOMETHING THAT WAS ORGANIC COULD HURT ME THIS WAY!” Victor screeched, staring at his reflection in the mirror.  “My skin! My beautiful, beautiful skin! It’s so reeeeeed.”


As Yuuri had anticipated, Victor had burned.  Badly. His face, neck, chest, arms, back and the tops of his legs were fried.  He had been wearing sunglasses, and you could see the outline of where they had been.  

“Yuuri, I have been injured.” Victor whined, waddling out into the kitchen.  

“Because you used baby oil and not coconut oil.”

“It hurts.” Victor whined, poking his bottom lip out.  “Yuuri, make it stop.”

“Does it hurt to sit?”

“Yes….YUURI.”

“What?”

“I’m never going to be able to sit again.  Do people die from sunburns? I think I might.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to die…you’ll just be uncomfortable for a little while.”

“I feel don’t feel well.” 

“Yeah?” Yuuri frowned.  “Let me get you something for the pain.”

“I’m so tired.  Why am I so tired?”

“I’m not sure, but it happens with really bad sunburns.

The pain meds kicked in after about ten minutes, and by that point, Victor was really miserable. His head had been throbbing angrily, as if it was yelling at him for being such an idiot.  He should have listened to Yuuri, he shouldn’t have tried to make his own - or at least, he should have read the directions more carefully.  

His back wasn’t burned as badly as his front, so he was able to lie down in bed, while Yuuri put aloe vera gel on his burns.  

“How’s that?” Yuuri asked.

“That feels nice.” Victor hummed, closing his eyes.  

He was no longer whining about his eminent demise, and was instead lying quietly, hardly saying anything. Yuuri suspected he had a fever, and was feeling really miserable, because that he had no other explanation for why he was being so withdrawn and quiet. 

“Do you feel feverish, Vitya?”

“Mmmm.” Victor nodded, not opening his eyes. 

“What else is bothering you?”

“My head,” he mumbled, “I feel sick.”

Yuuri sighed.  “I’m so sorry, Vitya.”

Victor shrugged.  “I think I’m going to try and sleep.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“What…the hell?” Yuuri said, his jaw dropping as he looked at Victor.  He had red, splotchy marks up and down his arm, and on his neck and face.

“I may have made a mistake.” Victor said weakly, an open jar of an unidentifiable white cream sitting next to him at the table. 

“What…what happened?” Yuuri asked. 

“I went to the mall…this guy was selling skincare products and he told me this would make it better.  

Yuuri crouched next to him, his fingers trailing the marks lightly.  “I think you’re allergic to it. Do they itch?”

Victor nodded miserably. “Yes.”

Yuuri plucked up the jar and dropped it in the trashcan before grabbing the Benadryl from the kitchen cabinet. “Victor, no more…natural remedies.”

“This one wasn’t natural, though!” 

“I told you that aloe vera gel would work fine.  You know what’s in that.  What possessed you to go to the mall, nauseous and with a fever?”

“I just want to feel better.” Victor said in a small voice.

Yuuri sighed, his expression softening as he handed Victor two pills and a glass of water.

“Have a little patience. Leave it to me, I’ve got you, Vitya.  You’ll feel better soon, I promise.” Yuuri said softly, putting his hand on the side of Victor’s head.

Yuuri pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

Victor simply nodded.  

[dcnativegal]

Maybe I am an artist

Zora Neale Hurston once said, “I love myself when I am laughing, and again when I’m looking mean and impressive.”   I could safely say, “I love myself when I am playing with yarn, and again when I’ve finished a project and taken a picture of it to post on Facebook.”

Moving to the Oregon Outback, and Valerie’s adorable loft house, has loosed whatever constraints I’d had in DC on yarn binging. Or am I stocking up for my new career as a fiber artist?   Perhaps my yarn buying behavior is yet another one of my compulsions. The Cambridge English Dictionary defines compulsion as a very strong feeling of wanting to do something repeatedly that is difficult to control. So why control it? I see an ad for yarn, I get an email from Webs.com, I get a notification that someone has posted “a yarn for sale” picture in Yarn Hoarders Anonymous on Facebook. If its bulky yarn, or very reasonably priced… I’ve hit up paypal before I know it. Or I do know it and I do it anyway.

