#why a random November Saturday afternoon to night?

[luna-the-cretar]

My neighbors have been partying or whatever for like 12 hours now, which sucks bc they’re right outside my room, and I have a really bad migraine rn

I can’t even really drown them out, either. They’re louder than my fucking TV. Like bro, it’s 11:30pm, and this neighborhood is mostly full of old people that are casually chatting on Deaths doorstep. Why the fuck are they partying for so fucking long—

[octalove]

VIII: Struck by Lightning

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Reader makes a confession, and goes on a date. Previous.

TW: Brief mention of gore (just blood)

In the weeks succeeding the Little Italy mission, I found a rhythm in the two conflicting heartbeats of my life. Occasionally, I met with Jason to file down the multitude of criminals who opposed him (it wasn’t all rescuing orphans and kittens, but his justice was fair and swift), and other than that, I carried on with life as normal; both as myself, and Batgirl. It was an inconsistent, exciting balancing act.

I tried to humor Bruce’s transparent attempts to placate me with cold cases, deeming it study. My school work had unsurprisingly lost its appeal, and I found myself rocking in the river banks of what was sure to be a failing grade in most of my classes- though I had yet to run ashore. Yet.

I danced along, despite my reprisal (a lack of sleep, and white lies on either side), and overall there was a certain stalemate. With that, peace. Or at least, the closest I could get.

On a Saturday I happened to have free (to my great relief), I woke up at one in the afternoon, to a blessedly dim day that kept the light in my room dark enough to cradle my lie-in.

I washed the sleep from my face, and stumbled downstairs, muscles sore from a Thursday night mission with Jason at the Port (of which I told my family I was going to a party). Tim was the only one in the kitchen- looking like he, too, had just crawled out of bed. He was eating cereal in silence.

We hadn’t been avoiding each other, per say- just got wrapped up in our own routines. Routines that kept me out of the house, and him trapped within it.

“Morning.” I said.

“Mm.” He replied.

I poured out my own bowl of cereal and settled on top of the glossy white granite. It was kind of a running joke at the Wayne household that you could sit anywhere but the chairs. Even Damian picked up on it- and, naturally, he was the best at it- perching his lithe little form atop the fridge at one point.

Now, Tim and I sat side by side on the countertop, shoulders brushing and spoons clanging against our glass bowls. Nothing more was said, but it was a comfortable silence.

I thought, for a second, about the world he’d been living in for the past few months as November bled into December. About his work and his many, many jobs he had to do. The way he shouldered them all week-to-week. He didn’t have to, but he did.

Tim made me a better person. I thought so, anyway.

But then, before I met him, I was the kind of person who let Carolyn Crawford slap me across the face to cover for someone else’s secret. Now, I was the kind who let other people take the blame for mine. Maybe Tim didn’t make me a better person. Only I could do that.

*

“I need to talk to you.” I said it firmly, and with authority. Mostly to convince myself that I was certain in my intention to go through with it. Bruce eyed me, looking up from his book.

“Alright.”

“...”

“...”

“In private.”

Alfred and Damian’s voices carried through to the living room as they had tea (an evening tradition). Bruce nodded, closed his book, and led me upstairs.

His office was a quiet, peaceful place. Finished dark wood, glass tables, and black leather accents. It was the room in the house that was most furnished to his own private taste, and thus, a glimpse inside was into him. It was mostly predictable; W.E. briefcases, notebooks and pens, case files open, and a map of the city that was displayed behind his desk. But there were other things too; a rubik’s cube half solved on the settee, a magazine featuring Vicki Vale with a pen in her hand and a defiant, head-strong look on her face. A gorgeous trailing point knife that belonged to Damian (probably confiscated).

I sat down in the chair that faced his own; his giant, glossy desk between us. I wanted to be swallowed into the dark leather. I felt like I was back at the shrink.

“Tim didn’t sneak off on the 21st.” I said quickly, cutting off the silence as quickly as I could. “He’s not the one who saw Red Hood kill that guy. It was me. I made Tim promise not to tell. He lied to cover for me.”

Bruce was quiet. He did that a lot; made you wait for him to speak. Seconds, minutes, hours. It all felt the same when he let you simmer in your own mistakes. I didn’t look up.

“I see.”

Silence. A long, testing silence. His irritating little desk clock ticked away.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” He asked.

I nodded.

“Very well. You’re dismissed.”

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it? You’re not mad?”

He paused. “Should I be?”

I blinked, gaze falling on the floor. “I put Tim in a really shitty position. He didn’t have to lie, but he did because I asked him to. I’m mad at me.” I admitted quietly.

Bruce nodded pedantically, resting his head on his hand. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

I furrowed my brow. It wasn’t good enough for me. “It was wrong.” I clarified, trying to press for some manner of reprimand that I didn’t truly want, but felt deserving of anyway. Bruce considered this, in his quiet, inscrutable way. After a moment, he spoke.

“Your mothers trusted me.” He said. I knew that. My parents were business-oriented like that. They were pulled together by happenstance, each without family and carving their own way in the world by studying international law, and applying it to companies who could afford private foreign trade, such as Wayne Enterprises. I attended the parties, the galas, standing around in my designer gowns while my moms handed out their business cards and talked about imports. They weren’t neglectful, just distracted.

“I don’t know if you remember-“

“I do.”

And if I had a dollar for every time the cops or the shrink asked me if I remembered that night, I’d buy my own manor.

Bruce Wayne was at my birth. He and my mothers had been business partners for a while by that time. He watched me, dutifully, when my parents went on date nights, and played catch with me when I accompanied him and Dick to the park. He cooked me breakfast the morning after my mothers died.

I knew it wasn’t a random killing, but he didn’t talk about why they were murdered in their own bed until I was fifteen. By then, I was knowledgeable enough to go searching through the police reports on my own. So instead, one night he’d sat me down at the kitchen table, looking at me earnestly.

“You have to understand, Y/N. Your mothers were...” He’d taken a deep breath. Tried again. “They were involved in things. Things I didn’t know about. It made them a lot of enemies.” Then, something harder passed his features. A frustration.

“They were completely blind to the fact that it meant you would never have a normal life. Not as long as they kept it up- that... double life.” I let the statement hang in the air for a time. “That was stolen from you, from the moment they got involved with the Baciu. And I’m sorry.”

It was easy to be sorry. I was sorry, too. My mothers got themselves tangled in Gotham’s heroin trade, and they weren’t careful enough, so they died for it. It was fairly cut and dry. Open file, close case. But the part that was so bitter to swallow was that it happened to me. A fourteen-year-old child creeping into my mothers’ bed because I’d heard a noise, and the re-runs of Ghost Hunter I’d religiously consumed were conjuring movement in the shadows. But there were no ghosts. Just sheets stained with blood that looked black in the darkness. Just the wet, clogged sort of sound when I peeled back the covers, unable to register they way my mothers were bent, and stilled in a way that only death can induce, where just earlier that night they’d been walking and talking. Bringing me Chinese take-out for dinner.

Their death, and everything that followed was emptying. Cracking open a great chasm and bringing death home, into the halls, and into my room. No longer a rumor. It was an empty chair, and a storied space made cold and worthless. It would’ve been easier if they had simply died as a random killing. Tragic, standard, random Gotham City killing. If I had just been that unlucky. If they’d only been struck by lightning. Instead, I grieved twice; once for who they were, and another time, for who I thought they were.

When Bruce adopted me, I became Batgirl. I made it my own vendetta to stop criminals without killing them, because I knew that some- most of them had children at home who would be the real victims if I did.

But then, I thought deeper. More considerately, about who my mothers were. Moreover, who they weren’t. Pearl and gold, white teeth and hairspray. Singing to me, and playing Monopoly, at which they were both so competitive that they had to kiss and make up after every game. Bringing me a strawberry cupcake in bed every year on my birthday. Kissing me on the head. Telling me to be good. Leaving me in that big house. Going off to Port Adams, or Crime Alley. Signing orders. Putting bodies in Finger River.

Nobody’s innocent here, dollface.

“They trusted me.” Bruce’s voice interrupted my reminiscing with the ghosts of my past. “I know their death was hard, and you may still be recovering. I’m trying to do the best I can for you.” He finished. For all the gnashing teeth and avaricious expanses of Gotham City secrets, he looked tired.

“I know, Bruce.” I said quietly. “Me too.”

*

The following Tuesday, I got home from school and started on a mountain of homework I needed to do- some make up work as well. Christmas break was around the corner, and I was slowly losing motivation as the semester drew to a close. I had too many distractions; and tonight was no exception.

Ding.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down, eyebrows raising to find that it was a text from Jason- one that wasn’t just a pin dropped to a location.

Meet me at Twin Sharks. I’ll buy you a coffee.

- What’s the occasion?

No reply. I sighed. I should’ve called him and made him tell me, but I knew that I would go no matter what, so I decided to play the apathy card. Despite my cool response, my heart (the traitor) was fluttering like a bird. Was this about the kiss? Our partnership? Was it an actual, regular date? Or was he breaking it off? My mind raced, and as I pulled together a tasteful outfit and sprayed myself with perfume, I promised myself that it wasn’t for him.

The Twin Sharks was a diner in Upper West Side, near China town. It was nicer than the likes of Sherman’s, or anything else East End had to offer. The late afternoon was unexpectedly bright, clouds parted for a sweet reprieve of gold and blush in the sky. The sun was a striking blood-orange, hung low over the city. It struck a match in my chest- some childish, poetic hopefulness.

The diner’s door jingled, and I scanned the booths and tables. It was a little crowded, but I spotted Jason alone in a booth, his eyes cast down, involved with his phone. I made my way over to him, slipping off my coat and plopping down his opposite.

“Hey.” I said. His eyes fell upon me, and I saw something on his face- maybe surprise, or something to that effect- before he composed his expression into something unreadable.

“Hey.”

The diner had a big, hot pink neon sign that depicted a matching pair of sharks above the counter. Its buzzing glow mixed with the orange gleam of the lowering sun through the windows- it was all very rose-colored.

The waitress put a coffee in front of me, and I got to work on adorning it with the little cream and sugar packets on the table. He watched me do it for while.

“What?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Nothin’.” He said. Then, he reached across the table, and took my hand, pulling it back to him, and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles. I was so startled by it that I dropped the sugar packet I was holding. Neither of us seemed to notice. He turned my hand over and placed another kiss in the inside of my wrist before returning it safely to my side of the table. I was certain my face burned like the neon sharks.

“I’m- um- is this a date?” I asked, trying to get him to say something- anything- to get my mind off the way he’d just reduced me to a puddle.

He looked amused by that. “You want it to be?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, stirring my coffee. “You invited me.”

He nodded, eyes falling away. “Yeah. I’ve got an update for you. D’amici business.”

“Oh.” By the look on his face, it wasn’t good news.

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“Perfect. My day’s been a little too good so far.” I said. He slid me his phone- on the screen was an article from the Gotham Quarterly.

Young Bride Found Murdered in Diamond District Estate

I read over it a couple times, brow furrowing. “You mean...“

“Penelope. It happened last night.”

“Shit.” I muttered, scrolling down and scanning through the article. My throat caught as I read over it. She was shot in her bed. “It says there’s no suspects.”

“Course it does. It’s the mafia. They handle things nice and quiet.”

“And I’m guessing you have a few a suspects.” He nodded grimly as I slid his phone back to him.

“One better. I know exactly who did it. I think you do, too.”

I put my head in my hands, mulling over my options. Really there was only one. Penelope’s beautiful, flustered face and apologetic eyes flashed through my mind. Her wind-chime laugh as we ate scones under the watchful eye of her adoring, peculiar grandmother.

“Okay.” I resolved. “Let’s get that girl justice.”

[twomoonstwosuns]

thanksgiving break

back to you [series masterlist]

previous part · next part

pairing: professor!poe dameron x reader

warnings: smut (18+), swearing, age gap (reader over 18), everything consensual

word count: 4.3k oops

a/n: get ready, i’m turning this into a full series (my first ever series and i’m STOKED). it’s gonna be full of smutty, fluffy, angsty goodness. i’m making a tag list, hit me up if you want to be added. i’ll link the masterlist when i have it made. also sorry not sorry i got really carried away and basically just wrote a porno.

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

You hadn’t seen Poe since that night.

You weren’t purposely avoiding him. In fact, you had caught yourself looking for him within a crowd of people, in line getting coffee, or walking outside between classes. Since his class was over, you had no reason to go to the building he taught in. And it would definitely be weird if you started showing up to his office hours without a reason.

Midterms were rough on you and everything after that just seemed to be getting harder. Studying for multiple tests and writing long papers took over your life for the month of November. Graduation was one semester away and you couldn’t take your foot off the gas, so you pushed yourself hard. Your diet consisted of energy drinks and whatever you could nuke in the microwave or get delivered late at night. Luckily, you weren’t alone in your stress. Your apartment-mates Karé and Jessika were in the same boat as you.

It didn’t help that you couldn’t stop thinking about your hookup with Poe, the way he kissed you, the way he sucked on your skin, and especially the way he fucked you just on the cusp of rough. It was good, so good, and you wanted it to happen again, which is probably why you were seemed to be looking for him everywhere you went. What would you even say if you did see him? Hey Professor, wanna fuck again? just didn’t seem like the right way to ask.

Thanksgiving break was a very welcome interruption.

You turned in the first draft of your thesis paper, the invisible weight on your shoulders lifting as you walked out of Professor Holdo’s office, wishing her a good break. Your phone buzzed inside your pocket and you saw your older sister Tallie’s name flash across the screen.

“Mom wants to know what time you’ll be home.”

You pulled the phone away from your ear, checking the time.

“Probably in like an hour, hour and a half? I’m heading back to my apartment now and have a couple last minute things to pack. Why?”

“She’s running to the store and wants to know what you’re making to bring to dinner tomorrow. If you answered your phone, you’d know that.”

You scoffed at her attitude.

“First of all, I don’t know what I’m making yet so tell mom I’ll just stop at the store myself. Second, I know it’s been awhile since you’ve been in college, but let me remind you that I still have classes the day before Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, I got that. Sorry.”

Tallie’s answer was short, clipped. At this point you were seriously debating staying at your apartment during break and eating a box of mac and cheese if this was the attitude you were going home to. All you wanted was a relaxing break. You needed it. You deserved it.

“What the hell’s your problem?”

“Nothing. I just—it’s our first holiday since dad left and I’m more angry than I thought I would be.”

You stopped in the middle of the hallway, making students around you have to sidestep you. You shot them an apologetic look as they passed. You understood why your sister was giving you attitude and gave her the benefit of the doubt. You knew it was Wednesday but had forgotten the significance of the day. Today was the day your parents’ divorce would be finalized. You let out a heavy sigh.

“I get it. I’m angry too.” You said.

Another person coming down the perpendicular hallway caught your attention and when you looked, you saw him, the person you’d been looking for. You gave him a smirk as he walked closer and he gave you one back when he made eye contact with you. Everything your sister was saying was passing through your head without being processed as you discreetly checked him out. A black sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms was accompanied by dark blue jeans and a brown leather bag hanging off his shoulder, the shoulders you had fond memories of holding onto as he pounded into you. Poe Dameron was effortlessly dreamy. You held a finger up, silently telling him to hang out for a second. Poe slowed his walking and took out his phone, lingering an appropriate distance away from you.

“Look, the way I see it, we can stay angry or we can not think about it and just have a good break. I haven’t seen you since the summer.”

“I know, I’ve missed you. We’ll have to do something before you go back to school. And you’re right about being angry. I’ll let it go, for you…and for mom. I hate it when you’re right, by the way.”

“I’m always right, I don’t know why you’re not used to it by now.” You heard Poe laugh quietly and you gave him a look. “I gotta go, but I’ll be home soon.”

You hit the end call button and looked back up at Poe.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Everything ok?”

“Yeah, um—“ How much do you tell him? It was just sex the one time, it’s not like you were dating. You shook your head, deciding not to burden him with your family drama. “It’s nothing, really. My older sister’s a little bit of a drama queen sometimes.”

“Ah. Only child; never had that.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

The air around you was tense, wrought with sexual tension that could be cut with a knife. You couldn’t help but bite inside of your cheek as you looked at him. The way Poe was raking his eyes over you was nearly the same as the way he looked at you at the club. He wanted a repeat of that night too. The words were on the tip of your tongue and you could tell Poe wanted to say something too. You wanted to say them so bad, but you didn’t know who might be lingering behind doors or around corners, so you settled for small talk.

“You heading out?”

“Yeah, I’m flying out to my dad’s tonight. We’re doing friendsgiving with a couple of his Air Force buddies and a few of my friends who don’t have much in terms of family.”

“That’s sweet,” you said. “Is Beebs going with you?”

Poe chuckled. His orange and white corgi Beebs had become very popular when he had his laptop hooked up to the monitor in his class and everyone saw the adorable dog as his computer background.

“Unfortunately no, he’s getting dropped off at doggy day care. Flying stresses him out.”

You thought you ‘awwed’ in your head, but the way Poe snickered made you realize you had actually said it out loud. You couldn’t help it though. The way he adored his furry companion was too sweet. Poe looked around him before taking a step closer to you.

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Give me your phone.”

You gave him a look as you handed your phone over. He held onto it for a minute, typing something in quickly before handing it back to you. His fingers brushed over yours and your whole body felt warm. You looked up at Poe, his eyes on you as he leaned in.

“See you later.” He said lowly in your ear as he passed you. He was playing a dangerous game out in the middle of the hall like this, but you found yourself growing wet instead of caring. You bit your lip to contain your smile before looking back at him, your eyes landing on his ass that just looked too good in those jeans.

“Tell your dog I say ‘hi’.”

Poe threw his head back and laughed loudly. He turned to look back at you and winked. You walked away in the opposite direction, the smile never leaving your face.

》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》

Thanksgiving dinner ended up being a lot more pleasant than you anticipated. Since your dad walked out, you had expected his side of the family to be awkward towards you. You actually expected them to not come at all. But they showed up with unconditional support that made it clear they were on your side and were very vocal about their disapproval after several glasses of wine. It was reassuring in a way.

It was Saturday afternoon when Poe texted you. You were lounging on the couch working on homework with reruns on as background noise. He asked if you wanted to get together, to which you texted back embarrassingly fast that you’d love nothing more. You’d never admit to it to him, but you had been anxiously awaiting a text since the minute you got home.

He texted you an address to a hotel in the city. Confused, you gave your mother some excuse about going to meet a friend to get coffee and work on homework. With your backpack full of random books, you drove into the city towards the hotel. You nearly sped down the streets, the anticipation at having Poe between your legs again making you want to clench your thighs together.

You arrived at the hotel, texting Poe that you were in the lobby. He gave you his room number and you were having a hard time standing still on your way up. The thoughts that swirled around your head were sinful, and you were so caught up in how aroused you were that you almost missed the room. You knocked twice before Poe opened the door and pulled you inside He pressed you against the door.

“Hi,” Poe said, giving you a sexy smile as he took your jacket off.

“Hi.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt and crashed your lips against his. He wasted no time sliding his tongue into your mouth and tangling it with yours. He was half hard already and you wondered if he had been thinking of you. You groaned at the feeling, heat pooling in your belly at how good it felt having his denim clad cock rubbing against your clothed core. Poe lifted your shirt over your head, breaking the kiss to do it but immediately reconnecting your lips. He pulled you from the door, his hands warm as one hand splayed across your lower back, the other kneading your breast through your bra. He turned you into the room, walking you in.

You unhooked your bra, flinging it somewhere in the room and bringing your fingers to the hem of his t-shirt. You paused as he helped you lift his shirt over his head, staring at his chest. The sneak peek you got through his shirt on Halloween gave way to a broad, muscular chest, tanned and toned. A silver chain lay against his skin, a ring hanging on the end of it. You traced your finger down his sternum, hooking it around the necklace.

“God, you’re sexy.” You breathed. The look he gave you nearly made you melt. Poe grabbed the back of your neck, trailing his lips from the curve of your jaw back to your ear. He left a trail of wet, hot kisses and you nearly lost your breath when he ran his teeth over your pulse point.

“Easy—fuck—easy on the marks this time.” You said breathlessly. “I still have to see my family tomorrow.”

You felt Poe chuckle against your skin, bringing his lips back up to yours and gently biting your lip.

“Good thing it’s scarf season,” he smirked before darting his tongue out to trace over where he’d bitten.

He unbuttoned your jeans and dipped his hand inside, cupping your heat through your underwear. You were embarrassingly wet, everything he was doing was making your body temperature rise. The back of your legs hit the bed and Poe gently pushed you onto it, removing his hand long enough to scoot you back. He pulled your jeans down your legs, unhooking them from your ankles and tossing them into the piles of clothes on the floor.

“Well well, what do we have here?” Poe said with a salacious grin, running his lips over the small tattoo on your side. He ran his finger along your slit over your underwear, feeling you soaking through. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Poe, please…”

“Please what?” He had a playful glint in his eye as he traced his finger along your underwear down to your inner thighs, avoiding the place where you really wanted him.

“Touch me. Please touch me.”

Poe practically ripped your underwear off and brought his fingers to your clit, pressing light circles on it. Your hips bucked up looking for more friction. Poe placed a kiss on your stomach and then on your breast before coming face to face with you. His eyes were nearly black with lust.

“Like that?”

His voice was rougher than you’d ever heard and it made you even more wet. You whispered out a ‘yes’ as he slipped a thick finger inside of you, pumping it once, twice before adding a second. “Fuck Poe, don’t stop.”

His thumb circled your clit as his fingers pressed inside you. You clenched around him, your orgasm blindsiding you and making your stomach flutter. Poe dragged his fingers out of you, bringing them up to his lips. Watching his tongue swirl around his fingers collecting your arousal made your pussy ache with need.

Your hands immediately unbuttoned his pants and he pushed them off with his briefs. You hooked your leg around his waist and pushed him onto his back, the underside of his cock against your pussy. You kissed him quick before making your way down to his neck, biting just above his clavicle.

“No bite marks,” his throat vibrated underneath your lips and you felt his breath catch as you palmed him over his briefs. “I’m teaching all day Monday.”

His reasons were as valid as yours, but you knew he was teasing as well. You kissed down his sternum, the metal of his necklace cool on your lips, and looked up at him from under your lashes.

“You could rock a scarf.”

Poe sat up, grabbing your face and kissing you hard as he flipped you back onto your back. You squealed at being manhandled that way and it surprised you how much you like it. Poe pulled away long enough to reach onto the nightstand and grab a condom. He tore the package open and you took it from his hand.

“Let me,” you said softly. You pumped his cock gently, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the tip and licking the pre-cum off your lips as you rolled the condom down the length. Poe thought he could’ve cum right on the spot. He pushed you back and lined his cock up with your entrance. He looked up at you, checking to make sure you were still good. You nodded and he sunk into you slowly, the both of you moaning as your back began to arch. He pulled out nearly all the way, the head of his cock remaining in side you and pushed in again at a slower pace, the month apart making you need a minute to adjust to his impressive size.

“Poe—god, so—“ A big swing of his hips silenced you, a victorious grin on his face. He grabbed your thighs, wrapping them around his waist and thrust into you. Your back arched when he hit that particular spot inside of you, the one that made the coil inside you start to tighten.

He sat back on his knees, scooping you up and hauling you into his lap. Your arms went around his neck to steady yourself as he rocked up into you and you caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the back of his shoulder. The new angle made him drive even deeper into you and when you rolled against his hips, the moan you released was downright pornographic. His large hands grabbed your ass, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he bounced you in his lap.

“You feel so good.” Poe’s mouth latched onto your breast, sucking marks onto the skin while his tongue flicked over your nipple.

“Fuck, Poe—I’m close—“

Poe increased your pace on his cock, slamming into you to bring you your release. Your eyes nearly rolled back into your head.

“Poe—“

“Look at me,” Poe grasped your hair, keeping your head in place. You opened your eyes. His eyes held a look of determination. “That’s it sweetheart, cum.”

You came apart in his arms, ecstasy taking over you and your moan sinful as your fingers tugged his hair. Poe tipped you back onto the mattress, grunting as he came. His thrusts slowed as you both rode out your highs, your bodies glistening with sweat as he collapsed on top of you. He was heavy on you, but it kept you grounded when you felt like your body was going to levitate. Your legs were twitching with pleasure as Poe rolled off of you. He caught his breath before getting up to discard the condom. When he came back, he slipped his boxers on and picked up his t-shirt, making no effort to put any more clothes back on. He pulled you up by your hand and slipped the t-shirt over your head. Your heart fluttered at the tenderness of the action. He was making sure you were comfortable since the blankets were bunched up and wrinkled underneath you and you had noenergy to move beneath them. You flopped back down on the bed and Poe lay next to you, looking at you with a lazy smile on his face.

“I think you nearly killed me this time.” You said, still attempting to catch your breath. Poe laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He knew just as well as you that this time was hookup was different and much more preferred. While it was just as quick and deliciously filthy as it was in the alleyway, you both had more time to get to know each other’s bodies and what made the other tick, which you took full advantage of. “I meant to ask you, why are we at a hotel?”

“I may or may not have locked my keys in my apartment when I was rushing to get Beebs out.”

You laughed loudly, the smile never leaving your face as he told you the full story. At the end of it, you joked with him, telling him it was going to become your mission to steal his adorable dog. He then asked about your holiday and you asked about his. The conversation was easy and effortless, like you were friends; friends who had just fucked each other’s brains out, but friends nonetheless. You heard your phone ring a few times, but couldn’t find yourself to go find it. Talking with Poe was much more interesting than anything anyone on the other end could say. The conversation turned to the current semester, how things were going from both a student’s and professor’s point of view, and then it turned to Halloween.

“So, I’m curious,” you said, rolling onto your side and resting your head on your outstretched arm. “You were awfully quick to seduce me at the bar—“

“You were quick to say yes.”

“How long had you been thinking about this?”

“Awhile.” He answered, shrugging his shoulders when you raised your eyebrows. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How many times have you thought about fucking me?”

The directness of the way he spoke was making you hot, making you wet and your thighs sticky with arousal. You hummed thoughtfully, trying to decide if you wanted to tell him just how long you had thought about him. Poe seemed to notice your hesitation and gave you a suggestive look.

“Tell me,” His voice was soft but demanding as his fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt as he inched closer.

You stretched your other arm above your head, your movements cat-like as you stretched. His eyes followed and settled briefly on your chest.

“Probably like once a week since the first day of your class.” You admitted with a flirty smile. Poe rolled over onto you, stretching his body along yours and holding your wrists above your head with one of his hands. The other traced the curve of your breast, gently playing with your nipple. He rolled his hips against yours.

“Is that so?”

You arched your eyebrow, giving him a look that dared him to do something about it. He leaned down, his lips brushing over yours, when your phone started going off for the third time.

“Oh my god.” You were annoyed, both at the person trying to call you and yourself for not turning your phone on silent. Poe got off of you and grabbed your phone, handing it to you. You huffed in annoyance when you saw your sister’s name.

“Hello?” You pressed your finger against Poe’s lips, urging him to keep quiet. He gently bit the top of your finger before sucking it into his mouth. You clenched your thighs together.

“So get this, Chris forgot to tell me—“

Whatever she was saying about her husband, you didn’t hear. You were too focused on Poe, who had pushed his shirt up and started tracing your tattoo with his tongue. He then moved down and lifted your leg, settling it over his shoulder, and without warning licked a strip from your slit to your clit, making you gasp.

“You ok?”

You squirmed under Poe and he laid his arm across the lower part of your stomach to keep you in place. He’d proven to be good with his mouth, but this was an entirely different kind of pleasure.

“Yeah, just ran into the corner of a table.” You felt Poe smile against you and bit your lip to keep from crying out. He inserted two fingers into you, curling them in succession with every flick of his tongue against your clit.

“Short notice, I know, but do you want to do happy hour tonight? Say, 7 o’clock at Coakley’s?”

You glanced at the clock on the nightstand, seeing it read 5:30. Between the sex and the conversation, you had been there for hours without realizing it.

“Sure, sounds—“ You pulled the phone away from your mouth, biting your lip to silence a whimper as Poe worked you towards your orgasm. “Sounds good.”

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, fine, that table just really hurt.” You tugged his hair with your free hand and he eased off, removing his fingers just as you were teetering on the edge. You whined at the loss of contact as he nibbled at the skin of your inner thighs. “I’ll see you at 7.”

You made sure you were disconnected before throwing your phone aside and moaning loudly as Poe delved his tongue into your pussy like a man starved. He was quick to bring you back to the brink of orgasm. Your legs trembled against him as you came hard,the pleasure overtaking you and making you lose all train of thought. Poe withdrew his fingers, running them through his mouth and collecting the rest of your juices. He kissed your sensitive folds once more before crawling back up your body, licking his lips as he did.

“That was so cruel.” You said breathlessly, but the smile on your face showed you didn’t mean it one bit. You swiped your thumb on his chin, collecting what remained of your juices and sucking it into your mouth. He pressed his lips to yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth and letting you taste more of yourself.

“You have to get going.” He muttered as he pulled away, lifting himself off of you and pulling you up.

“I do.” You frowned, reluctantly getting off the bed. Your legs were still shaky with instability. “I feel like I’m always slipping out on you. But I can’t go to drinks with my sister smelling like I just spent the last couple hours having sex.”

You gathered up your clothes, making sure you were leaving nothing behind. You looked in the mirror above the dresser, trying to make your hair look somewhat presentable and making sure the hickeys you told Poe not to leave were completely covered.

“I’m being serious, you know.” You said, putting your underwear on. They were still damp and it made you tingle with the memory. “I’m going to steal your dog.”

“I don’t know about stealing him, but you’ll meet him when we do this again.”

You looked over your shoulder as you buttoned your jeans.

“Yeah? Again?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Good.” You slipped your jacket on and walked towards him. “Because this is a lot of fun.”

Poe stood from the bed and slipped his hand into your hair, pulling you into one last kiss. It was softer than the ones you’d previously shared. He pulled away and whispered ‘bye’ against your lips, pecking them once more before releasing you. You grabbed your purse and left with a wave and a wink.

He made you absolutely giddy. If someone had told you that you were going to have a sexual relationship with your professor, you would’ve laughed in his or her face. What made it so great for you was how natural your chemistry was. It was good, lighthearted, sexy fun, something that both of you craved during stressful times.

For the first time in awhile, you couldn’t wait to get back to school.

[slipping-through-my-fingertips]

One Pair That I Recognized

Summary: The way Darren wanted Blaine Anderson’s character arc to end inspired this fanfic. 

In which, Blaine sings a love song to Kurt because it’s the best way he knows to express how he feels. 

Notes: Song used is Ben Folds’s The Luckiest. Shoutout to @sharicat for being the first to reply to my post about whether or not I should post this and thanks to @i-tripandstumble and @hkvoyage for encouraging it as well!

AO3

The only time Blaine sang off the stage was in their brownstone. No one caught him singing in the streets, busking in Broadway neighborhoods for money, singing at the Spotlight Diner while his boyfriend worked his shift, or at karaoke nights with his friends from high school and college. Only Kurt caught his evening shower performances, only Kurt found him playing the piano in the middle of the night, and only Kurt watched him play air guitar in the kitchen while he waited for the tea kettle to whistle. 

So it was a surprise to everyone in Central Park on that Saturday afternoon in November when Tony Awarding Winning Blaine Anderson showed up with his husband Tony Award Winning Kurt Hummel and started to sing. He had pulled so many stings to get here today and had to persuade Kurt to even leave their house—“Blaine it’s the weekend and we don’t actually have to be anywhere for once.” It felt like his proposal at Dalton all those years ago. Glee clubbers from four different teams all coming together to celebrate one couple’s love. 

They were standing in the mostly empty Summer Stage where Blaine put on a charity event every summer. There were people backstage waiting for the signal and there were bystanders, who had been walking around the park, peeking in to see what was happening. And Kurt—beautiful, wonderful Kurt—was smiling like a goof at his husband’s antics. 

“What is going on, Blaine?” Kurt asked, as he was guided into the singular seat in the grassy area in front of the stage. “We’re already married so this can’t be a proposal.” 

Blaine laughed. “We are married. This isn’t a proposal.”

“So...what is this?” 

“Just watch,” Blaine said, kissing his husband’s cheek. 

Of course as Blaine climbed the steps up to the stage, people started filling in the bleachers behind Kurt. He wasn’t about to stop them. No one bothered Kurt. No one tried to sit in grass where Blaine had put a chair for his husband. They just filled the actual seats in the place and quietly waited along with Kurt to see what Blaine had planned. Neither one of them cared because every single performance Blaine gave was always for Kurt. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t in the audience or not. Blaine sang and acted and did all he did for Kurt. 

Kurt was...is...will always be his biggest inspiration. His reason for existing and putting the best of himself into the world. 

A baby grand piano sat on the stage now. Blaine took a seat on the black bench and checked the microphone. He gave the backstage crew a thumbs up and the lights came down on him and he started to play a random tune on the keys. 

“I’ve never been good with words or romance…” 

“Lies!” Kurt shouted.

Blaine smiled and continued his little speech, “but I always thought I was a pretty decent singer and performer. I never thought I’d meet someone like you, Kurt. I didn’t think I deserved someone like you and every day I am grateful to love you and be loved by you. To be able to come home to you and climb into bed with you just to sleep at your side. To have dinners and play footsie under the table. To spend holidays with our families even though they drive us crazy. To know I’m your number one supporter in everything you do and you’re mine. This, like everything else I do, is for you.” 

With a deep breath, he started to play the correct notes and opened his mouth to sing lyrics he wished he wrote. 

“I don't get many things right the first time,

In fact, I am told that a lot

Now I know all the wrong turns the stumbles,

And falls brought me here”

Behind his closed eyes, Blaine sees himself younger wandering the halls of Dalton fancying himself in love with a guy who works at the Gap. How naïve he had been back then because Kurt was right there in front of him and he managed to miss it. He stood in front of this amazing boy and didn’t know he was going to marry him some day. 

“And where was I before the day

That I first saw your lovely face,

Now I see it every day

And I know

That I am, I am, I am, the luckiest”

He remembers touching Kurt’s hand for the first time. Kurt was so obviously not a student but Blaine hadn’t cared. All he could think about was looking into this boy’s eyes. Wondering what had brought him here and why he chose Blaine to stop. Out of all the uniformed boys around them, Kurt picked Blaine. Did he know something Blaine didn’t? Did he feel the shot of electricity that Blaine did? 

He must have because Kurt knew way before Blaine did that they were meant to be together. They were joined by some universal force that selected soulmates. It was clear to Blaine now more than ever that Kurt was always meant to be his and he was always meant to be Kurt’s. 

“What if I had been born fifty years before you

In a house on the street

Where you lived

Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike. Would I know?”

In another lifetime, Blaine might not have been with Kurt because of something arbitrary like age. Maybe in some universes in the infinite alternate lifetimes, Blaine doesn’t get to be with Kurt or even meet him. But this Blaine thinks any other versions of himself would know how special Kurt was no matter what obstacles keep them apart. How lucky is he to be the one of the lucky Blaine Andersons to be able to spend his life with Kurt Hummel? 

“And in a wide sea of eyes

I see one pair that I recognize

And I know

That I am, I am, I am, the luckiest”

Blaine looked over at Kurt, who was smiling up at him. His eyes traveled over the crowd behind Kurt but he always came back to rest on those baby blues. The eyes that he knows the best, the ones that always shine with adoration no matter what, and most importantly the ones that stare back into Blaine’s hazel ones. 

Those eyes that grow darker when Blaine pulls back from a kiss. The ones that follow him around the room when Blaine spontaneously breaks into dance and always manages to convince Kurt to put aside his magazines to join him in a weird version of a waltz that is so purely theirs. 

“I love you more then have

Ever found the way to say

To you

Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties and one day

Passed away in his sleep,

And his wife, she stayed for a couple of days, and passed away

I'm sorry I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong,

That I know

That I am, I am, I am, the luckiest” 

If Blaine hadn’t already married the best man he knows, he would’ve asked Kurt right this second to be his forever. But he was lucky enough that Kurt had already promised that to Blaine. Instead, when Blaine finished the song he stood up from the piano and took a bow. The crowd that had gathered were clapping politely but Blaine only cared about holding his husband. 

Kurt was already walking up into the stage to grab Blaine in his arms. They hugged and Kurt whispered into Blaine’s ear: “your version of romance is my favorite.”

Blaine pulled back and cupped his face. “I love you, Kurt Hummel.” 

An ongoing joke between them was using their stage name instead of their legally changed names after they had gotten married. 

“It’s Anderson-Hummel to you,” Kurt teased, “but I love you too, Blaine Anderson.” 

If you asked anyone in the crowd who leaned in first, they’d all have a different answer. 

[gdwessel]

IWGP World Heavyweight Title Vacated, Ospreay Neck Injury; Card For Road to Wrestle Grand Slam Nagoya Show 5/22/2021; Collision In Korea Dark Side Of The Ring Tonight; Ren Narita’s Missing AEW Dark Match; Updates On Japan in State Of Emergency

The IWGP World Heavyweight Championship is now vacant. Will Ospreay suffered a neck injury in his match v. Shingo Takagi on 5/4/2021, and is returning to the UK for treatment and rehab. As nobody knows what his timeline for returning is, it's been decided to vacate the title. I'm not usually one to speak of curses and omens, but this IWGP World Heavyweight title has been cursed so far. Between the hoopla of unification, the damp reaction to the reveal of the title, Kota Ibushi dropping it on his first defense, and now Ospreay having to vacate after only one defense, the life of this title belt has not exactly been covered in glory. NJPW doesn't have a plan as of right now to determine what's next for it.

In the meantime, the card for Saturday's Road to Wrestle Grand Slam show in Nagoya has been released. The three Tokyo Korakuen Hall shows from 5/24 - 5/26/2021 have not been as yet. Saturday's show is not streaming, which is probably a good thing, because this is a nothing card for a tour show that probably shouldn't even be happening at this point. Once again, NJPW has not revealed who has tested positive for COVID-19 (a related note on that below) but you can make reasonable guesses when you see who are, and are not, on this card.

Road to Wrestle Grand Slam - 5/22/2021, Aichi Nagoya Congress Center Event Hall

YOSHI-HASHI [CHAOS] v. Yota Tsuji

Hiroyoshi Tenzan & Master Wato v. Chase Owens & Gedo [Bullet Club]

Hirooki Goto & Tomohiro Ishii [CHAOS] v. Tetsuya Naito & SANADA [Los Ingobernables]

Kota Ibushi & Tomoaki Honma v. Jeff Cobb & Great O-Khan [United Empire]

Hiroshi Tanahashi & Ryusuke Taguchi v. Shingo Takagi & BUSHI [Los Ingobernables]

These are all random tag matches to fill a house show card, with only one actual storyline, Kota Ibushi v. Jeff Cobb. Maybe two if you count Tanahashi v. Shingo, but that kinda went on the shelf for Tana v. Jay and Ospreay v. Shingo. Unless you want to count the continuing grief between Goto and Naito that's gone on for years off and on. Not much hope for the Korakuen shows, when they announce those cards, and really, New Japan Pro Wrestling 2021 is a trash fire.

So here's a weird thing: this past Tuesday afternoon, wrestler Royce Isaacs tweeted out, along with the official AEW looking graphic you see above, that he would be wrestling Ren Narita on that night's edition of AEW Dark (one of AEW's weekly YouTube undercard shows). This would have been fairly reasonable as Ren Narita was with Yuji Nagata at last week's Dynamite, this is a pre-taped show in a cycle of tapings (last night's Dynamite was a pre-tape as well), and the potential was there for both Nagata and/or Narita to have wrestled for either of these shows whilst they were in Jacksonville. It turns out, before Dark was released on YouTube, Isaacs deleted the tweet, and that match (as well as Kal Jak v. Danny Limelight, the latter of whom is an NJPW Strong staple) was not part of the episode. It's possible it got cut and will be used on either Dark or Dark Elevation next week. Or not at all. AEW tape a lot of content for their YouTube shows, so I'd be surprised if it didn't show up in some form eventually.

Some programming notes for tonight (assuming I get this posted in time!):

FinJuice defend the Impact World Tag Team titles tonight against Ace Austin & Madman Fulton tonight on Impact's TV show. That's on AXS TV at 8pm EDT / 7pm CDT.