But is it a bad thing? Why must I pathologize my yarn buying? I love my yarn. It gives me great joy to order it, anticipate it coming, then open the package (that Paisley’s patient and kind postmistress has hauled to her counter). I deeply enjoy planning what I’ll make with it. Occasionally I’ll open it and go, bleh, not what I had hoped for, but that stuff will find a place and a purpose, too. Yarnbombing with many strands of yarn at once will reduce my supply…

I dream of projects. When I want to stop obsessing about a client, or about my most recent blood sugar, or whatever really stupid thing I said that day (Open mouth, Insert foot), then I plan a project as I drift off to sleep. Something in purple, the color I have the most of. What kind of baby blanket will I make for the Holy Brother’s daughter’s love child? What kind of stitch will best cover the irrigation half wheel that Valerie salvaged? I plan to make a half sun full of oranges, yellows, and white, with a little purple and green thrown in. It will be 3 feet in diameter, and hung from the fence. It will be my second outdoor decoration, after the July 4th crocheted flag I tacked to a folding rectangular trellis and hung on the side of the house.

Why should we all use our creative power?  Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate, so indifferent to fighting and the accumulation of objects and money.                                        Brenda Ueland

 Perhaps I am subconsciously planning for my next career, although I learning and growing in my current one. This ‘behavioral therapist’ business is hard work. Lake County is the redheaded stepchild of Klamath County, which is supposed to share resources with its sister county to the east. It’s also the mostly ignored second cousin of Deschutes County which is just to the north and full of resources, people, stores… it’s where most north Lake County residents go for banking, pharmacy and grocery shopping. Anyway, the impoverishment of Lake County is only one of the reasons this old social worker finds the work challenging. I think most therapists struggle with at least some cases. The multiple early traumas that my clients had to cope with, on top of the challenges of modern life and the dearth of jobs and housing, combine to lay waste the most resilient psyche. Not to mention the recidivism of “substance use disorder”, the newest official term for what was once called addiction.  I do get a surge of joy when one of the clients graduates from their 12 weeks of sobriety and I can report to the probation officer that they are CLEAN.  They were clean before I knew them, however; I take no credit.

Treat people as if they were what they ought to be, and you help them to become what they are capable of being.    

Goethe

 I have no business plan for my next career as a fiber artist. I had an Etsy store once, and spent a lot of money on photography equipment (a huge white sheet and nice lights with umbrellas attached) to take pictures of my accomplishments. Didn’t really work. Maybe I didn’t promote it? I thought my prices were reasonable. I sold more by just mentioning something on facebook than I ever did on Etsy.  

I don’t really care, although I suppose I should, whether I make money from my creations. It would be nice to recoup some of the expense of the yarn, which is really pricey, even when I buy from other yarn hoarders. (Maybe I should have sheep in the side yard, sheer them, prepare their wool, spin it, dye it… yeah? No.)  I enjoy seeing my work wrapped around a friend’s shoulders in winter. I missed seeing the smile of delight when Valerie’s niece opened up the box and saw two, washable, gorgeous if I do say so myself, baby blankets at her twin baby debut. That delight is my payment. I did get a nice thank you note.

What I really love is making the stuff. I love selecting the yarns, picking the hook or needle size, and going at it. I don’t follow patterns, although I do learn stitches from youtube. I make shit up. I know how to fit a hat, and even fit a sweater, without a pattern, although mostly I make scarves and afghans. People don’t wear nice handmade sweaters anymore. They are too hot indoors, and too much of a pain to take on and off. Hats and scarves make more sense, and in winter, a beautiful lap blanket totally helps when the fire is beginning to go out. I think so anyway. My family members, and Valerie’s, get knit stuff for Christmas and so far, no one has taken me aside and said, Jane, “We have enough hats to last the rest of our lives… maybe a gift card??”  I think they are too polite to tell me; I just hope they’ve passed the hat along to another cold noggin.