Vice's Dark Side Of The Ring documentary series features Collision In Korea, the joint-promoted show between NJPW and WCW across two nights in April 1995 in Pyongyang, North Korea. The episode features testimonials from the likes of Antonio Inoki, Eric Bischoff and Scott Norton. That one's on Vice at 9pm EDT / 8pm CDT. If you don't have Vice (I don't), the episode will get posted to YouTube, either through "sources" or on Vice's official channel soon. I may or may not be working on a special project surrounding this event too.

Meanwhile, the situation in Japan regarding the state of emergency is getting critical. A news report yesterday revealed a whopping 83% of respondents are against the Olympics being held in July. Mass protests are continuing, as I reported on Monday. In addition, 6000 doctors and physicians in Japan have signed a letter to the government asking them to halt the Olympics. One thing the pandemic has been very good at is shining a light on discontent with government, and the inequalities, and inequities, in modern capitalist society. This is Japan's turn, as we head back to an era of protests that were more associated with the 60s and 70s in Japan. Right now, the government is looking to expand this even more, as far as Okinawa.

Closer to home, Dragon Gate did confirm that Ben-K tested positive for COVID-19, and has been pulled from the rest of the King Of Gate 2021 tournament. Naruki Doi wrestled Ben-K on 5/14/2021, and has not shown symptoms nor has tested positive as yet, but has been pulled from the tournament as well. No word about Dragon Dia, who was also pulled from the Fukuoka shows this past weekend. DG ran in Chiba last night, and will be doing three dates in Sapporo starting tomorrow.

Sumo is being rocked by yet another breach of COVID-19 protocol scandal, this time with popular ozeki Asanoyama having been caught, and lying to the Sumo Association about, going to a hostess bar during basho time, when rikishi are in lockdown. Asanoyama has been suspended with immediate effect, and will be considered kadoban for next basho; however, he will also be suspended for the next three bashos (in July, September and November), so he will definitely be losing his ranking, possibly down to the fringes of the top (makuuchi) tier in the sport by the time he is allowed to return to competition. Two other, lower-ranking rikishi from the makuuchi division have already been ensnared in their own scandals: Abi was caught last summer, was not only suspended, but denied retirement, and is currently in the third tier of sumo, the makushita division. Maegashira-ranked Ryuden is also currently suspended, and may fall to the second (juryo) or third tiers before he returns as well. I am not sure why it is so hard to Not Go Out when under strict orders from your stablemaster to do so. I've spent most of the last year and three months not going anywhere except to work and the store, maybe going to a park every weekend or so, getting curbside takeout, etc. It's infuriating, honestly. The biggest global health crisis in decades, and the biggest stumbling block to stamping it out is people's selfishness.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Froggydarren!

To Jen: Merry Christmas!  In this story I hope you find a few of your favorite things.  May your holidays be filled with love and joy, great food, relaxation, and GREAT FIC!  

Title: stepping out of body

Rating: T

Word Count: 7K

Tags: Hypothermia, Hurt/comfort, Bed sharing, Accidental baby acquisition, alternate reality, parallel universe, dreams, hallucinations, Hobrien, Tyler Hoechlin/Dylan O’Brien, swearing, sexual innuendo, kissing  

Read on AO3

❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄

steppin out of body

Stiles is ninety-seven percent sure he’s going to die out here.

The violent shivers and chattering teeth ceased ten minutes ago, and not even the line of Derek’s werewolf heat down his right side makes any difference. It turns out the discount boots he bought last year from Bob’s Bargain Bin aren’t such a bargain; frigid water seeps through the seams, turning his toes to ice, to fire. He wiggles them regularly as they trudge through the thickening carpet of heavy snow, fearing the numbness he could easily succumb to.

Stiles isn’t stupid. He can decipher the messages his very-human body broadcasts loud and clear.

“No,” Derek commands, slapping at his cheek with a gloved hand, the impact dull and muted against his frozen skin. “Eyes open, Stiles. Stay with me. Stay with…”

Damn the Nemeton, screaming out to every worthless supernatural pain-in-Stiles’-ass. This time it called down a Chenoo, a man-eating ice giant from the Great White North. The demon slid down the west coast like an avalanche, bashing through the border, ushering in plummeting temperatures, a torrent of wind-driven snow and sleet slashing Stiles’ face like werewolf claws.  Vicious gusts of icy wind followed, slithering inside Stiles’ thin jacket to coil around his heart and crush his lungs. Stiles would have preferred it brought Kraft dinner and Molson Canadian, like a typical tourist.

A California boy born and bred, his genetic makeup lacks an adoration of arctic temperatures. He’s ill-equipped for a blizzard in November.

Even Derek’s nose glows Rudolph-red from the chill.

“You can kill a Cheeno by melting its heart with salt,” Deaton supplied earlier that afternoon, “but a few legends claim you can save the man within the monster.”

“Save a cannibal? Yeah, fuck that noise,” Stiles had said, tossing down the magazine he’d been reading and grabbing the cannister of Morton’s Iodized, slipping his feet into his crappy boots. It seemed like a good idea at the time, he and Derek against the latest monster of the week. Nothing new. But now a blanket of white makes it impossible to see ten feet in front of them, flakes floating down from the sky like errant feathers, dancing in front of his eyes like a whirl of stars. It blinds him, envelopes him. Every minute lasts an hour.

He should have taken the FBI assignment offered when he attended the academy. Memphis. It didn’t snow in Memphis. Why hadn’t he taken it? Oh yeah. Scott. His father. Derek.

The sun dips below the horizon, adding insult to injury.

Stiles can’t feel his nose anymore, or his toes. He inhales broken glass with each breath. The longer he stares into the white void, the more everything starts to feel peaceful and pointless. Stiles closes his eyes.

“Do you hear that?” Derek hisses. Stiles’ eyes snap open in time to see the breath billowing out of Derek’s windburned lips in rolling clouds of steam. “It sounds like…”

Stiles hears the violent wind rattling dry, bare branches of winter-dead trees, and the random song playing on repeat in his head. Going down with my wings on fire, guess I’ll see you in another life. He prays that in a few years, in a decidedly less stark and frozen landscape, the lyrics will blast through Roscoe’s shitty speakers, and Stiles will stop and listen, say “ah yes, that time I almost froze to death,” just another moment unfolding in the supernatural shitstorm of his life, and not the soundtrack to the end of it.

But Derek cocks his head, eyes narrowed into slits, frost clinging to his bushy black eyebrows, so Stiles tugs up the ear flaps on his hat, strains to hear past the snow’s white noise, so like a chorus of howling werewolves. Yowling, squalling, wailing…

“A baby,” Stiles gasps, voice rasping through blue-tinged lips, knees threatening to buckle in shock. Who would ever bring a baby out in this storm? He was tired, drained, and dispirited before, and now, a thin film of desperation stretches over it all like saran wrap. “I hear a baby crying.”

Derek pulls Stiles impossibly closer, abruptly turning them to the left and floundering through calf-deep snow mounds and crushing darkness. Derek blunders toward the cries with steps as uncoordinated as a newborn foal, his confident gait lost to the storm. Stiles grits his teeth and slogs on.

Mother nature pummels him into a Popsicle.

“Oh,” Stiles says some indeterminable time later, “I see something.” Up ahead, a small cabin materializes, rising from the bleak isolation like a desert mirage, windows alight with a dim glow. Every blink of his heavy eyelids brings the cabin into better focus; green tin roof, stainless steel chimney pipe puffing out grey clouds of smoke, two rickety steps leading up to a narrow porch laid with red cedar planks.  

Derek takes Stiles under the armpits and hauls him up over his left shoulder, heading toward shelter with Stiles bouncing clumsily into Derek’s back with each step. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, going statue-still.

“Wha?” Stiles mumbles toward Derek’s ass.  

A moment of hesitation. “I only hear one heartbeat.”

The desperate mewling raises in pitch. “Derek, can we please go inside? If the damn Cheeno has somehow lured us here, at least I’ll be warm when I die.”

Derek drags them both through the front door, leaving a track of icy puddles and slushy clumps of snow as they stumble over the threshold. Stiles finds himself dumped unceremoniously onto an oriental rug in front of a slowly dying fire. “Get your clothes off!” Derek barks at him as he kneels in front of the weak flames, pulling off his gloves and reaching for the stack of wood next to the stone fireplace.

Stiles always wanted to hear Derek say those words, and he’s honestly a little pissed they’re wasted on a life-or-death situation.  

Stiles isn’t capable of finesse on his best days, but his numb fingers fumble pathetically at the snaps and zippers of his clothes. Each new piece of blue and purple dappled bare skin he uncovers sets alarm bells peeling inside his skull. “Wh-wh-where is the b-b-baby?” The chattering teeth return, his neck swollen and stiff as he turns it this way and that until his gaze lands on a bassinet in the corner.

“Fire first, then I’ll get the baby,” Derek says, blowing on the growing blaze. “Take everything off. All your wet clothes.” He closes the wire mesh curtain across the hearth and stands, shedding his own clothes piece by piece as he crosses the small living space. Derek blows warm breath into his cupped hands before he reaches into the bassinet, pulling out a wiggling red blanket and clutching it gently to his bare chest. It’s a sight to behold, but Stiles can barely keep his eyes open.

Unable to stand, Stiles reaches for the corner of a quilt thrown haphazardly over a worn plaid couch, dragging it down and pulling it across the floor. Derek keeps the baby in one strong arm and hoists Stiles’ limp body onto the quilt with the other, settling down next to him on the carpet.

“Come here,” Derek says, reclining with one arm around Stiles’ shoulders, maneuvering him, so Stiles’ backside faces the fire, and Derek’s werewolf body heat blazing down Stiles’ front, the baby a warm weight on Derek’s ribs.

“The parents?” Stiles slurs, imagining the bloodbath that will ensue when an unsuspecting mother and father find two butt-naked grown men cuddling their kid.

“I can’t detect any other scents. It’s just us.”

“Hmmm.” The heat of the fire and the safety of Derek’s body make Stiles’ eyelids very heavy.

“Don’t go, Stiles,” Derek orders. “Stay with me. Please.”  For a brief moment, a white halo frames Derek’s beautiful face.  He cups Stiles’ jaw, and Stiles could swear his fingers feel like scratchy wool mittens.

“I’m always with you, dumbass,” Stiles replies and promptly falls asleep.  

❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄

Stiles wakes with the luxurious Saturday morning feeling of having slept in with no alarm, despite early dawn light seeping into the room through sheer curtains, casting everything in soft dream-like shades of gray. He’s so warm and content he buries his face back into the plush pillow under his head, determined to retreat once again into sweet oblivion.

“You know I adore your mom, but she was wrong about this co-sleeping thing. Best decision we ever made,” murmurs a tender voice behind him. The words get emphasized with some semblance of a kiss, all hot, soft lips and tongue leaving goosebumps in their wake as they travel lazily down the back of Stiles’ neck. The easy-going morning disperses like mist as Stiles blinks open his eyes to see the tiny, angelic face of a baby–presumably the same one from the cabin–wrapped in a thin red muslin blanket and sleeping next to him. It lies in a strange contraption attached to the bed with three breathable mesh sides, atop a fitted sheet adorned with fluffy dancing sheep wearing nightcaps. As Stiles watches, the baby’s tiny bow mouth makes adorable little sucking motions.

Wait a minute.

Stiles knows he’s in trouble when the baby makes sense, but the king-sized bed he’s woken up in doesn’t.    

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Stiles has run with wolves since age sixteen and can keep a tight lid on a furiously beating heart. “Pretty sure this place did not look like this last night,” he says, words falling from his mouth in a smooth line as his stomach ties itself in knots.

A huffed laugh. “I’ll do the laundry today, I promise. Who knew a baby could go through so many clothes?”

Not me, Stiles thinks, sitting up in bed and kicking away a blue sheet. He’s wearing unfamiliar light-gray sweatpants and a maroon t-shirt. The man next to him grunts at the loss of body heat, and Stiles glances over. Yup, it’s Derek, black hair sticking up every which way like he stuck his head in a blender.  

Stiles crawls to the foot of the bed, tip-toes to the sliding glass doors leading to a balcony, and parts the curtains an inch. Pre-dawn light paints the curving facade of the U.S. Bank Tower mellow orange. Stiles has only ever seen it in movies. Free from alien encounters and earthquake damage, the staggering architecture looks like a staircase up into the pink morning clouds. He puts his hand up to the cold glass. “We’re in L.A.”

Another grunt behind him. Stiles’ head pivots back and forth between the skyline and the majestic view of Derek sprawled on his stomach, broad shoulders tapering down a smooth, naked back. He follows the line of Derek’s spine to his boxer-brief clad backside on full display. The cotton clings to every dip and curve of Derek’s perfect ass.  

“How did we get to L.A.?”

Derek’s head rises from the pillow. “Huh? Come back to bed before you wake Conor.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing.” He scrubs a hand down his face, huffs out a breath. “The bed. That wasn’t here before. Or the fancy baby crib, or your underwear, or the god-damn city of Los Angeles.”

Derek twists, sitting up in bed and rubbing crust from his eyes. “Are you feeling okay?” He asks. Then he does something so crazy Stiles thinks he just may have died out in the snow.

Derek smiles.

Not just any smile. Stiles’ has seen Derek produce some mean ones, some faux-flirtatious ones, some blood-thirsty ones, but he’s never seen one like this: huge, happy, full of white teeth. It lights up Derek’s whole face, makes his green eyes go adorably squinty.  

“No, nope, uh uh.” Stiles tries to take a step back, but his shoulders collide with the slider. What imposter wears Derek’s flawless butt and happy face? Stiles has a mini heart attack.

“Who are you?”

Now the smile falls away, leaving behind comically-wide green eyes and an arched brow. His Derek would never show this level of befuddlement. He’d school his face into an impossibly hard mask.

“Dylan,” he answers, very slowly, “I’m your husband.”

———-

Imposter-Derek’s name is Tyler, and he remains unfailingly patient and positive in the face of his husband’s epic freak out and insistence that a mythological creature in an alternative universe cursed him.  ”I should have paid more attention to Deaton when he talked about annihilating the Chenoo, but there was a fascinating article in Entertainment Weekly.”

“This better not be a ploy to get out of diaper duty,” Derek-Tyler says with a smile.  Honestly, the guy’s demeanor baffles Stiles. This level of sweetness doesn’t exist outside a candy store.  

Baby Conor wakes up with a chortling wail, demanding food and a clean butt, which Tyler supplies as Stiles does a convincing imitation of a lost puppy and follows him around.  “You’re good at this whole thing. At parenthood,” Stiles praises. The sight of Derek–or a Derek look-a-like–gently cradling a tiny infant in his massive beefcake arms, holding a warm bottle of formula in his meaty fist, makes Stiles want to swoon.  Even the greedy pig-like noises Conor makes causes a strange effervescent bubbling behind Stiles’ ribs. What in the world is happening to him? Gas? Or did he show up in this parallel universe with a uterus and a biological clock? He pulls the waistband of his sweatpants away from his torso.  Well, at least the equipment on the outside remains the same.

Stiles and Tyler get dressed, and migrate into the kitchen through a narrow hallway and spacious living room; walls painted the color of buttery suede. Books and baby toys litter the floor, framed family photographs, and baseball paraphernalia hanging on nearly every wall of their home.  Upon closer inspection, Stiles finds one of the pictures is of Tyler in a Sacramento River Cats uniform, mid-run, right arm slung back, ready to throw.  

“Dude, do you play professional ball?” Stiles asks, impressed, fingertips tracing the edges of the black wooden frame.

Tyler blushes, becomingly, one muscular arm cuddling the baby closer to his broad chest.  “Yeah. I played baseball in college and got drafted, but I injured my hamstring a few years ago. I doubt I’ll ever get called up to the major leagues. Want some water?  Juice?”

The seamless transition of conversation, the quick, subtle deflection onto Stiles and away from himself is such a Derek move it leaves Stiles dizzy, struggling for balance as he straddles two worlds.

“Water,” Stiles croaks.

Tyler opens the refrigerator, reaches for the Brita with his free hand, and at least twenty glass bottles stacked on the door shelves clink together like Christmas bells. “Uh, why do we own so much root beer?”

Tyler shrugs.  “You’re a big root beer guy.”

Huh.  Stiles can’t remember the last time he had root beer, but his mother adored root beer floats “Actually, I’ll take one of those.”  

At the kitchen table, Tyler leaned his chin into his hand, gazing at Stiles while he sips his carbonated sugar. A shaft of late-morning light catches the fizzing bubbles surging up the neck of the bottle, sending little sun sparks dancing across the wood between them.

“I don’t know how you can remain so calm in the face of all this,” Stiles says for the millionth time in the few short hours they’ve been awake.  “Does your husband typically try to convince you that he’s someone else?”

Tyler props Conor on his shoulder, gently rubbing and patting his back. “Only when we role-play.”

Root beer sprays from Stiles’ mouth in an inelegant arc, splattering all over the tabletop.  Fantastic, now his overactive brain supplies him with enough jerk-off material to last a century.  It’s just his luck to land in a universe where Derek smiles and laughs and is kinky to boot.

“But seriously, Dylan, we’ve been through worse than a little memory lapse.”  Stiles lays his head down on the wet surface, resolutely refusing to ask. He doesn’t want to know.  Knowing would mean caring. “Though I do wish you’d reconsider going to the hospital. They could run some tests and-”

Stiles holds up a hand.  “No. No tests. At least, not today.  If we wake up tomorrow and nothing has changed, then yes, I promise I’ll go to the doctor. Just…” He remembers having an MRI, the fear and panic before rolling into the claustrophobic tube, the loud clunks and bangs, of what bad news the results will bring.  Because it’s doubtful skipping universes like a pebble on a lake produces anything positive. “Not today.”

Tyler nods.  “Okay. I have an idea.  Here, hold Conor.” He passes Stiles the baby and walks into the living room, opening the doors on a TV stand and pulling out an old DVD player.  Stiles watches as he fiddles around behind the flat-screen television, plugging it in and powering it up. “I’m going to grab our wedding DVD,” Tyler says, heading toward the bedroom.

Stiles is left alone with Conor for the first time.  “Hi, little man,” Stiles whispers into the crook of the baby’s warm neck.  He smells sweet and powdery, and the unique scent kind of makes Stiles feel high.  He’s adorable and small, and fragile, and now that Stiles thinks about it for half a second, completely panic-inducing.  Who in their right mind would leave Stiles in charge of a baby?! He breaks everything. Hopefully, this Dylan guy is a bit less accident-prone than Stiles.

Tyler pops in the video, and they lay the baby on a blanket in the living room with a few toys, and Stiles gets to watch two hours of footage of himself marrying Derek.

Half-way through the reception Erica and Boyd waltz by, and Stiles sees Isaac in profile, standing at the bar laughing at something Jackson says. He desperately wants to ask, but doesn’t think he could handle it if these pack members, lost to lies and danger and that merciless bitch the Grim Reaper, are just phantom faces with different names.

“That was sweet and kind of funny,” Stiles says after listening to himself recite his vows.

“Yeah,” Tyler agrees.  “You’re pretty amazing.”

Is this who Derek would be if there’d been no Kate? No Jennifer?  No Paige? Seriously, it’s like a case of the body snatchers. Fuck Stiles’ life (but not this one! This one’s pretty perfect).

“Did it jog any memories?” Tyler asks when the TV goes black.  

Stiles hates letting down someone so earnest.  “Sorry, man.”

“It’s all right.” Tyler squeezes one of Stiles’ shoulders in a firm grip.  “I have one more idea if it’s okay with you. Then we can give it a rest until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay.  But first, do you mind if I shower?”  A phantom layer of dried sweat from his trek through the snow yesterday still sticks to Stiles’ skin.  

Dylan and Tyler’s shower has soapstone walls, duel jets, a rain massage showerhead, recessed lighting, and a cedar plank ceiling.  If he ever gets home, he’s convincing Derek to build a replica of this shower, and let Stiles use it any time he wants. Derek’s trust fund should go to something other than tight pants and dark colored shirts. Something that benefits Stiles directly (since the clothes benefit his eyeballs indirectly).

After he’s dressed, Stiles leans against the sink, wiping the fog from the mirror with the corner of his damp towel. He studies his reflection—same number of moles on his cheeks, same wide amber eyes.  Fingertips poke at his cheeks, eyebrows, forehead. A hand rubs between his eyes. Why do you get to keep him in this universe, but not your own? his reflection asks.

Hushed voices filter in from the living room, and he sneaks a peek around the door jamb. A pretty middle-aged woman stands by the front door, shooting a frown at Tyler, her head tilted.  “What do you think it is?” She asks, shrugging out of her cardigan sweater and draping it over the oversized recliner. “Stress? PTSD?”

“I don’t know,” Tyler replies.  Wait, PTSD over what?  “If the memory loss persists, we’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.  I thought maybe seeing you would help him.”

Stiles steps into the living room, capturing their attention.  The woman isn’t familiar, he’s never seen her in his life, but he knows her face the minute she looks at him.  Stiles’ father has filled his life with love, but there’s no substitute for a mother. And that’s who this woman is, his mother.  No one’s looked at Siles this way since he was eight years old. A razor edge of pain cuts into his heart.

His eyesight blurs, and red, blotchy heat creeps up his cheeks. Stiles swipes a thumb under one eye and tries to make it look like he’s scratching his cheek.

“Oh, Dylan, sweetheart,” she says.  “I’m your mom, Lisa.”

—————

Halfway through Lisa filling him in on Dylan’s early life growing up in New Jersey, their move to California when he was twelve, and his stint in a band, Stiles’ stomach lets out a growl loud enough to rival a werewolf.  

“We haven’t eaten anything all day,” Tyler says. “Root beer doesn’t count.”

“Why don’t you both go out for dinner,” Lisa offers.  “I’ll watch Conor.” She makes kissy faces at their son, who yanks at her brown hair, and warmth swells in Stiles’ chest.  He’s missed being part of a family, and this one sits gift-wrapped like a present just for him.

They walk outside, shoulders bumping. “We could drive into downtown,” Tyler offers, “but the traffic will be terrible, even at this time.”

Stiles shoves his hands into the pockets of his borrowed jeans, scoping out the view of the city skyline in the distance. “Whatever, dude. I’m game for somewhere local.”

Tyler eyes him, weighing the options, then graces him with another one of those megawatt smiles. “I think this day calls for The Coop.”

Stiles finds himself at a hole-in-the-wall, family-run pizzeria, scarfing down the best-tasting pizza ever. They split a large pie, ordered off a red menu adorned in green and white writing that makes Stiles think of Christmas.

Tyler wipes the grease off his lips with a paper napkin and leans back, resting his elbows on his chair arms. “You love eating here,” he tells Stiles. “We don’t often come here because I’m usually trying to stay in decent shape for baseball, but when we get here, we always order the works, hold the pineapple. You’re known to demolish an entire pie by yourself.”

At least this Dylan guy has good taste in pizza.  Slow roasted tomato sauce and melted cheese punched him in the nose as soon as he walked in.  

Stiles throws down his napkin, a white flag signaling his defeat to the single slice left on the pizza pan. He picks up the red plastic cup half-filled with root beer–turns out this stuff is pretty addicting– and gnaws on the cardboard straw between sips. “So, how’d we meet? Did I accidentally traipse across your yard, and you tell me I was trespassing?”

Tyler blinks. “That’s weirdly specific.” He picks up his beer bottle, takes a swig. “No. You’re a sports broadcaster, and you came to one of my games to interview me.”

“Love at first sight?” Stiles inquiries, tongue chasing his straw across his lips.

Tyler raises a brow, gesture a mirror-image of Stiles’ Derek. “That’s very distracting. Who taught you to use a straw?”

Stiles places the cup back down on the lacquered tabletop. “Sorry. D-” he pauses. “My friend back home complains about that too.”

“This friend who looks suspiciously like me?”

“Yeah. Him.”

Tyler laughs. “I’m sure he finds it distracting, too. Give the poor guy a break.”

“Anyway…” Stiles doubts he’s ever the person to steer a conversation back on track, but today is a day of firsts. First time I woke up in bed with Derek.  There’s more, but his brain keeps getting stuck on that one. “Was it love at first sight for you and your husband?”

Tyler’s eyes go soft, unfocused. “We clicked right away, but no. Every date we went on just got better and better until we eventually moved in together.”

“When did you know he was the one?” Stiles asks, trying to imagine a world where he and Derek didn’t immediately clash like oil and water.

Tyler’s cheeks bloom apple-red. Oh, there’s a story here, and I want it.  “I knew the first Christmas we spent together when I watched you hump an artificial tree. I said to myself, ‘Tyler, you’ve gotta keep this one.’”

Laughter bursts out of Stiles’ mouth. “Please,” he wheezes, “tell me more.”

Tyler does.  

“How’d we end up an old married couple with a kid?” Stiles asks as they push through the doors of the restaurant, spilling out onto the warm pavement. Stiles thinks of the freezing temperatures of the blizzard he trudged through with Derek the day prior and shivers despite the sun’s heat.

Here Tyler hesitates, shoulders pulling high and back, spine lengthening. It’s Derek’s ’going into battle’ pose. Stiles has seen it enough times to know it by heart, his own body reacting on instinct, stepping closer to Tyler, creating a united front.  

“We were going along great,” Tyler says, “having a good time. We both figured we’d get married, eventually. Our careers kept us busy; we didn’t rush into things. But one day, I’m in Sacramento, practicing at Raley Field, and my manager calls me off second base to tell me I’ve got to get home; you’d been in an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” Stiles asks. Just as disaster-prone, I see.

Tyler’s hands clench at his sides. “A car hit you at work.”

“Huh,” Stiles says, stupidly. I’m usually the one running over people.

“You had a terrible concussion, the doctors worried about brain damage, and pretty much the entire right side of your face needed reconstructive surgery.”

“Jeez.” Stiles presses fingertips to his right cheekbone. “I can’t imagine your terror.” Derek’s reactions every time Stiles gets hurt is bad enough; he can’t imagine what Tyler must have gone through watching the man he loves lay injured in a hospital bed.

“All of a sudden, things didn’t seem so carefree. The thought of losing you was-” Tyler stops, takes a deep breath. Before he registers the movement, Stiles grabs Tyler’s hand, entwining their fingers and squeezing reassuringly. Tyler smiles shyly, presses back, and air stalls in Stiles’ lungs. Quicksand paves the road they’re walking down; the more Stiles flails around in memories of a life that isn’t his own, the deeper he sinks.

“We got married a year later after you’d recovered from surgery. We know we’re lucky to have this nearly stolen life, and we wanted to share that with someone. Now, we have Conor.”

Tyler stops walking, turns to face Stiles—to face Dylan. “It took us a long time to get here.” He pulls Stiles into a tight hug, and Stiles willingly goes, lets himself get wrapped up in arms he never thought he’d feel around him. “But we got here.”

———-

They dismiss Lisa with a round of hugs and promises to call in the morning if nothing has changed. Conor gets a bath in a tub they place in the ample kitchen sink, gurgling happily over the plastic bath toys Stiles flies around his bald head while Tyler scrubs him down. “My mom used to wash the Thanksgiving turkey in the sink,” Stiles tells them.

“Are you comparing our son to overstuffed poultry?” Tyler honest-to-god giggles. Did Derek ever giggle? Could Stiles help him find that much joy?

Stiles pokes at one of Conor’s adorably chubby legs, earning a gummy smile. “The resemblance is striking.”

Tyler does the bedtime routine, and they eat a quiet, amicable dinner of grilled chicken and baked potatoes at the kitchen table.

“I don’t know about you,” Stiles says around a yawn, “but I’m freaking beat, man. This day has been an emotional rollercoaster.”

“Agreed,’ Tyler replies, rolling his shoulders. “Sleep?”

“Totally.”

“I can take the couch?” Tyler offers when they walk into the darkened bedroom. Stiles eyes the bed between them, bathed in the milk-light of the moon streaming through the curtains. Conor is a tiny lump in his bassinet, soft snores echoing around the room.

Stiles shakes his head. “No. It’s totally fine. Married people sleep in the same bed.”

Tyler smiles, shoulders dropping from where they’d migrated to his ears. Stiles has stared at that smile all day, but he’s still not immune. It’s a flash of lightning, bright and dazzling, rolling through him like thunder. He’s shaken. “I’m glad. Honestly, I always sleep better when you’re with me.”

I’m always with you, dumbass.

Stiles can see why. As soon as they slide under the covers—Stiles in the sweatpants and T-shirt ensemble from the morning, and Tyler in his boxer-briefs and nothing else—Tyler cuddles up next to him, sighing deeply. He’s a comforting line of heat and weight, and Stiles turns toward him, instinctually. Tyler’s already drifting off, blinking sleepy half-lidded eyes at him.

“Goodnight,” Stiles whispers.

“Mmm, goodnight,” Tyler replies. He leans forward, rubs the tip of his nose against Stiles’, and brushes his mouth against Stiles’ lips, tongue lazily surging, tasting like mint, fresh and sharp. Is this wrong? It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels right. Tyler threads his fingers into Stiles’ hair, pulling him closer, cradling the back of his head like he’s something precious, beloved. Large, strong hands skim across Stiles’ skull, cup his face, thumbs brushing featherlight over his cheekbones. Stiles hums contentedly into the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Tyler slurs, pulling away just far enough to look into Stiles’ eyes. “I know you don’t remember, and I-”

“Tyler, kiss me again.” The next few moments simmer between them, threatening to boil over, but they dial back the heat, let it cool until their foreheads pressed together, lips and noses gently rubbing.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself believe that Derek Hale, the king of drawing lines in the sand and chasing Stiles back to the other side, cards long, gentle fingers through Stiles’ hair as he falls asleep. Stiles could get used to this; he wants this. And because Stiles lies to himself on the daily, he refuses to acknowledge that he has desired this for as long as he can remember knowing Derek.  

Would it be so wrong to stay here and keep this life? It’s a luxury he hasn’t dared to allow himself to ponder since he woke up in this alternate reality.

Conor lets out a couple of guttural, cranky sounds. Tyler grumbles and starts to stir, jerky, half-asleep movements, “Shh,” Stiles says, running a long-fingered hand down Tyler’s back. “I’ve got this. You sleep.”

He carries Conor—his son—to the changing pad atop their dresser, and flicks on the lamp. It casts the little corner of their world in a soft golden glow. “We got this, buddy,” he tells Conor in a sing-song voice. “I’ll be a diaper changing expert in no time.” Conor blows spit bubbles at him. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Stiles answers. “We’re both doomed.”

Changing diapers is a little more involved than Stiles realized, and he ends up with baby pee all over his shirt and Conor’s onesie. He divests Conor of his wet suit and takes a moment to plant a few raspberries against the soft soles of the baby’s feet, earning delighted squeals and flailing limbs. “This little piggy went to the market, and this little piggy stayed home,” Stiles recites, wiggling Conor’s tiny toes. “This little piggy ate roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And this little p—”

Stiles rubs his eyes frantically, blinks hard a few times. Counts. Counts again. One, two, three, four, five…

Six.

He studies the other foot. Six toes. Heart in his throat, he takes Conor’s grasping little hands in his and counts. No, no, no. Six fingers on each side.

How do you tell if you’re awake or dreaming?

Your fingers. You count your fingers. “You have extra fingers in dreams,” Stiles tells Conor, and then he wakes up.

❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄❅❄

Stiles wakes in a panicky stupor, faces of nurses, doctors, and the Sheriff, who looks like he’s aged ten years, staring down at him, blurring together like paint on a canvas.

He flings out one hundred-pound arm, reaching for his child, for Tyler, for a world where his pack is alive and well and happy.  I’ve only had the perfect life for a day and a half, but if anything happened to it I’d kill everyone in this room and then myself. A giggle hiccups out of his dry throat.

“…nerve damage…dead tissue,” the surgeon explains, but some morphine-derivative courses through his system and he listens to it all from the deep end of a warm tunnel. “The bad news is, you lost the one toe to frostbite, but I saved the others. And the loss of a pinky toe doesn’t impede balance at all.”

Stiles nods. The conversation hangs around him like a dense fog. “That sucks,” he croaks out, words lengthening as the drugs pull his tongue like taffy. “But…where is my husband?”

Behind the doctor, two nurses exchange glances, eyes wide over their surgical masks. His father shakes his head back and forth. “Stiles… you’re not married.”

”I am, ” he insists.  ”And my baby. I have a baby.”

“Completely normal,” the doctor consoles. “Nothing to worry about. Some patients experience hallucinations and dreams as the anesthesia wears off.”

Oh yeah. Conor’s happy squeals, Tyler’s glorious smile, having a mom again. None of it was real.

“Recovery time typically takes between two and six weeks. You’ll have to keep the incision clean diligently and the stitches covered, but before you know it, you’ll walk again,” the doctor tells him. “You’ll run.”

Laughter gallops up his throat like a wild horse. He’s shaking again as he did in the snow, bones rattling and teeth clicking audibly together even as he desperately tries to clench his jaw and keep them still.

I’ve been running since I was sixteen. I don’t want to run anymore.

His father plucks a Kleenex from the box on his hospital tray, hands it to him. The thin tissue is sandpaper between Stiles’ raw fingertips. “Wh-why are you g-giving me this?” Stiles asks between gasps of air.

“Son,” his father says softly, “you’re crying.”

———-

His hospital room smells like a funeral parlor. Lily of the valley, morning glory, and peony. Scott charges in the moment Stiles can receive visitors outside the pathetic roster of family members, carrying a vase of blue dicks. “Get it?! Because you had hypothermia! You were freezing your-”

“Yeah, buddy. I get it.”

Get Well Soon the generic message on the flower card commands, but the problem is, Stiles isn’t sick. He’s grieving. But how can I mourn a life I never had?

By lunchtime, the snow stops, the sun shines, and Derek saunters into his hospital room as if he owns it. He looks stoically handsome in his black leather jacket and signature scowl, calm and composed, and smells like fresh air. Stiles’ emotional state soars dangerously from elation to despair, settling somewhere in the realm of weary acceptance.  

“They obliterated my toe,” Stiles tells Derek when he approaches the bedside, pulling back the sheet to reveal his foot wrapped up in a mountain of gauze.

“I know,” Derek replies, pulling up a folding chair and falling gracefully into it. He props his sneakers up on top of the room’s air-conditioning unit. “I brought you here and stayed until your Dad could come. The doctor said he’d try his best, but…” Derek shrugs. He knows all about good intentions.

“Scott told me you went back out after I got out of surgery, killed the Chenoo.”

Derek grimaces. “I have salt in crevices where salt should never go.”

“I’m ah, I’m sorry I was wea-”

Derek holds up a hand. “Stiles, stop. Never apologize for your humanity.”

But it’s more than physical feebleness.  It’s the mental weakness that settles on Stiles’ shoulders like a villains cloak—stitched with shame, edged in anger, dyed red because he looks damn good in red, and no one can tell him otherwise.

Stiles pulls a flat hospital pillow into his arms, holding it across his chest like armor, curling tighter around it with each word. ”Scott said you know about the hallucinations.”  Might as well get this over with now, when the wound is still fresh enough to heal with a minimal amount of scarring.

”I do, ” Derek replies.  ”Did Scott tell you I stayed the entire time? I only left this morning to kill the Chenoo.”

”He may have mentioned something along that line.” It’s the sole reason Stiles is brave enough to tackle this conversation now.  Dude, Scott had said, Derek stood outside the ICU for hours.  Your dad totally thinks you’re boning him.

“Derek?” Stiles fidgets with the sheet covering his leg. “I need to ask you something.”

Gold-flecked green eyes bore into him. Lacking Tyler’s delicate laugh lines, they feel sharper than a knife. “You can ask me anything, Stiles.”

He already grilled his father in every detail, but he needs to hear it from Derek’s mouth. “Did we find shelter from the storm in a cabin in the preserve? Was there a…” He stumbles; Conor’s face flashes before his eyes. “Was there a baby there? A baby boy in a red blanket?”  

Derek’s punctuates his gentle but firm statement with a shake of his head. “No, Stiles. You passed out, and I carried you here.”

“From the preserve? Dude. That’s like… Miles.”

Derek nods. He doesn’t say it, but somehow Stiles can hear the unspoken And I’d do it again because he’d do the same for Derek. Sadness surges like a wave, sudden and powerful, the words pulled from his mouth in the tide. “I dreamt we were a family.”

“We are family, Stiles. Pack is family.”

“No.” Stiles bites his lip. “I imagined it all, made it up in my head, but it felt so damn real. We were a family; you, me, and our son.”

Derek’s feet drop back to the floor, his spine a tautly pulled string. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me more.”

Stiles tells him everything.

“Wait,” Derek says after Stiles finally stops speaking. “This sounds vaguely familiar.” Derek unfolds from the chair and moves toward the hospital room door.  

“It does?” Stiles asks, hope igniting inside his chest. Maybe Derek’s dreamed about this before too.

“Stay right there,” Derek commands, eyebrows furrowed as he walks out of the room.

“Where do you imagine I’m going to go?” Stiles calls. “My foot is—”

“Yeah. I thought it sounded familiar!” Derek declares as he rushes back into the room, waving a magazine in front of Stiles’ face.

“What the heck, man?” Stiles struggles to sit up. “Did the nurses at the desk see you using werewolf speed?”

“Look,” Derek says, ignoring Stiles as usual. “Your surgery took two hours, and your father was scrambling for coverage so he could get over here. I sat in the waiting room, reading every magazine they had. I read this one.” He flips open an Entertainment Weekly and holds it under Stiles’ nose. There’s a handsome, dark-haired man in profile on the cover, looking down at a baby in a red blanket nestled in his arms. Another man flanks the infant; a smiling face turned toward the camera. The cover line reads, Tyler and Dylan may have ended their run on Teen Wolf, but their story is far from over.  

Oh my god, you are such an idiot.

“Oh my god, I am such an idiot!” Stiles squeals, snatching them magazine out of Derek’s hand. No. No, it can’t be. Stiles did not almost die of hypothermia just to imagine he Freaky Friday-ed with a couple of actors.  

“I knew Tyler and Dylan sounded familiar. They’re those actors who got married in real life, the ones on that stupid teenage werewolf soap opera you and Scott loved. And then they—”

“Adopted a baby last month,” Stiles finishes, flipping through the familiar pages. He’d perused the same magazine in Deaton’s clinic while they discussed how best to destroy the Chenoo.

“It makes perfect sense, Stiles,” Derek says, laying a hand down next to him on the bed. “Your brain latched onto the last thing you focused on before we left to hunt the Chenoo. It’s almost like that one episode of the show where Dylan’s character ends up in the Phantom Train Station between dimensions.”

“Hey,” Stiles gives Derek the stink eye. “You swore you never watched the show.”

An overly exaggerated eye roll. “I may have caught a couple of episodes.”  

Stiles’ eyebrows smugly say, I told you so, and Derek’s answer, shut the fuck up, Stiles.

“Which one were you again?” Derek asks. “Which guy?”

Stiles looks at the happy face of the actor. “Dylan.”

“So I was Tyler?” Derek grimaces. “That guy looks like he’s thirty-five.”

“Yeah, but in the best way,” Stiles insists.

He huffs, but Stiles sees the tips of his ears burning bright pink. Derek looks down, rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “You know I’m not him, right?” Derek asks, pointing to the handsome, besotted face on the magazine cover. “I’m not some happy-go-lucky ray of sunshine.”

Stiles tosses the magazine to the window ledge, where it falls between two flower vases. “Yeah, I know,” Stiles softly replies. Butterflies flutter in his stomach; they tingle at the ends of his ten fingers and nine toes. “Doesn’t stop me from loving you, though.”

Derek climbs into Stiles’ hospital bed, presses his face into Stiles’ throat and sighs, warm breath fanning over Stiles’ skin, words vibrating. “The entire trek to the hospital, I was terrified.”  Derek brushes an errant lock of hair from Stiles’ forehead. “Then we got here, and they wrapped you up in this insulation, trying to raise your body temperature. It took hours, and I spent every minute thinking I might never get the chance to tell you…I don’t know for sure what’ll happen; marriage, kids, all of the above, none of the above. But I know I never want to lose you.”