When I ask myself, what do I have to do each day? One answer is I must crochet or knit. My hands itch to be making something, to follow a rhythm with a piece of wood and soft fur of sheep, rabbit, llama. Or the product of silk worm and bamboo. I’ve discovered to my delight a substance called Upscale Acrylic.  I sit having a conversation with anyone, and if I am not also crocheting, a part of my brain is aching. I have two projects I’m knitting[jl1]  at work which I labor to finish during staff meetings, which are an odd affair, taking place over a large screen where most of the staff is sitting around a table 2 hours’ drive away and three of us in Christmas Valley are straining to hear. It is an exercise in frustration, but perhaps it is  practice for when I’m hard of hearing and I miss most of the content and a whole lot of nonverbal verbal cues. I’ll be knitting then, too.

I have projects that are perfect for church, or for a movie, since I can knit in the round without looking.  I get a lot done, especially during the sermon, or the previews, when I’m just not really engaged. If you are preaching, just know that you knocked it out of the park if I stopped knitting.

In a college seminar, we sat in a circle and talked and listened. I knit and talked and listened. One day, everyone turned to me and I asked why everyone was looking at me? One of the students said, because you put your knitting down. I always put it down when I had something to say. Ah.

My biggest projects are in the house, in large piles or baskets or boxes, and they require a lot of lap, and a cooperative cat. I’m working on a rug that will be something like 6 by 4 feet. I also have a number of lap blankets that are in process. I have two small purses half finished: purses the size of smart phones sold really well at the Paisley Bazaar last November. Sometimes I stare at my yarn and I get a flash of inspiration and I just up and start something entirely new. So what if I have 12 projects in various stages of completion. I finish my projects. Then I put them in a plastic trunk for gift/bazaar/me for later. And keep going. Yarn is joy.

It is also taking over the guest bedroom and the living room. You can’t see the surface of my desk for the piles of yarn. It’s rather like kudzu in the Southern states, hanging over everything and creeping around. Rather like a fungus. Rather like the clutter in a teenage boy’s room, there is a debris tide.  I neaten and organize, and more yarn comes into the mix.

I think this is where the compulsion comes in. I do not need more yarn. I have a ‘stash beyond life expectancy.’ But new yarn, new colors and textures, they call to me.

Like wine calls to the alcoholic. Like meth calls to the meth user. Like chocolate calls to me. Like Blue Bunny chocolate covered ice cream bars call to me all the way from the Summer Lake gas station store. The one that says ‘Ice! You need Ice!’ on its big sign.  The owner is the cranky pumper of gas who hales me when he sees me: So! What treason have you committed lately, you pinko?  (Pinkos of the world, unite.)

I can’t afford the yarn, any more yarn ever, until I am out of debt. I asked Valerie if she minded the slow creep of yarn, and she said she will mind it come winter when she’s living in the house most of the time. With her peripatetic work schedule, she gets to stay a bunch of different places, none of which are as cluttered as our Paisley home. Cluttered with yarn.

Okay so I should stop buying yarn.

I was always a spendthrift, but my then-husband’s monthly explosion in response to the credit card bill was a bit of a deterrent. When we divorced, I blew through some serious money that came out of my retirement, and oh, I bought a house. Which I then had to sell toot suite when I took a severance package to get out of a very well paying but crazy-making workplace. (In 4 years, I lived through 3 bosses and 3 reorganizations. By the buyout, I was working so far away from my skill set that I would sit in my office and cry.)

Living in small spaces or other people’s spaces after the divorce kept a slight lid on my yarn obsession. And now in the lovely loft house, when I’ve down sized my furniture to the amount I could move cross country, I have lots of room.  Oops. Yarn explosion. The generous tax refund this spring did not help.