And he remembers Tyler, standing on the busy streets of Los Angeles, looking like a lost little boy when he talked about almost losing his husband.  It’s the same face Derek wears now.

“I’m always with you, dumbass,” Stiles answers.  Why did he think this would be hard? It’s as natural as breathing. “Important question, though.  This might make or break everything, so think hard before you answer. How do you feel about bathroom makeovers?  I have some ideas.”

“I feel strong to very strong about dual shower jets.”

“Dude,” Stiles says.  “There’s a definite possibility we’re soulmates.” And then, Derek smiles. It’s not as big or as bright as Tyler’s, not nearly as all-consuming as his subconscious conjured, but Stiles thinks, with time and love, it will get there.

They’ll get there.

[modernlcve]

*  —  stats —   andrew tick !

* — basics !

full name:   andrew jalen tick. nickname(s):   don’t like any variations of andrew.   his step-dad gets away with drew every now and then. age:   twenty - five. date of birth:   november first. place of birth:   carina,  north carolina. gender:   male. pronouns:   he / him. sexual orientation:   gay. level of education:   high school graduate.

* — physical !

tattoos:  a couple stick-and-pokes; a spraycan on his left hip and a moth on his right. one of keith haring’s “dog and ufo” on his left forearm. piercings:  both ears pierced, septum pierced. once had a lip ring, but he no longer wears it. notable features:   bleached out hair.  surprising height. weakness(es):   low bmi,  little upper body strength. scar(s):   faint scar on his right cheek.

* — domestic !

occupation:   artist.  unemployed. residence:   staying at one of the cheap bayside motels in delphinus heights. social class:   lower middle class. parents:   gina fox,  age 52,  parent he’s on the best terms with.  remarried to his step-father,   who he thinks fondly of. dawson tick,  age 55,  estranged from andrew at this point. siblings:   vanessa kaufman,   his younger step sister,   as good as blood in his book. extended family:   three maternal aunts across the states that he sees on holidays,  or is he’s passing through their towns.

* — personality !

positive traits: innovative,  self-reliant,  passionate. negative traits: impetuous,  self-serving,  prickly. myers-briggs ( x ):   entp,  the debater. temperament ( x ):   choleric. moral alignment:   chaotic good. horoscope:  scorpio. hogwarts house:  slytherin.

* — favorites !

movie:   rebel without a cause. tv show:   freaks and geeks. book:   scott pilgrim’s precious little life. drink:   green tea lemonade. food:   literally any pizza. animal:   elephants color:   yellow. song:   nights by frank ocean. artist:   sufjan stevens. celebrity crush:   oscar isaac.

* — impressions !

first impression:   he’s too confident.   andrew comes off as cool but approachable,   he’s easy going on the surface and has a devil-may-care thing about him. self impression:   andrew sees himself as a rolling stone she likes to think he has an air of mystery about him. lover impression:   again,   a little cocky,   but in a much more playful way.

* — et cetera !

turn ons:   a nice smile,   a sense of  humor,   good taste in music and art. turn offs:   uptight attitude,  being a fucking downer. drink/drugs/smoke:   yes/weed/yes. dominant hand:   left. clean or messy:   messy. early bird or night owl:   night owl. hobbies or special talents:   painting counts!

* — QUESTIONNAIRE !

01. where was your character born? what brought them to carina bay? what do they like most about the town?

andrew was born in carina bay.   his father’s family was local,   but his mother is from virginia.   she moved to carina for work.   once she set up her life here,   she knew she’d never leave.   he likes the energy of the town,   the natural ebb and flow of activity.   but it’s not enough to keep him around half the time.

02. who are your character’s friends and family? who do they surround themselves with? who are the people your character is closest to?

anymore,   he doesn’t have many close friends.   he has surface level pals he’s met around town,   but no one he’s exceptionally close to.   since he’s estranged from his father,   his mother,   step-father,  and step-sister are the only immediately family he claims and he considers himself closest to them.   he gets on well with luca and cassie too.  once upon a moon his answer would have been myles but #shithappens.

03. what is your character’s biggest fear? who have they told this to? who would they never tell this to? why?

he loves to travel.   he really does.   but his biggest fear is that he’ll never find a reason to settle down.   he wants to find that magical place or person or thing that makes him feel like he has a spot in the grand scheme of life and the universe.   but he’s unsure if he ever will,   so his fear is not travelling forever,   but doing so unanchored.    he would never tell this to anyone,   he’s got an image to uphold.

04. has your character ever been in love? had a broken heart?

perhaps once.   but he isn’t sure anymore.   over time,   memories fade.   feelings change.   he wouldn’t say his heart was straight up broken by myles,   but losing their friendship did have an effect on him.   myles,   again,   was once the person andrew felt closest to,   and not having that connection hasn’t been easy.   but,   ultimately,   he knows its his own fault

05. your character is doing intense spring cleaning. what is easy for them to throw out? what is difficult for them to part with? why?

he packs light for his travels.   he doesn’t have much to throw out.   easiest to part with is extra weight,   clothes and objects that don’t have any meanings to him beyond their intended purpose.   hardest are sketches and notes passed in high school.   he’s a paper hoarder for sure.

06. it’s saturday at noon. what is your character doing? give details.

he likes to spend his saturdays with his sketchbook at the pier.   he’s been doing caricatures lately,   to have a little walking around money,   but other than doing those,   he’s probably just doodling,   or taking down ideas for later.  

07. what is one strong memory that has stuck with your character since childhood?

he has a startling clear memory of being young and looking for seashells on the beach to rearrange into shapes in the sand.   it’s random,   there isn’t much significance to it.   it’s just a nice afternoon he spent on the beach with his mom.

08. what is in your character’s refrigerator right now? on their bedroom floor? their nightstand? in their wastebasket?

his fridge is practically empty:   he keeps some small snacks and energy drinks to get him through the nights.   his nightstand has the motel standards,   a little notepad and a bible along with his own stowed away items,   some loose pens, brushes, and hard candies.

09. what is something that upsets your character? where do they go when they’re upset? on the opposite end, what is something that makes them laugh out loud? where or when are they at their happiest?

it takes a lot to genuinely ruffle him anymore.   but andrew’s mostly upset by people who try to stand as obstacles.   he gets frustrated with not having the control in situations and more than likely,   he takes that out on the people involved in the situation.   when he’s upset,   he usually just goes for a walk with his sketchbook and ends up where he ends up.   he’s at his happiest and laughing the most with his family,   he feels that they see him for his truest self,   and force him to drop his tough guy daredevil facade.

10. when your character thinks of their childhood kitchen, what smell do they associate with it? why?

the most his childhood kitchen was used were the years his aunts came in around the holidays,   so,   most of what he remembers is their cooking.   what stands out the most are the baked apples and honey cakes,   they’d make his mouth water still today.

[madam-lit-nerd]

OK BUUUUUUUT I don’t have enough high school Destiel in my life lately, so here...HAVE SOME HIGH SCHOOL DESTIEL!

So Dean transfers to Central High School at the start of his junior year, brand new and handsome with the sharp jawline and bright green eyes, and oh-so-mysterious with those brooding stares and leather jacket.

Cas, on the other hand, has been in the county’s school system since pre-school—same classes with the same kids for so many years. There’s nothing mysterious in the least about his wide gummy smiles and bulky sweater vests, always paired with askew glasses and perpetual bed head. Which, on some people would be sloppy, but on him, it’s all kind of...adorable.

Right off the bat, Dean’s earning quite a bit of attention from guys and girls alike, all staring at him with desire or glaring with jealousy. There are, of course, a few people who immediately try to ingratiate themselves to him, but he‘s met these kinds before—they always try to wiggle their way in, bathe in that new-kid spotlight with their too-bright smiles and too-loud voices.

And yet, between all the first-day, back-to-school outfits and makeup and hairstyles, all the flirtatious smiles and overt greetings...there’s one person who stands out to oh-so-cool, mysterious Dean Winchester: the disheveled kid with the gummy smile who grins at him from three lockers away and quickly tosses out, “I’m Cas. Lemme know if you need anything!” before rushing off to his next class.

A friendly interaction that’s not too overbearing is exactly what Dean needs, and he finds himself glancing over at that locker throughout the day, hoping for another moment. Turns out that, even though he never quite catches Cas at his locker, he does see him when he walks into the last class of the day (physics).

Cas already has several other students around him, laughing and joking as they discuss their summers, but as soon as Cas sees Dean, he pats the desk behind him in invitation. Dean smiles gratefully as he settles his long frame into the small desk, surprised yet grateful for the unexpected show of friendship.

They fall into conversation easily, almost as if they’ve been friends for years. But as Dean watches Cas interact with the other students who walk into the room, he realizes that this is just who Cas is, how he actswith pretty much everyone. He’s awkward and dorky, sure, but endearingly so.

Dean finds himself admitting that he’s kind of into music and maybe it’d be fun to be involved in a band of some kind. Cas smiles widely and tells him about Chuck and his band that meet in Practice Room C almost every day after school.

“They’re no Zep,” he admits with a little chuckle, “but they’re the only band we have here at Central.”

Dean blushes and says that he’ll check them out, earning another blinding smile from Cas.

After the final bell of the day, Cas walks with Dean back to their locker block, still as easy and engaging as ever. Dean can’t help but marvel at how many people pause to bid Cas goodbye, everyone from freshmen to seniors, top-rung athletes to low-rung nerds. And Cas is just as friendly and open with each and every one of them.

Once they’ve gathered their books, Cas points Dean in the direction of the practice rooms before heading off to his own Monday-afternoon club (something about recycling, from what Dean catches). Dean does find the practice rooms and the aforementioned Chuck, along with his fellow band members Gabriel and Cain and Crowley. He hears them before he sees them, and he’s surprised at how good they are.

He doesn’t know what to expect when he knocks on the door—in fact he’s pretty surprised that he actually works up the nerve to do so—but Chuck’s already heard from Cas, and immediately invites Dean to sing along with them for the afternoon. By the end of the rehearsal, they’re blending like they’ve been doing this for years, and Dean’s got himself a vocal spot with Aborted Apocalypse.

When Dean spots Cas in the hallway the next morning, disheveled and adorable in yet another bulky sweater, he tries to thank him, but Cas just waves him off with a simple “That’s what friends do.”

And, from what Dean observes over the next weeks, Cas is just as generous with...well, pretty much everyone.

First it’s the giant football player Gordon who runs up and scoops Cas into a giant bear hug bc he finally earned a B in his history class, all thanks to Cas tutoring him in his one free hour.

Then it’s the sketchy guy Sid who usually hangs out behind the gym celebrating April 20 every fucking day, shuffling up to Cas to mutter that he’s “got the stuff in his car.” At first Dean’s taken aback, bc he can’t help but wonder if Cas, well...but then it turns out that “the stuff” is the Tupperware containers that Cas used to pack a bunch of meals when he learned that Sid’s mom was in the hospital for surgery.

Then it‘s Bela sauntering up to inform Cas that their usual girls night at the movies will need to be moved to Friday instead of Saturday bc she’s been asked out on a date.

Then it’s Becky, a freshman who stumbles up sobbing bc her junior boyfriend broke up with her to ask Bela out on a date.

Then it’s some random sophomore asking Cas for a hug and a piece of chocolate bc they failed their world history quiz. Then the frickin school counselor stops by to ask Cas to sit in on an appointment with one of his friends (a term that literally applies to the entire school, as far as Cas is concerned).

And Cas—sweet, adorkable Cas who’s involved in so many extra clubs and volunteer groups on top of all this—just takes it all in stride. Dean can’t even begin to guess when the guy studies or does his homework, but he passes in all the homework that’s due and he aces all his quizzes (at least the ones that Dean grades).

When Dean finally asks Cas how he does it, how he manages to look out for so many people while still taking care of himself, Cas just shrugs and says something about “mom friend” before offering Dean one of the cookies he’d baked over the weekend.

It’s at this exact moment that Dean realizes that he’s falling for Cas. Pretty fucking hard. It doesn’t help that they’re spending more and more time together: studying for physics, hanging out at each other’s houses, binge watching Dr. Sexy, volunteering for events with the animal shelter (Cas’s idea). Cas will even sit in on the band’s rehearsals some afternoons and hum along as Dean flashes him funny faces and flirtatious winks.

And yeah, Dean tries dropping hints here and there, flirting and gentle teasing—everything that’s worked for him in the past. But, Cas seems oblivious? Honestly, truly oblivious. Whenever Dean flirts and tries to compliment his eyes or hair, Cas deflects and makes a joke instead. The couple of times that Dean asks Cas out, it’s misinterpreted as just . . . hanging out. It’s incredibly frustrating, to say the least.

But there are so many hints that maybe Cas does like Dean back? Like the way he always smiles so openly at Dean, with his entire face lighting up every time they’re in the same room. The way he goes out of his way to talk to him and spend time with him, no matte how many other people are vying for his attention. How he attends the band’s gigs once they start playing local venues...He even befriends Sam (which is a huge deal for Dean) bc they’re both in GSA. Which, that certainly sparked Dean’s interest when he heard, but Sam had to admit that he didn’t actually know if Cas was into guys, or just an ally.

It isn’t until Bela sweeps into an Aborted Apocalypse rehearsal on a Tuesday afternoon in November and shoves her perfectly manicured nail into Dean’s chest to ask, “Why the hell haven’t you made a move on Cas?” Which surprises Dean, bc he knew that Bela and Cas were close (an unlikely pairing, given...well, them. Apparently it went back to freshman year with Cas helping Bela through some family stuff) but he didn’t know that she’d take such an active role in trying to get them together.

He offers his entire list of excuses, from “Cas is the same with me as he is with everyone else” to “I don’t even know if he’s into guys.” Bela just rolls her eyes at every single one.

It’s only when she says, “You both can make up as many excuses as you want, but everyone can see how you’re into each other!” that Dean begins to consider the possibility that Cas might actually want him back.

But he still has to be sure. “Everyone can see?” he asks around the ball in his throat. Bela nods slowly, like she’s dealing with an idiot, and as Dean looks around, he can see the rest of the guys nodding along too, all with shit-eating grins. Well, fuck.

It’s then that he has to admit that none of his usual tricks have worked. And Cas is just so fucking friendly with everybody. Dean can’t believe he, of all people, is special to Cas.

Bela just rolls her eyes and drags Dean from the room to another empty practice room. She levels Dean with a stern glare as she threatens to “disembowel you slowly with my pinky nail if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, ever.” And then she tells him about Brady.

Apparently, Cas is gay, but his last boyfriend Brady (some dickwad who attends another school across town) spent the entire relationship actively convincing Cas that they shouldn’t ever break up because no one else would ever want him. And then when they did break-up, Brady blasted Cas on all the social sites, and at one point, even vandalized Cas’s car, spray-painting derogatory, hateful slurs across every surface. So Cas is understandably hesitant about starting a new relationship because of how Brady treated him.

But, the biggest reason he won’t let himself show interest in Dean is he still believes what Brady said. Regardless of how many people love and accept him at school and at home, there’s still a tiny part that thinks that he isn’t good enough. When Dean scoffs in anger and disbelief, Bela arches a brow and spells it out: unless Dean makes it super obvious that he’s into Cas like that...well, Cas will never make that leap on his own.

As Dean is just about to head back next door, Bela calls out, “He loves the Beatles, you know.”

Dean smirks back at her, “Give me some credit, Bela.”

That weekend, when Cas arrives at the little coffee shop the guys are playing (with Bela in tow), Dean makes sure to stop at their table before the show and compliment Cas on his new button-down. When Cas smiles up at him, blushing so prettily as he murmurs his thanks, Dean can’t help but brush his fingers over the back of Cas’s hand, sharing a long, soft smile before his giddiness carries him back up to the stage.

They start with their usual set—a couple songs that the guys had written before Dean joined, a song they’d all written together, a couple popular covers—all songs that Cas has heard before. But then, the last song before the break, Dean smiles right down at Cas as he says, “This next song is for my amazing best friend, who’s loved and appreciated by so many people...including me,” he glances down shyly as he admits, “Cas, there’s no one else I could sing this to.” He looks right back up into Cas’s shocked blue gaze, “No one else who I’d want to hold my hand.”

He nods to the guys behind him, and the bass line starts to thrum as Dean sings the first, low lines:

“Yeah, I’ll tell you something. I think you’ll understand, when I say that something: I wanna hold your hand. I wanna hold your hand. I wanna hold your hand.”

The tempo picks up as the others join in. “Oh please, say to me...you’ll let me be your man. And please, say to me, you’ll let me hold your hand. Now let me hold your hand. I wanna hold your hand.”

Cas’s cheeks burn a bright red, but he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from Dean—from his sincere eyes and kind smile—and Dean can’t bring himself to look away either. Everyone else, everything else, fades away. It’s just him and Cas as he sings the bridge.

“And when I touch you, I feel happy inside. It’s such a feeling that my love... I can’t hide...I can’t hide...I can’t hide.”

As Dean sings through the final chorus, he can see it in Cas’s face—the realization and certainty that Dean is singing this just for him.

When the song ends, Dean still can’t tear his eyes away from Cas. Chuck announces a short break, but it’s all background noise to Dean as he hops down from the stage and returns to his best friend. Their shy smiles match as Dean reaches down to intertwine their fingers together. Cas slowly stands and pulls Dean into a tight hug with his free hand, unwilling to release the hands held between them.

“I really do, you know,” Dean murmurs into Cas’s ear.

Cas pulls back just enough to let Dean really see his eyes. “I know. I’ve hoped, for so long, but I just...I couldn’t tell.”

Dean scoffs. “You couldn’t tell? You, who spends so much time looking out for other people—“

Cas rolls his eyes. “Yes, the mom friend.”

“Why do you keep calling it that?” Dean wonders, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Because that’s what I am,” Cas insists. “And no one wants to date the mom.”

Dean arches a brow. “Ever heard of Stacy’s Mom? Or MILFs? Or Mrs. Robinson? Or—“

Cas cuts him off with, “I get it, I get it.” He chuckles, brushing his nose against Dean’s. “I still don’t understand it, but I get it.”

Dean’s eyes drop to Cas’s mouth. “And you get me.”

“I do?” Cas can’t help but tease, but Dean chooses to respond with something that will erase all doubts. His lips meet Cas’s, somehow gentle and fervent and kind and sincere, each giving and taking at the same time.

When they finally part, to the sound of people clapping and cheering, Dean glances down at Bela and nods once. “Thank you.”

Cas looks down at her, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “This was you?” Bela just shrugs as she looks back down at her phone with a bored expression, “I was just so sick and tired of the eye-fucking.”

Years down the road, when Dean and Aborted Apocalypse have hit it big, Cas will use his sparse free time (you know, between his full-time job as a social worker and his classes to earn his second masters degree) to go see Dean and the others perform whenever they’re nearby. And every time Cas is at one of their shows, they play another Beatles song. But they never actually circle back around to “I Want to Hold your Hand” until the night Dean pulls Cas onstage to drop to one knee and ask him if he’ll hold his hand for the rest of their lives.

So I’ve kind of had this idea floating around in the back of my head for a while now (you know, high school nerds falling in love over music). I mean, I’d heard through the grape vine that Jensen could sing, but it wasn’t until I saw this video that I realized I had to write something with musician Dean. The song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” was originally sung by the Beatles, but the version I picture Dean singing here is closer to this slow version from the Across the Universe soundtrack. Anyways, hope you enjoyed! As always, please like and share, as that is the lifeblood for us authors on here. Ok, byeeee!

[thefreshfinds]

Propelled by the vibrant energy, treasured ambiance, connectivity, heart drenched food and melodies intertwining with the Saturday afternoon clouds —

There I stood in the emblem of The Philadelphia Music Festival, starving for a bite of fresh talent and so I decided to fill my plate with only the best manifolds of visionary hip hop, pop, R&B, trap and rock but little did I know I was in for a feast!

*Credits to @_brandoncaptures_ *

The first to perform was Monica Joelle, a dynamic Pop/R&B songstress from Philly that strikes your heart hard like Cupid’s arrow with her orientally sweet voice and cherry dripped instrumentals. She effortlessly plucks you with relatable lyrics (whether it’s about sticky situations, love or having a crush) and that’s why no one can seem to get enough. Monica started off with songwriting / singing lessons and from there she has continuously bloomed into her own sound as an artist, writing pieces that show off her complexity through set-ups and syllables. The songstress has only been making music until December 2017 but prior to that she has always been performer whether it was for dance or theater. The first song she ever created which was “Never Forget You” which is your ordinary heartbreak song but still relatable (and surely a track she had the most fun making.) To prepare for the festival she took the living room as her stage — using the microphone and speaker as the components for an astounding set off in real life. And in the future? Monica plans on releasing an EP and shooting out singles. (she can’t give us a name as of yet but I’m sure whatever it is will reflect the bubbly aura she conveys on and off the stage) The date will be revealed before you even know it but don’t take the risk of missing out on it.. just make sure to follow @MonicaJoelle.

“I’m not going to stop, I’m going to keep going. Forget what the haters say” Monica says.

SoundCloud - https://soundcloud.com/monicajoelle

Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/artist/55UAah5w59sJuQyekaRswr?si=wKn4V9eeSJaIM8XJtvZFAw

Fun Fact: Her favorite slang is “Jawn”

My favorite song? On My Mind.

The next performer to zazzle the crowd was conscious wordsmith, Teef. Teef is a laid back visionary from New Jersey (residing now in Philly) who puts your mind at ease through charismatic storytelling intertwined with a fusion of neo-soul hip-hop, concrete flows, very solid messages and speaker knocking beats that could make your head snap off your neck (literally). Resonated with A Tribe Called Quest, one could even say that he has their style down pat as he makes sure to transition a soothing ambience through the vibration of his rhymes and wit. Teef started his musical journey in 2015 after dropping his first project called “Hip Hop On Purpose”. He was always into music but this project was the pinnacle of his musicianship “I just stopped thinking about doing something and I finally just started doing it,” says Teef “I was very hesitant about becoming a rapper at first because of what was out on the mainstream. I don’t even rap about that stuff [being on the block, etc]. Then one day I performed at an open mic, people liked it, asked me to come back and since then I kept going.” Aside from spitting bars Teef also enjoys welding, reading informational novels, free styling and networking. “Earlier [before the festival] I was actually welding up a rail and it wasn’t even a joke!” Teef goes on to say “Genuinely I just love to be around people. [when asked about networking] I like being around other independent artist and feeding off of their energy and ideas.” To prepare, Teef didn’t do much but go with the motion of the [creative] ocean and sway his natural repertoire in the ears of the ones close by. “I picked my songs when I got here. But I don’t always put my set together until I get there.” Teef says “I just went with the vibes”. One song that Teef enjoyed making the most was his first song “Get Free” because it allowed him to showcase his style to other people. “It was really random. It was made at three o clock in the morning and I really didn’t have an intent but it just hit me out of the blue. I crafted it in my own way. It was the most memorable time for me. That’s why I consider it to be fun because it just happened.” Common to persona, Teef’s favorite slang is “coolin” and the number one person that he looks up to in history is Bob Marley because he brought people together (and even squashed beef between politicians). “He was all about the people and the community”. Teef is currently running a weekly radio show called “Most Slept On Radio” on 98.5FM (it covers the Philadelphia area). He also runs Table Talk with Teef on Tuesday’s.

“I’m just growing with my artistry”

You can follow him on

Instagram : @realteef03

Bandcamp : https://lateef.bandcamp.com/Spotify : https://open.spotify.com/artist/0wNgFnLMKH5Dui6DdHSoUK?si=We2MVY6jSE6eut8W_CQaGg

My favorite song? Strangers in the Night

Wafting their chantable ad libs through heavy marijuana smoke, this group’s sound floats smoothly to your ear canals. The next act, The Joint Cheefs allowed me to let my conscious free through their use of moderate boom bap and sharp witted lyrics… but to be more clear, I can say that this trio changes the high experience by implicating an old feel of New York rap through their wrap of rhymes *that solely support the 420 movement* and calm aesthetic. To begin Geo The Rican, Sonny Blue Note and Loud Pack Ralph formulated as a triad one day while working in their studio in the Bronx. “We are producers and engineers so the idea itself just grew organically” says Geo the Rican. They have been making music for some time but to get to where they are now they pretty much just smoked a lot (no pun intended) and became more personal with their music, putting their trials and tribulations through their rhymes and as a result they have been gaining a peak of listeners on a daily basis. To prepare for the Philly Festival they answered with “smoking weed” but ultimately it was through the power of fun. “We take the music seriously but we try not to take ourselves too serious.” they go on to say “We take pride in our sound far as recording and making it.”To separate theirselves from the rest, the Joint Cheefs actually live through what they rap about. “We’re in a lane that we want to be in. It’s not too crowded, some people might say it’s our own and we’re going to hot box all the way to the top.” Aside from their recent release of “Never Canoe” on April 20th 2018, the Joint Cheefs are currently working on their album “Jars” which will be on all platforms by November 31st. When it comes to favorite strands, Sonny Blue Note enjoys Indica because it helps him sleep, Geo the Rican chooses Sativa because it helps him stay focused and Loud Pack Ralph enjoys hybrid because he just wants to get high. Fun fact: Their favorite slang is between “BroGod” and “Deadass” because they love to pay homage to their hometown.

You can follow them on

Instagram - @thejointcheefs

Soundcloud - https://soundcloud.com/thejointcheefs/the-joint-cheefs-n-high-c

Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/artist/1DQg3ISncFAuWAdDhebBMc?si=Q-Lu8Xv9QP-pfqkDU9tflg

My favorite song: It’s a tough one. It’s between “N High C” & “The Art of Hotboxing”

Lights on (meaning the sunlight of course) and centered on the stage, the next act to captivate me was Almost Famous who reels his listeners in with a hook of merciless R&B and a fair amount of auto tune. Generally speaking, Mr Famous has the 2000 feel of soul mastered perfectly as he dashes platforms with a similar production that Ne-Yo or even Genuine would use. The difference between him and the artist mentioned though is that he adds his own twist of dominating words, making sure to switch it up through trap and pop (while also warning his mysterious lover from time to time that they could be replaced in a heart beat) But don’t assume that his heart is locked up in a cage, Mr Famous still has a soft side to him and shows it from time to time. To begin, Almost Famous started off his career as a background dancer for a mass of Philly artist. “Hearing them, I realized that maybe I should create my own music so I started writing, perfecting melodies and harmonies and going to shows.” Famous says. This West Philadelphian has been doing music for 4 years but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s slowing down. Almost Famous grinds hard through releasing new singles and it even shows through his stage presence! “[To prepare for the festival] I had a few shows coming up, so I just kept on rolling with my other ones.” says Almost Famous. One song that Almost Famous enjoyed making the most is “Options” because it was during a time when he had to walk to work in the midst of a strike. “I heard the beat and it was mine from there. If it wasn’t for the strike, it wouldn’t be what it is now.” Fundamentally, Almost Famous would collaborate with Jasmine Sullivan if he was given the chance because her song writing skills and singing is perfect. But the bonus? Jasmine Sullivan is also from Philly. Even though Almost Famous shows love to his hometown he is not too fond of the people who run the Philly Hip Hop Awards “About a year or so they dogged me out but now that I’m apart of a new record label, they try to follow my moves and the label I’m with [Spit It Out Entertainment].” Famous goes on to say. As for his opinion on DMX? He thinks that DMX is a legend. “I feel like he’s been through a lot and a lot of people try to discredit him.”

Almost Famous’ favorite slang is “you drawlin’. “ He also considers himself a morning person because that’s when he’s able to get the day started. His project “Growth” will be released in November. Almost Famous also wants to give a shoutout to Spit it Out Entertainment.

My favorite song? Options (but the other song title can’t be given out. I will let the fans know when “Growth” is on streaming platforms)

You can follow him:

Instagram - @almostfamous215

YouTube - https://youtu.be/ilkKpQ0X8us

*Credits to Brother IB Photography @brother_ib *

The next act to glide his angelic floetry to the streets of Philly was Mashich, an upcoming trap soul artist from Philly who keeps things interesting through a singsong vocal pattern and propulsive beats but to stand out from the other singers that took a part of the festival, Mashich graced the crowd with silver printed dance moves. Even though Mashich has been singing since he was 7, he started taking his craft seriously in the past year. He’s originally from Aiken, South Carolina but he moved to Philly 7 years ago. When it comes to his favorite slang from his new home, he says it’s “d*ckhead” or “f*ck out of here”. To prepare for the Philly Festival, Mashich practiced nonstop. “I’m really big on practicing so I utilized any free time and space I had.” Mashich goes on to say. “I blasted music from my speaker, went over the song and got my movements down. From there I was able to find a form that helped to present myself and my style.”To stabilize his vocal chords, he drinks a lot of tea and does a range of warm ups while making sure to sing out of his diaphragm. In addition, Mashich would collab with Daniel Caesar if he had the opportunity. “All of his music is super creative and how he keeps his vocal deliveries organized is really dope,” says Mashich “I could learn a couple of things from him.”What makes this crooner so different from others is the thing he plans on bringing an old school feel back to R&B. “I hope that through my unique songwriting and vocal structure I am able to push other artist to do the same” All in all he wants good fortunes for the human race. Because let’s face there’s more to life. Love is limitless. “Miss My Dawgs” is currently out on streaming platforms. Be on the lookout for his debut EP “Small Town, Big City” which will cover his coming of age story. Leaving his house and growing with Philly.

“Whatever you believe you can do, you can do that sh*t. You can much success and much love”

You can follow him on:

SoundCloud - https://soundcloud.com/mashichmusic/miss-my-dawgs

Instagram - @k.ing.tut

Last to wow the crowd away was Bronx native Captain DMac who “makes your neck stretch like an ostrich”. Ticking the spinal chords of those familiar with dancehall and pop, Captain DMac’s brush of sultry vocal play and enticing melodies took me back to a tropical island that effortlessly illuminates peace, love and good vibes towards it’s community. I couldn’t help but to move my hips to the vigorous, self pulsating beats to follow.

We [Luis and I] were instantly allured. We needed to find out more and so we did.

Captain DMac started making music when he was in high school. “I was doing songs for different environments and people or surroundings,” DMac goes on to say “Anything that would happen I would make a song about it. I would often recite Snoop Dogg’s “Drop it Like It’s Hot” [in that time period] too because he’s one of my favorite artist and then someone said “Hey you should make your own song” so I decided to try it. The first cover I did was “Dreams Money Could Buy” by Drake and ever since I have been creating my own songs.”His tracks are mostly embed with a homage to his culture and admirable women and when he spits, he SPITS. Before switching genres, Captain DMac was just an aspiring rhymester who made headlines with his hit single “Big Ol Booty” because of the line from the song “Stretching out her neck like an ostrich” (and it became so well known that it went viral on Facebook and Worldstar, gaining over 8 million views to date.) However, Captain DMac didn’t get the credit he deserved but eventually he was gaining more recognition and reclaimed what was his. A lot of people [A&R’s] saw his songs for what it is and not what it could be, but his close ones thought otherwise. “One day I was talking to my boy and he said “Yo you’re Jamaican you should really touch that dancehall scene because there’s a lot of American artist that are doing it.” and I said “You know what you’re right let’s try it. The first one I made was Hold (which received positive feedback) and from there I said to myself let’s keep creating these vibes.” says Captain DMac. “There was a lot of obstacles to get to where I am. I met a lot of good people, sometimes bad. But I continue to strive and I surround myself around people who also strive. They have to work hard towards what they want to get and that’s what my team does. We just trying to get it. It all starts with good music.” Captain DMac also says that “Just Me & You” was his favorite song to make, “I recruited my friend to do light vocals and in the end he sounded like Super Mario.” All in all what makes him unique from the rest is his pen game. “I can have multiple versions of one song”

Captain DMac will continue to touching the Dancehall scene & the people.

He will be dropping two EP’s very soon.

His single “Think About” ft Juanialys is out right now

Fun fact: His favorite slang is yerr

&

He is a boxers guy.

You can find him at:

Soundcloud - https://soundcloud.com/captaindmac

Instagram - @captaindmac

Spotify - https://open.spotify.com/artist/5p154fD2gshCzENn8a4W8b?si=YLJ645G7TEOZSWFjQuj47Q

At its best, Philly Music Festival will continuously flourish as a platform for artist on the rise.

It’s more than just an event, it’s a spot that’ll reign of harmony, inspiration and positive energy.

By: Natalee Gilbert 🌞

[thisisnot-chris]

Where Life’s Taken Me

These past few years since my last year of college have been quite the roller-coaster ride. I never imagined it to turn out this way (so far). I look back and remember what I was like in high school; a shy, scared kid who wasn’t sure what to do in life and was afraid of criticism. I see what I’ve become 8 years later; an outgoing, adventure seeking, person who knows what he wants in life and isn’t bound by the fear of other’s opinions. College helped me realize what I wanted to do but part of me still felt held back by other people’s thoughts on what I was trying to do with my life during that time. My choices were too risky; no job security; why wasn’t it something “typical & traditional”. I ended up learning that was not me at all years later, and it wasn’t easy to come to terms with it throughout that time. In fact it all came together in the last 2-3 years. All I had to do was figure out things with myself and who I truly am. Those ideas and thoughts sat dormant in the back of my mind for a very long time but it took some unexpected events to occur which initiated that journey.

It started in December 2015. I was about to start an internship with a local booking agency that specialized in EDM shows; something I was beyond ecstatic about. I love EDM. I love music and everything about it; both artistically and business-wise. I wanted to share the amazing news with a number of my good friends at a Christmas party we had one Saturday nite, about 1 week before Christmas came. The party was a blast so far; drinking games, great music, and so many laughs. I shared the news with everyone there and it felt so satisfying to share a new experience coming my way with the people I cared about. Little did I know… I was about to get some news later on at the party.

I was in the basement and had to go use the bathroom upstairs. I made my way up and stepped into the kitchen where 3 of my friends were talking. One of them said 3 words that changed it all; “Chris is gay”. I uttered something back in confusion and all 3 heads turned towards me with looks on their faces that screamed “OH SHIT!...” One of my other friends pulls me into the living room while I’m still puzzled as all hell and begins to legitimately question if I was or not. I was PISSED, and I’m usually not one to get angry very easily. They had known me all these years and NOW I hear about this?! And the reasons as to why were so stereotypical; I wore pink clothes, I watched what I ate, I didn’t drink much, I talk differently, etc. How the fuck should those label me anything?!?! They started apologizing afterwards and said they shouldn’t have made bold conclusions like that. At that point I should’ve gotten over it. But I didn’t. It bothered me. REALLY badly. And it only worsened in the coming months and years.

Shortly after the new year, my internship didn’t turn into a full-term employment due to the manager’s business needs and schedule. I needed to find work in the time being so I could make money and move out of my family’s house and continue investing in what I wanted to do with music. That time off had that thought keep coming back to me. George Michael once said, “When someone questions your sexuality, you begin to question EVERYTHING!” That’s exactly what happened to me. I never dated a woman in my life; but that shouldn’t have meant anything. I had crushes on girls throughout the years. When I was a much bigger kid in middle and high school, I started wanting to lose weight and exercise. I would compare myself to other attractive and much more fit men, looking at them and saying “God, I really wish I looked like that.” I didn’t think that meant anything either, even though I still had thoughts like that after losing so much weight. I kept pushing it aside during this time. I even joked to myself about it; for some reason, I always remembered this line from a Ron White stand up special where he says “Guys, if you ever have a thought… let it go. Everyone’s a little gay.” That line made me think of the times my friends and I poked fun like that; I didn’t realize I was just fighting myself. That year’s summer and fall began some very serious talks with myself soon on.

During my job search leading into the summer, I had a good friend keep in contact with me over the search and how I was doing. I started hanging out and spending time with him more; video games, watching stand up, random shit, whatever it was. It was great. As it got warmer, I was invited out to bonfires and hung out with a bunch of guys he became acquainted with. I was relatively quiet around them but it was still fun hearing their conversations. I was glad I got to spend time like this with my friend. Then in the middle of July, I finally got a job for the time being at a financial institution. Soon after accepting that position, I was also invited on a camping trip up North with him and his buddies. I ended up arriving on a Friday afternoon at a lake while they were out on a friend’s boat; they were drinking beer, listening to music, games, you name it. I thought it was great he invited me and will always remember my time out there. After a couple hours, they wanted to head back to the campsite they were at but I had no clue where it was. He offered to direct me back. I got back in my car, and then he got in it, sitting in the passenger seat. I drove halfway there until a state patrol officer pulled us over. There was a festival that weekend so he was just checking for drunk drivers but he kept us there for a good 15-20 minutes for whatever reason. We sat there for a while, trying to see what he was doing. But I wasn’t looking at the officer that whole time. I couldn’t help but look at my friend and I didn’t understand why. There he was next to me. Slightly buzzed. Wearing a hat from a foreign country. Shirtless. That was the moment there that something seemed different to me. What the hell was going on???

After that ordeal, we made it to the site and got ready for the festival. It ended up getting rained on and they got a crappy replacement band instead of the one they’ve gotten before. Their specialty ‘Summer Hummer” drinks were cheap though so it was a win in the end. We then headed back and had a fire for a bit til’ the rain got heavier and we all huddled under a canopy. I stayed in one of the guys’ tents that nite but had so much trouble sleeping because I kept thinking about that moment my friend and I got pulled over. Why couldn’t I help but look at him like that?... The next morning, we all packed up to leave but he wanted to stay and hike the area and asked me to. I wanted to say yes but that moment in the car yesterday scared me from doing so. I said I was gonna head back home instead. The questioning continued on the drive home. The nights after when I went to bed. Throughout the day during my new job. We still hung out since that and the questions kept growing on me. Why? Why was I looking at him like that??? Within that next month, what I considered to be the scariest thought I ever had ended up revealing itself to me… I think I was starting to have feelings for him.

That thought began to mess with me even worse than the initial questioning. I never thought things like this before; why now?? The coming September furthered this. There was a nite we went out and one of his friend’s questioned my sexuality. Pissed me off again. But I still had thoughts and they scared me more. I never knew anyone who was gay at this point and I wasn’t sure on my friends and immediate family’s thoughts on homosexuality. Then, one of my current best friends that was rooming with him at the time was planning on moving to California in October. My friend I started to have feelings for… offered me to move in. Living with someone you have feelings for… how the hell could this be a good idea?... My head couldn’t take it anymore. It started to affect me negatively from here on. 

Jumping to October 29th, 2016, around the time my best friend moved to Cali, my “crush” and a couple other people went out to a bar for a Halloween party. On the ride back after the party, there was an argument on who the hottest woman was there. I was asked on my opinion. I never paid attention to any there and lied saying, “the blonde one”. Believe it not, there were no blonde women there that nite… We make it to his house, I use the bathroom, and come out to hear my two friends, one I’ve known since elementary school and the one I had feelings for, uttering to each other if I was gay. I had it at this point. I leaned against some cabinets, slid to the floor, and told them, “Guys… I’m not sure what I am.” I was scared out of my fucking mind. But they were ok with it. They didn’t care. It didn’t make a difference. That was a slight sigh of relief but I was “playing the bi-card” at this time. I could be interested in women too I thought back then. But I had feelings for my friend at this time… a man.

It wasn’t even 2 weeks later that my feelings were bothering me even more so; I felt the need to tell my good friend how I felt. Another friend of ours had a post-Halloween party at his place on November 5th, 2016 (“remember, remember, the 5th of November” has new meaning for me now); it was fun at first but the cops shut it down due to noise complaints. Still bothered, I then texted him at 1:00AM asking him where he was. He was on his way back home. I waited for him til 2:00AM when we arrived back to talk to him. I initially stated I started having feelings for someone we know and didn’t know what to do. He knew I was going to say it was him but kept asking who. I started to hold back myself from saying it was him. I was fucking crying for god sake. But I said it then. I liked him. And I couldn’t take it back. He then said his side of the matter; he appreciated me telling him, was flattered, but did not feel the same back. He did not feel that way about men. It didn’t change anything between us which shocked me. But I still didn’t know what to do. Did I simply just let it go? I unfortunately didn’t and it caused a major problem later on. I had more feelings for him after that talk. It wasn’t right. But I felt I lied to myself if I let it go.