What’s this about being an artist?  Delusions of grandeur, probably.

Once upon a time, I took an environmental sculpture class at Oberlin. By my junior year, as a religion major and women’s studies minor I was writing a bazillion papers every semester. I wished to escape another paper and branched out to take folk dancing, print making and drawing, and even horseback riding, which, for this city kid, was really fun.  A friend of mine, Monica, talked me into this class on Environmental Sculpture.

Our assignment was to plan a sculpture, and take care of all of the steps necessary to get permission to make it and install it. Finally, you build it. I wandered around the Oberlin neighborhood we lived in and found several shells of houses that had burned down. One shell had all four corners intact, and everything else was a stinky mass of melted plastic and trash. I had my site. I don’t recall getting permission from anyone to build a sculpture there.  So it was a squatter site. I do remember finding an old wooden fireplace mantel, a bunch of wooden chair legs, some pallets. Pretty soon, I had the outline of a little hut. About 8 feet by 8 feet. I looked up Shinto Shrines, and back then there was no google. A shrine could be a home to a spirit who lived in that place. A living thing was needed, and a philodendron did the job. My classmates helped me raise the roof, which was a wooden shed structure just perfect for the top. I had my sculpture and I loved it very much. I still have the photos taken by another Obie, Bernice. Looking at them, I recall what a magical process this was.

To this day, I collect found objects and plan to make more sculptures. I might just be able to do that in Paisley. I have the space, and live in a town with a complete lack of judgment for saving odd things that look like junk. (Have you seen our side yard???) (Have you seen our neighbor to the immediate south???)

Why can’t I be an artist?

Why can’t art flow out of me and be manifested in some form, and then be shown to the public?

What is art? I have a broad definition. Anything made from my hands that is not food, is art. It does not have to be a job, but instead, a way of being in the world. A way of seeing something that does not exist yet and bringing it into this reality, rather like the sculptor who sees a large block of stone and envisions a human figure hidden inside. Chip away the stone and the human emerges. ­­I see a physical space, or a blank fence wall, and I envision something there. Mobiles made of found objects, including cow bones, are taking up residence in my imagination. The afore-mentioned setting sun, made of half of an irrigation wheel and a whole lot of yarn. There are a lot of weathered pieces of wood, including twisting branches, that I’d love to build into something…

Creativity is seeing something that doesn’t exist already. You need to find out how you can bring it into being and that way be a playmate with God.                                    Michele Shea

 As I settle into life in Lake County, I anticipated I’d have more free time to do things like volunteer, and make art. I’m beginning to make some art, as my fourth of July American flag takes its place on the side of the house. It has many other colors besides red white and blue, which I’d hoped would make a point about multi-cultural diversity, but they are too subtle. You have to go right up to the thing to see the greens, golds and purples. That’s okay. It was a first effort. It is a reassuringly familiar American Flag for the conservative county I live in. It was Valerie’s idea. She said, you know what the cowboys would love? A crocheted American flag. And so it is.

The sun will be multi-colored.

The outside of the house will begin to look like the inside: colorful and full of art.

I am an artist.

I recently stayed in a house that had a small wooden sign in it that said: I can be anything, but I can’t do everything.

I will be an artist. And a therapist. I will be a volunteer in small ways, like when I go to Lakeview or Bend, I can tell my neighbors that I’m there, so I can pick up a prescription or a rotisserie chicken, or hair dye. I will try to treat my pancreas better, and maybe ride my tricycle around town.

I will try to buy less yarn. Hmf. I call bullshit. Yoda said, there is no try, there is only do. So, I guess that means, I will stop buying yarn. Until… the kudzu has been trimmed and the native plants can breathe. Um, or maybe until we can walk through the living room without tripping over a bag or basket of yarn. That’s a fair goal. The more specific the goal, the easier to reach, right?

All the arts we practice are apprenticeship.  The big art is our life.   M.C.Richards

    [jl1]