January 2017 came around and I told my best friend in Cali about my questioning; he was ok with it and stated his support. I even told one of my friends that questioned me the nite of that Christmas party. I thought he out of all my friends would have the BIGGEST problem with it; but he didn’t. He hugged me and opened up much more about himself to me than I expected. He even suggested I talk to this woman we knew; little did I know she would end up helping me so much and becoming one of my best friends after we had dinner one nite. Oh, that major problem I mentioned? It began during the end of that month. Some friends and I were over at my “crush’s” place. My feelings were troubling me so much that nite. I ended up being a bit… “upfront” with him later that nite. How stupid could’ve I fucking been...

After that, he didn’t want to talk to me for awhile. He treated me differently. He distanced himself and when I look back on it, I can’t blame him. The feelings diminished away as they should’ve initially. I couldn’t believe I did this to a good friend. I crossed a line. I was not ok with myself. I felt like I was slipping into some phase of depression that screwed up my work performance, affected my job security, and made me feel everything was falling apart. Friends were breaking up and taking sides on different things. My one best friend moved to Cali and I thought I’d never see him again. I ended up telling more people that were close in my life about my questioning, including my parents, and everyone was ok with it. But I still struggled. I began to feel who I was was wrong. Being a man and having feelings for men was wrong.  I was still having AND causing problems. I even caused trust issues with more friends I care so much about and diminished those relationships significantly. I felt that I couldn’t take life anymore… I wanted to give up and leave everything behind… I tried to twice…

…

But I didn’t give up. I kept moving forward in dealing with this and figuring things out. The girl I mentioned who is one of my best friends now? She introduced me to so many new people that shared their experiences and opinions on things I never thought I’d hear about. She invited me to visit so many places that summer of 2017. From Sturgeon Bay, to Milwaukee, to Eagle River, to the Dells, to frickin’ Toronto, Canada for a big convention. I even went to Pasadena, California to visit my best friend that moved there and went to the Warner Bros Studios, downtown LA, and even saw the Hollywood Sign. I saw so much, did so much, and made so many memories. During that time, away from the typical things I dealt with back at home, it gave me answers to so many questions I had. That time even helped one of my other best friends in the area and coming to terms with her sexuality. But it answered one big one and I had an answer for myself soon enough; I am gay.

Since then, I’ve continued to meet new people, explore new places, and taken new opportunities that help me reach goals I’ve made for myself and what I want to do in my life. If I never came to terms with myself, I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed life as much as I do now. I never would’ve met so many amazing people. I never would’ve started playing shows again or getting a creative spark for music making again or even starting up a side business. It’s still a bumpy road, but isn’t it for everyone? You got to move forward, challenge yourself, and continue learning. That’s what life seems to be about to me. And I’m glad I see that now.

I’m sure most of the people closest to me have heard this story before so they can figure out who is who, but names shouldn’t be a defining factor here. I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t for the amazing friends and family I have. My parents; even though some initial concern was shared, their love never changed. My brother; 8 years younger than me and so much more open minded than I ever was when I was his age. My friends I’ve known throughout middle and high school; I’m glad that we still hang out, talk, keep in touch, even with all the problems I caused. My friends I’ve made during and after college; I appreciate everything you guys have shared with me and every chance we get to see each other is something I value highly. My friend who was my “turning point”; I know things can never be the same like before but it’s good to know it’s much better than before. My 3 closest friends; if I never met any of you, I never would’ve came to terms with myself. Now I know who I am. I’m an EDM-loving, music making, goal oriented, cartoon & meme-mimicking, ambitious man that loves taking on a new adventure every chance he can get his hands on and won’t let life’s obstacles hold him back (who happens to be gay). I am who I am and I haven’t felt the need to hide it for the past year now. Thank you all for the impact you’ve made on me.

Let’s see where life takes me next   :)

[wrecktify]

*  —  task 2 —   stats —   andrew tick  !

* — basics !

full name:   andrew jalen tick. nickname(s):   don’t like any variations of andrew.    his step-dad gets away with drew every now and then. age:   twenty - five. date of birth:   november first. place of birth:   carina,  north carolina. gender:   cis male. pronouns:   he / him. sexual orientation:   gay.  level of education:   high school graduate.

* — physical !

tattoos:  a couple stick-and-pokes; a spraycan on his left hip and a moth on his right. one of keith haring’s “dog and ufo” on his left forearm. piercings:  both ears pierced, septum pierced. once had a lip ring, but he no longer wears it. notable features:   bleached out hair.  surprising height. weakness(es):   low bmi,  little upper body strength. scar(s):   faint scar on his right cheek.

* — domestic !

occupation:   artist.  unemployed. residence:   staying at one of the cheap bayside motels in delphinus heights. social class:   lower middle class. parents:   gina fox,  age 52,  parent he’s on the best terms with.  remarried to his step-father,   who he thinks fondly of. dawson tick,  age 55,  estranged from andrew at this point. siblings:   one younger step-sibling,  as far as he knows. they get on well,  he considers them as good as blood. extended family:   three maternal aunts across the states that he sees on holidays,  or is he’s passing through their towns.

* — personality !

positive traits: innovative,  self-reliant,  passionate. negative traits: impetuous,  self-serving,  prickly. myers-briggs ( x ):   entp,  the debater. temperament ( x ):   choleric. moral alignment:   chaotic good. horoscope:  scorpio. hogwarts house:  slytherin.

 * — favorites !

movie:   rebel without a cause. tv show:   freaks and geeks. book:   scott pilgrim’s precious little life. drink:   green tea lemonade. food:   literally any pizza. animal:   elephants color:   yellow. song:   nights by frank ocean. artist:   sufjan stevens. celebrity crush:   oscar isaac.

* — impressions !

first impression:   he’s too confident.   andrew comes  off as cool but approachable,   he’s easy going on the surface and has a devil-may-care thing about him. self impression:   andrew sees himself as a rolling stone she likes to think he has an air of mystery about him. lover impression:   again,   a little cocky,   but in a much more playful way.

* — et cetera !

turn ons:   a nice smile,   a sense of  humor,   good taste in music and art. turn offs:   uptight attitude,  being a fucking downer. drink/drugs/smoke:   yes/weed/yes. dominant hand:   left. clean or messy:   messy. early bird or night owl:   night owl. hobbies or special talents:   painting counts!

* — questionnaire !

01. where was your character born? what brought them to carina bay? what do they like most about the town?

andrew was born in carina bay.   his father’s family was local,   but his mother is from virginia.   she moved to carina for work.   once she set up her life here,   she knew she’d never leave.   he likes the energy of the town,   the natural ebb and flow of activity.   but it’s not enough to keep him around half the time.

02. who are your character’s friends and family? who do they surround themselves with? who are the people your character is closest to?

anymore,   he doesn’t have many close friends.   he has surface level pals he’s met around town,   but no one he’s exceptionally close to.   since he’s estranged from his father,   his mother,   step-father,  and step-sister are the only immediately family he claims and he considers himself closest to them.   he gets on well with luca and cassie too.  once upon a moon his answer would have been myles but #shithappens.

03. what is your character’s biggest fear? who have they told this to? who would they never tell this to? why?

he loves to travel.   he really does.   but his biggest fear is that he’ll never find a reason to settle down.   he wants to find that magical place or person or thing that makes him feel like he has a spot in the grand scheme of life and the universe.   but he’s unsure if he ever will,   so his fear is not travelling forever,   but doing so unanchored.    he would never tell this to anyone,   he’s got an image to uphold.

04. has your character ever been in love? had a broken heart?

perhaps once.   but he isn’t sure anymore.   over time,   memories fade.   feelings change.   he wouldn’t say his heart was straight up broken by myles,   but losing their friendship did have an effect on him.   myles,   again,   was once the person andrew felt closest to,   and not having that connection hasn’t been easy.   but,   ultimately,   he knows its his own fault

05. your character is doing intense spring cleaning. what is easy for them to throw out? what is difficult for them to part with? why?

he packs light for his travels.   he doesn’t have much to throw out.   easiest to part with is extra weight,   clothes and objects that don’t have any meanings to him beyond their intended purpose.   hardest are sketches and notes passed in high school.   he’s a paper hoarder for sure.

06. it’s saturday at noon. what is your character doing? give details.

he likes to spend his saturdays with his sketchbook at the pier.   he’s been doing caricatures lately,   to have a little walking around money,   but other than doing those,   he’s probably just doodling,   or taking down ideas for later.   

07. what is one strong memory that has stuck with your character since childhood?

he has a startling clear memory of being young and looking for seashells on the beach to rearrange into shapes in the sand.   it’s random,   there isn’t much significance to it.   it’s just a nice afternoon he spent on the beach with his mom.

08. what is in your character’s refrigerator right now? on their bedroom floor? their nightstand? in their wastebasket?

his fridge is practically empty:   he keeps some small snacks and energy drinks to get him through the nights.   his nightstand has the motel standards,   a little notepad and a bible along with his own stowed away items,   some loose pens, brushes, and hard candies.

09. what is something that upsets your character? where do they go when they’re upset? on the opposite end, what is something that makes them laugh out loud? where or when are they at their happiest?

it takes a lot to genuinely ruffle him anymore.   but andrew’s mostly upset by people who try to stand as obstacles.   he gets frustrated with not having the control in situations and more than likely,   he takes that out on the people involved in the situation.   when he’s upset,   he usually just goes for a walk with his sketchbook and ends up where he ends up.   he’s at his happiest and laughing the most with his family,   he feels that they see him for his truest self,   and force him to trop his tough guy daredevil facade.

10. when your character thinks of their childhood kitchen, what smell do they associate with it? why?

the most his childhood kitchen was used were the years his aunts came in around the holidays,   so,   most of what he remembers is their cooking.   what stands out the most are the baked apples and honey cakes,   they’d make his mouth water still today.

[papermoonloveslucy]

THE SURPRISE PARTY

March 10, 1951

“The Surprise Party” is episode #122 of the radio series MY FAVORITE HUSBAND broadcast on March 10, 1951.

Synopsis ~ Iris lets slip that one of Liz's friends is throwing a party Saturday night, and Liz and George aren't invited. But which friend is it?

“My Favorite Husband” was based on the novels Mr. and Mrs. Cugat, the Record of a Happy Marriage (1940) and Outside Eden (1945) by Isabel Scott Rorick, which had previously been adapted into the film Are Husbands Necessary? (1942). “My Favorite Husband” was first broadcast as a one-time special on July 5, 1948. Lucille Ball and Lee Bowman played the characters of Liz and George Cugat, and a positive response to this broadcast convinced CBS to launch “My Favorite Husband” as a series. Bowman was not available Richard Denning was cast as George. On January 7, 1949, confusion with bandleader Xavier Cugat prompted a name change to Cooper. On this same episode Jell-O became its sponsor. A total of 124 episodes of the program aired from July 23, 1948 through March 31, 1951. After about ten episodes had been written, writers Fox and Davenport departed and three new writers took over – Bob Carroll, Jr., Madelyn Pugh, and head writer/producer Jess Oppenheimer. In March 1949 Gale Gordon took over the existing role of George’s boss, Rudolph Atterbury, and Bea Benaderet was added as his wife, Iris. CBS brought “My Favorite Husband” to television in 1953, starring Joan Caulfield and Barry Nelson as Liz and George Cooper. The television version ran two-and-a-half seasons, from September 1953 through December 1955, running concurrently with “I Love Lucy.” It was produced live at CBS Television City for most of its run, until switching to film for a truncated third season filmed (ironically) at Desilu and recasting Liz Cooper with Vanessa Brown.

MAIN CAST

Lucille Ball (Liz Cooper) was born on August 6, 1911 in Jamestown, New York. She began her screen career in 1933 and was known in Hollywood as ‘Queen of the B’s’ due to her many appearances in ‘B’ movies. With Richard Denning, she starred in a radio program titled “My Favorite Husband” which eventually led to the creation of “I Love Lucy,” a television situation comedy in which she co-starred with her real-life husband, Latin bandleader Desi Arnaz. The program was phenomenally successful, allowing the couple to purchase what was once RKO Studios, re-naming it Desilu. When the show ended in 1960 (in an hour-long format known as “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour”) so did Lucy and Desi’s marriage. In 1962, hoping to keep Desilu financially solvent, Lucy returned to the sitcom format with “The Lucy Show,” which lasted six seasons. She followed that with a similar sitcom “Here’s Lucy” co-starring with her real-life children, Lucie and Desi Jr., as well as Gale Gordon, who had joined the cast of “The Lucy Show” during season two. Before her death in 1989, Lucy made one more attempt at a sitcom with “Life With Lucy,” also with Gordon.

Richard Denning (George Cooper) was born Louis Albert Heindrich Denninger Jr., in Poughkeepsie, New York. When he was 18 months old, his family moved to Los Angeles. Plans called for him to take over his father’s garment manufacturing business, but he developed an interest in acting. Denning enlisted in the US Navy during World War II. He is best known for his  roles in various science fiction and horror films of the 1950s. Although he teamed with Lucille Ball on radio in “My Favorite Husband,” the two never acted together on screen. While “I Love Lucy” was on the air, he was seen on another CBS TV series, “Mr. & Mrs. North.” From 1968 to 1980 he played the Governor on “Hawaii 5-0″, his final role. He died in 1998 at age 84.

Gale Gordon (Rudolph Atterbury) had worked with Lucille Ball on “The Wonder Show” on radio in 1938. One of the front-runners to play Fred Mertz on “I Love Lucy,” he eventually played Alvin Littlefield, owner of the Tropicana, during two episodes in 1952. After playing a Judge in an episode of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour” in 1958, he would re-team with Lucy for all of her subsequent series’: as Theodore J. Mooney in ”The Lucy Show”; as Harrison Otis Carter in “Here’s Lucy”; and as Curtis McGibbon on “Life with Lucy.” Gordon died in 1995 at the age of 89.

Bea Benadaret (Iris Atterbury) was considered the front-runner to be cast as Ethel Mertz but when “I Love Lucy” was ready to start production she was already playing a similar role on TV’s “The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show” so Vivian Vance was cast instead. On “I Love Lucy” she was cast as Lucy Ricardo’s spinster neighbor, Miss Lewis, in “Lucy Plays Cupid” (ILL S1;E15) in early 1952. Later, she was a success in her own show, “Petticoat Junction” as Shady Rest Hotel proprietress Kate Bradley. She starred in the series until her death in 1968.

Ruth Perrott (Katie, the Maid) is not heard in this episode. 

Bob LeMond (Announcer) also served as the announcer for the pilot episode of “I Love Lucy”. When the long-lost pilot was finally discovered in 1990, a few moments of the opening narration were damaged and lost, so LeMond – fifty years later – recreated the narration for the CBS special and subsequent DVD release.

GUEST CAST

Elvia Allman (Sally Roman) was born on September 19, 1904 in Enochville, North Carolina. She started her performing career on radio in the 1920s, as both a storyteller and singer. Allman’s first episode of “I Love Lucy” is also one of the most memorable in TV history: “Job Switching” (ILL S2;E1) in September 1952.  She played the strident foreman of Kramer’s Candy Kitchen. Allman returned to the show as one of Minnie Finch’s neighbors in “Fan Magazine Interview” (ILL S3;E17) in 1954. Changing gears once again she played prim magazine reporter Nancy Graham in “The Homecoming” (ILL S5;E6) in 1955. She made two appearances on “The Lucy–Desi Comedy Hour“ - first as Ida Thompson, Westfield’s PTA director in “The Celebrity Next Door” (LDCH S1;E2) and as Milton Berle’s secretary when “Milton Berle Hides Out at the Ricardos” (LDCH S3;E1) in 1959. On “The Lucy Show” she was seen in “Lucy Bags a Bargain” (TLS S4;E17) and in “Lucy The Babysitter” (TLS S5;E16).  Allman died on March 6, 1992, aged 87.

Shirley Mitchell (Fran Lewis) was born in Toledo, Ohio, on November 4, 1919. She started her acting career on radio in Chicago but soon moved to Los Angeles. Mitchell was a regular on radio in series such as “Fibber McGee and Molly” and “The Great Gildersleeve”. She became friends with Lucille Ball in the late 1940s when she was featured in four episodes of “My Favorite Husband.” Mitchell reunited with Lucille Ball on “I Love Lucy” playing Marion Strong, a member of the Wednesday Afternoon Fine Arts League in “Lucy and Ethel Buy the Same Dress” (ILL S3;E3), “Lucy Tells the Truth” (ILL S3;E6) and “Lucy’s Club Dance” (ILL S3;E25).  Shirley Mitchell died of heart failure on November 11, 2013, seven days after her 94th birthday.

Fran’s husband is named Tom, although we do not meet him. 

EPISODE

ANNOUNCER: “As we look in on the Coopers  tonight, George and Liz have just finished dinner.”

Liz remarks on this being the first time they’ve stayed home in three weeks.

LIZ: “The way we’ve been going you’d think the government was going to ration fun.”  

Rationing in the US was introduced in stages during World War II. The Office of Price Administration (OPA) warned Americans of potential gasoline, steel, aluminum, and electricity shortages. Most rationing restrictions ended in August 1945 except for sugar rationing, which lasted until 1947 in some parts of the country.

The telephone rings and George tells Liz they should just let it ring, lest someone tempt them out of their homes. 

LIZ: “Maybe it’s ‘Sing It Again’ and we’re losing a jackpot.” 

"Sing It Again” first aired on CBS radio in September 1948. In several markets it was aired right after “My Favorite Husband,” which was true of this particular date (March 10, 1951). It worked like this: a song would be performed, then sung again (hence the show's title) with new lyrics, describing a famous celebrity. If the contestant (or a listener, phoned at random) solved the puzzle, they would have the opportunity to try to identify the ‘Phantom Voice’ from clues from the preceding weeks. The jackpot was huge for its time: $25,000 in cash and prizes. In 1950, it became one of the few programs ever to be simulcast on both radio and television.

George tells her to grit her teeth, but Liz can’t bear it and picks up the phone. It is only Iris. She is calling to ask Liz what she will wear to the party on Saturday night. Before Liz can ask “what party” Iris realizes Liz may not have been invited. Iris quickly hangs up before explaining.   Liz wonders who it is giving the party and why they weren’t invited. She doesn’t want to go, but wants to know who doesn’t like them enough not to invite them to a party. She dissolves into tears. George doesn’t care, but Liz can’t sleep until she knows who it is.  

Liz calls Sally Roman (Elvia Allman), who, Liz says, is invited everywhere. She will undoubtedly spill the beans. Sally says she is going to the party on Saturday night, but doesn’t say where or who is throwing it. 

SALLY: “Well, she’s your best friend!” 

Liz wonders if they are talking about the same party to get her to say a name - but she doesn’t bite. Liz calls Iris back but Iris hangs up!  Liz won’t quit - she continues dialing as the scene fades out. 

After 17 phone calls, Liz still hasn’t found out who is throwing the party. She tells George to put on his coat; they are going to confront Iris - despite it being ten o’clock at night! Liz says she can’t sleep until she finds out where it is they’re not going. 

End of Part One

A public service announcement talks about community spirit in Western Germany, where US GIs built a playground for a children’s home in a town heavily bombed during the war. “We are Americans. As we go, so goes America.” 

Part Two

ANNOUNCER: “As we look in on the Coopers once again, we find them on their way over to the Atterburys. The Atterburys, not knowing that they are going to have the pleasure of late evening visitors, have already gone to bed.”

Rudolph and Iris are snoring loudly in bed when the phone rings. Rudolph picks it up but no one is there. He realizes it is the front doorbell.  Rudolph reluctantly goes to answer the door - without his bedroom slippers - stubbing his toe.   Liz and George are at the door. Liz wants to ask Iris something, so Rudolph begrudgingly invites them in. Iris comes down to see who it is. Liz bluntly asks her who is having the party on Saturday night. Iris says she can’t tell her.  

LIZ: “Who? Who? Who?” RUDOLPH: “George, will you take your owl and go home?”

A variation on this owl joke was used on the very first episode of “I Love Lucy,” “The Girls Want To Go To a Nightclub” (ILL S1;E1):

ETHEL MERTZ (to Lucy, who is dialing the phone): “Who are you calling? Who, who, who?” LUCY RICARDO: “Quiet, you sound like an owl.”

And repeated in a new context on season one of “The Lucy Show,” “Lucy Buys a Sheep” (TLS S1;E5):

VIV BAGLEY: “Who got dinner last night? Who did the laundry last week? Who did the marketing yesterday? Who? Who?” LUCY CARMICHAEL: “Apparently some crabby blonde owl.”  

Liz gets Iris to tell her that the ‘friend’ lives three blocks away from the Coopers. Liz is satisfied that she can figure it out from that clue. Rudolph falls asleep immediately - standing up! Next morning, Liz’s breakfast is getting cold. She can’t stop thinking about the mystery party-thrower. She has come to the conclusion that it must be Fran Lewis. Now she has to call Fran and wangle an invitation. She doesn’t want to go - just to get invited - so she can decline! 

On the telephone, Fran (Shirley Mitchell) says she was just about to call Liz - about her missing cat. Liz invites her over to her house on Saturday night, knowing she’d have no choice but to invite her to the party Liz thinks she’s giving. But no - Fran accept her invitation. Liz hangs up. 

GEORGE: “Well? Did you find out who is giving the party?” LIZ: “Yes. We are! My little plan backfired!” 

At the bank, Mr. Atterbury tells George that he only got three hours sleep last night due to heart-burn, which she attributes to Liz. Rudolph confides in George that the girls in the club are giving the party on Saturday night - in Liz’s honor. The party is being given at Marge Van Tassel’s on Saturday night. George calls Liz and tells her the truth about the party and that it is in her honor. 

Later, Liz is talking to Fran on the phone. She tells Fran that her mother fell down and broke her leg so they have to break their plans for Saturday night.  That takes care of that! Now all she has to do is wait for Marge’s invitation! 

GEORGE: “Sometimes you amaze me.” LIZ: “Sometimes I amaze myself!” 

End of Episode

[sunshinykittens-blog]

Not Enough Alcohol in NYC...

Saturday, November 25 the wee hours of the morning. I think.

I would love to go to sleep right now, God knows I have been through enough chaos the past 72 hours to qualify for hazard pay, or at least PTSD treatment. The flights, the usual holiday family drama (not EVEN my family), an empty apartment, snotting all over some Tower residents, new digs…but I probably should start from the beginning…

Wednesday

When last we left our intrepid adventurer (that would be me), it was in an airport, JFK to be exact. I was waiting, along with Sunny and the 3 younger kids, for our flight out to Pasco (via Seattle) to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with her mom and oldest child. My kids weren’t going to be at my family gathering, so no sense in going home, especially since I’m spending an entire week home for Christmas. Besides, Sunny’s mom has been going through some health issues, and I haven’t seen her in forever. Sunny made all the flight arrangements, all I was supposed to do was pack my bag and be ready to go. So something I didn’t know about her before this day, seeing as I had never flown with her before: Sunny is paranoid about missing flights. I realize that this is one of the busiest days for traveling, and that means all the lines for everything would be extra long, but I am still not sure why we had to leave the apartment at 6 am for a 1:30 pm flight. Maybe she thought we’d get caught up in the parade traffic. But since The Man arranged for a car to take us to the airport (and pick us up upon our return Sunday afternoon), we didn’t have to worry about getting a cab or riding the subway (Sunny’s great idea). So yeah, I am grateful to The Man for the car. Amazingly, we checked bags and got through the security lines very quickly. We were through to the gate section of the airport by 10. Even though one of us was chosen for the random search (guess who that was). Luckily I didn’t have any contraband to speak of, so that was pretty smooth, except for them telling me I needed to get my driver’s license updated to my new address when I get back. Yet another thing for me to have to squeeze in before Christmas. Sunny suggested we grab some coffee and lunch while we waited for our plane. Over this meal is when she told me we had another 3 hours before we were scheduled to board. That’s when I made my last post. (BTW, the girl child is an extremely talented artist, I’ll have to post some of her work sometime soon. Oh, and Sunny did manage to catch the loose cannon. When last I saw, all the kids were still alive.)

I will say this, at least Sunny got us first class seats for our flights (yes, I said flights). It was nice, but we were kind of spread out a bit. Which is nothing compared to the connecting flight in Chicago, which was delayed over an hour for mechanical problems, and we got bumped to another plane, and everyone was pretty scattered then. For our final leg from Salt Lake, though, we were in one cluster of seats, thanks to the airline folks feeling bad for us having missed that connecting flight. After they saw how frazzled she was with the middle child, who kept wandering off. But we arrived safely at our destination airport only about 2 hours later than scheduled. Oh yes, and every time we hit an airport with wifi, Sunny would get a gazillion messages from the oldest child asking why we weren’t there. I felt bad for Sunny, so I admit I bought her a drink in Chicago and Salt Lake. And then I paid for a taxi van to drive us from the airport to her mom’s house so we wouldn’t have to wait for a shuttle.

Didn’t take long for the drama to start when we got there, though. There was only one bed in the house, and that belonged to Sunny’s Mom. The oldest hadn’t even put her bed together, so we were all sleeping on the floor. I haven’t done that in I don’t know how long. Mom started in on how worried she’d been and why were we late, and then blaming Sunny for not getting there any sooner (like we can just hijack the plane or something). But like I said before, Mom had recently had some health problems, so I just tried to overlook it and be there to support Sunny. She was going to need it. Then we all stayed up way too late (with far too little alcohol), and finally got to bed at some point after midnight. I whispered to Sunny as we were drifting off that had I known we were going to sleep on the floor, I’d have rented a car and got a hotel room. Or at least rented some rollaway beds.

Thursday, Thanksgiving

Well, this day started entirely too early for a regular day, much less a holiday, even with the extra time we got for being 3 hours later than home time. Mom had said she needed help cooking, and we were fine with that. But she needed to oversee everything and everyone, assuming we had never entered a kitchen before in our lives. By the way, who in their right mind puts an egg into their literal Stovetop Stuffing? Menu was pretty good, very standard: ham (instead of turkey, which was fine with me), stuffing, green bean casserole, sweet potato soufflé, rolls, and 2 kinds of pie with whipped cream. It was a store bought kind of meal; everything came out of a box, can, or bag, or was bought ready to serve like the ham. Except the pumpkin pie. The Airport Problem Child made that and did a really good job, if I do say so myself. Which I do. So as soon as everything was cooked, we had to eat – right that second! Dinner conversation included why in the world did Sunny move so far away, why didn’t she tell her mom and oldest before she moved, why didn’t she find a man and settle down, how her mom’s health was (not good and how much worse it was getting every second that Sunny wasn’t caving), how the kids liked school, Sunny works too much, maybe at least she could find a husband in New York, how were my kids doing, and when was she moving back to Washington. We tried deflecting most of that by saying we had good jobs that we liked, we were making really good money at them, and we were about to move into a secure building at the first of next month. After dinner (with an unhealthy side of stress and heartburn), everyone retired for a nap. Except for Sunny. She stayed up to clean. Of course I stayed up with her. And it took every bit of 2 hours to clean. After which, the tree came out.

Sunny is not a Christmas person, she really doesn’t like it at all. She feels it’s entirely over commercialized, which I agree with. Unlike her, I enjoy the holiday season with full gusto. My only complaint is with people who have conniption fits when people break out the Christmas songs before Thanksgiving. I also find these are the same ones who then start complaining that there isn’t enough time in the Christmas season to get everything done that they want to do – starting the day after Thanksgiving. Anyway, Sunny was going to be aggravated with the evening. So first, her mom put on some Christmas station with some really annoying, tacky Christmas music. And let me tell you, that is really saying something coming from me. I love all Christmas music. At least I thought so until that night. I mean nobody liked it. Not even Sunny’s mom! And then the tree, it’s a wonder Sunny hasn’t ground her teeth down to stumps. It’s kind of old, but we couldn’t get her mom to let us run out and buy a new one. And the lights…it’s a wonder they can’t see that thing from space. You know those sort of net-type lights, the kind you drape over the shrubs outside? 5 of them. Draped onto a 6 foot tree. Then we had to add another 15 strings of plain white lights. I tell you, I needed shades when we plugged in the tree. Then the ornaments, a mix of glass, plastic, and handmade kids ornaments, and then those irritating silvery plastic icicles, the kind that clog up the vacuum. Then, just when we were starting to get into the tacky music, Mom changed it to something equally obnoxious.

About an hour later, I was questioning my decision to be there for the whole weekend. Because that’s when the oldest started in on how unfair life was and how hard she has it there. I could tell she was angling to move with us. Allow me to say one thing about the eldest child: Super Social Justice Warrior Snowflake, she’s about as far from me on the spectrum politically, religiously, and socially as you can get. And before we had left New York, Sunny made me promise that I would not start a fight with her. In other words, I’m surprised that I didn’t bite my tongue off in the short time I was exposed to her awake. She went all over the place from one thing to another, but finally I’d had enough. In fact, I don’t even remember what it was she said, or even what I said, only that I finally blew up and smacked her with an opinion that should have given her a heart attack right then and there. But her face welled up and she stormed off to her room, slamming the door shut and sobbing loud enough to be heard in Seattle. I just looked at Sunny and said I needed to get some air. I grabbed my coat and headed out the door. I walked for a good while, too bad I don’t have a fitness tracker because I easily walked 10k steps. I finally got so cold I went back inside (no hot water for a shower, but I’ve come to not expect that), and crashed in the living room with the kids instead of in the eldest child’s room with Sunny. I slept very little, eventually getting up literally at the crack of dawn for another walk.

Friday

Overnight I had come to the conclusion that neither my blood pressure nor Sunny’s family could take me sticking around for the rest of the weekend. As soon as I walked out of the door, I was on my phone with the airlines looking for the first flight out. I agreed to be on standby; even an airport had to be better atmosphere. I called a taxi, and realized everything except for my carry on bag was still in the bedroom where Sunny, the artist, and eldest child were still asleep. I was not about to go in and risk waking the crew. Instead, I tiptoed over the boys and went to the kitchen to leave a note.

“Sunny, Needed to fly back quickly. Can you please bring my suitcase when you come? See you in a couple of days. Call when I get home. Tell your mom thanks for dinner. Kate”

I carefully gathered my few things in the living room and made for the door. The youngest sat up and rubbed his eyes, then asked where I was going. I lied to the boy, told him I was needed at work, and that I’d see him in a few days. He shrugged, nodded, yawned, and went back to sleep.

I sat in the airport for only a couple of hours before I got on a flight to Denver, where I sat for two hours before I got a plane to New York. From JFK, I took a taxi back to the apartment. As I was walking up the three flights to the apartment, all I wanted to do was take a long hot bath, cuddle with my Spazzie, and get a full night’s sleep. I planned to spend the rest of the weekend lounging around and maybe doing some packing for the impending move looming on the horizon. It was about 11 pm. I unlocked the door to my apartment, stepped in, turned on the lights and saw…nothing.

Literally nothing. Every single thing was missing from our apartment. No futon in the living room. No dishes in the cabinets. No towels in the bathroom. And, the horror hit me as I realized, EVEN THE CATS WERE MISSING!!! For the third time since I moved to New York, I was dialing 911 to report a theft. And, bless her heart, Officer Yang came to take the report. I tried to give a pretty good description of what was missing. Her partner went down to the super’s apartment but there was no response. About half past midnight, Jake’s mom came home from her shift and looked in. We found out from her that a group of men had come first thing that morning and had been packing up our stuff. She had assumed that she had misremembered the date of our move. She offered to let me stay in their apartment, but I didn’t relish another night sleeping on the floor. Instead I called a cab as soon as the police left.

I had thought about going to a hotel, but figured they would pretty much be booked solid. I decided the best place for me to go would be to the Tower. I knew there were comfortable looking sofas, at least, and I figured that all the residents were gone for the holiday. Maybe I could convince The Man to hurry up the remodel because we really did have nothing. No sense in buying furniture, moving into the old apartment to just have to move it the following week. I had the taxi drop me off at the Tower, and I stood just outside to make the phone call I was dreading. I had to tell Sunny we had been cleaned out. I got her voicemail, which made some sense to me. It was closing in on 1:30 am, which was 10:30 pm there.  And her mom was always fussing about her being on her phone. I left her a message and promised to call after I got some sleep. Then I went inside.

The night guard was someone I hadn’t met before, but I had my badge so he let me in. The elevator ride up was the longest leg of my journey. I was reviewing all the events in my head and was starting to feel overwhelmed when the doors opened on the 91st floor. I had decided that I was going to have a cup of tea before trying to find a blanket and settling in on the sofa in the lounge. Surely The Man wouldn’t begrudge me that after everything I had been through. I hung up my coat and stashed my carry on in the closet and entered the common area, headed to the stove to heat water in the rarely-used kettle.

Standing at the island were three men. I recognized Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes from news stories I had seen over the years. The other one was unfamiliar to me. They were casually dressed, sweatpants and tees. It appeared they had just come down from the training room, they were slightly sweaty with a healthy glow. Captain Rogers was pouring some post-workout smoothie thing into glasses. I took a deep breath, feeling everything from the past few days welling up behind my eyes, and my nose starting to tingle and burn. I was desperately trying to contain my emotions in front of the people that I was definitely going to be running into in the halls and elevators, residents of the Tower. I was not going to lose control.

They glanced over at me as I came in. Captain Rogers welcomed me, asking if I was one of the housekeepers. I told him I was and then he said he thought we’d be back Sunday evening and where was my partner. I told him that she was still in Washington, and we were supposed to be back Sunday, but I had to leave early. Sergeant Barnes then asked why. And I think that’s where I started to lose that tenuous hold on my emotions. I tried telling them about the disastrous 24 hours that Thanksgiving had been, but I think I became a bit flustered. I don’t think I was making sentences. And then pieces of the past 2 days came spilling out and I absolutely burst into tears. Next thing I knew, I was seated on a stool at the island, Sergeant Barnes was doing his best to awkwardly comfort me with an arm around my shoulders, and the man I didn’t know was pressing a tumbler of some form of alcohol into my hand and demanding that Captain Rogers go find Mr. Stark and bring him up immediately. Before long, hthe Captain had returned with The Man Himself in tow. I will admit, he was concerned to see me sitting there sobbing, and he asked me what was wrong. I lost it again, someone handed me a handkerchief, and after about 5 more minutes, I regained some control. I blew my nose, took a deep breath and started to speak, but when I tossed back half the dark amber liquid, there went my voice.

When it returned, I told him as calmly as I could about the stress at Sunny’s mom’s house, that I just had to leave before really bad things were said, the layovers, the crying babies, coming home to a literally empty apartment, finishing up with the emotional outbursts they had all just experienced, which I assured him was a rare occasion, and could I please have a blanket so I could crash on the sofa. I finished the drink while waiting for the answer. I noticed glares aimed at The Man from the others in the room. And then the Captain threatened to call Miss Potts. Finally The Man said to follow him.

We went down on the elevator together, all four of us. I could almost feel the heat of the glares directed at my boss. This was the second elevator ride I’d had with him that was in complete silence, but somehow I felt like the awkwardness was coming from him this time. The doors opened on the 62nd floor.  I followed The Man down the hall to the door opposite the one he had showed us at the beginning of the week, the others behind me like some sort of guard or something. I now thought that what he was going to do was bring up a bed for me. Maybe this convinced him to complete the remodeling ASAP. But when I stepped into the now opened doorway, I was completely flummoxed. There, inside that room, was my apartment. Complete with cats. Spazzie came racing towards me and I scooped him up cuddling and scratching behind his ears. And I started crying again. I put him down for a minute and asked what the hell was going on.

The Man shrugged and told me he’d figured it would be great if we came back and found everything already moved in. One less thing for us to worry about, as it were. They had gone in, packed everything up and moved it, though they hadn’t known what stuff was mine and what was Sunny’s, so unfortunately we were going to have to go through the boxes ourselves. I was really jet lagged, and it was after 2 in the morning, so it took a little while for everything to sink in. But when it did…

I yelled, I screamed at him, I cried big fat hot mad tears. Sergeant Barnes smirked, thoroughly enjoying every word. Sunny’s cat, Aaron, came into the room and started pawing at me. I scooped him up and continued ranting. And then I realized something was climbing my leg. I looked down to see this cute little gray tabby kitten working its way up. And that was most definitely not my cat. I’d never seen it before. The guys all insisted that it must be ours because it was inside the apartment when they packed it up. And it had a collar. About then I felt all my energy drain from my body. I ordered them out and told them that we would finish this conversation tomorrow. I fell into the bed in the bedroom and pulled a comforter up over me. Spazzie curled up behind my knees, Aaron was behind me, and the kitten sprawled out on the pillow next to me. I’ve got to call Sunny tomorrow to let her know everything is OK and to just come to the Tower as soon as she gets in. But right now I need to sleep.

[stevedonnellyfaith-blog]

Penance at Discharge (Post 111) 10-14-15

                        Last Wednesday evening I traveled from work in Youngstown to Cleveland to pick up Stephen and take him home after the completion of his week of testing for epilepsy.  I decided to work the full day and arrive at around 5 PM because I believe I had previously tried every conceivable pick-up time at John Muir Medical Center and a dozen other hospitals and have always still found the hospital staff woefully unprepared to discharge either Pam, Nick, Abby, Stephen or Natalie on almost every single occasion.  Because I spend my professional life using Lean Manufacturing tools to carve minutes and seconds out of processes to achieve savings, unnecessary hospital discharge delays always grate on my nerves. Luckily, in a former life, decades ago, I wore the uniform of our country and am hardwired to tolerate circumstances where a “hurry up and wait “outcome is assured.

Upon arrival in Stephen’s room, I was greeted by mysteriously mixed signals.  Stephen was already garbed in sweatshirt, sweatpants and sneakers like he was ready to head home, but he still had an IV visible on his hand.  Usually when a person is being discharged after a serious illness, removing the IV is nearly the last precautionary order of business.  Stephen, though, had checked in for testing in a relatively healthy state and had not had any unexpected issues during the tests.  His nurse soon arrived to dispel my confusion; he let me know that Stephen would be ready for discharge immediately after completing an MRI, for which he had waited all day.  Evidently, University Hospital’s policy is to assign the highest daytime priority for MRI, CT, Ultrasound and probably every other possible test service to outpatients, because, theoretically, inpatients can stay all night.  We left the hospital about three hours later at 8 PM. Not the most customer pleasing denouement to our visit, but otherwise Stephen was treated very well.

If I were a cradle Catholic, I probably would have remembered to offer up the entire experience, but, in actuality, Stephen’s hospital room was equipped with a passable selection of cable television channels so I think I passed the time treating my senses to an electronic barrage following the entertainment fasting conditions we have been living under since we moved out of my parent’s house.  I can’t remember what I watched.  Maybe I didn’t watch television at all and instead scrolled through Facebook, but I don’t think I could have whiled away three solid hours weaving through all the pages of what my friends have posted.  Usually I can only take so much Facebook as the recycled memes are often very repetitive.  Also I have a number of Libertarian, atheist and Pro-Choice friends that rake my scrolling sensibilities with morally questionable material or untruths that I generally try to identify and pass by like the doggie deposits that Natalie’s pets have peppered across my lawn – mowing my lawn is somewhat like hopscotch. For instance, I am friends with one of my high school football coaches, with whom I seem to agree and am able to “like” for less than ten percent of his posts. Luckily he has children and grandchildren, but I digress.

By Thursday morning I had largely forgotten the ordeal of disembarking from UH the previous evening. Natalie and I shared a last breakfast together as I planned to return to my regular morning schedule of 3 AM reveilles and 4 AM departures on Friday morning.  The work day proceeded and ended without significant event as I prepared notes and outlines for a leadership course that I intend to teach for supervisors this week upcoming.  At the end of my shift I felt quite relieved to be headed on only an hour commute home to Streetsboro instead of orbiting onward for an extra forty five minutes north eastward through Cleveland and only back to our cozy two-story after visiting Stephen. Normality seemed an alluring flavor after a week of passing time in extra driving and all too familiar clinical surroundings.

My phone buzzed as I was pulling into a gas station to top off my tank near the on-ramp of I-76, my tollless thoroughfare of choice from the Eastern border towards north central Ohio. I thought it would be a receptionist calling to provide information for Stephen’s follow-up appointment, but instead I recognized the heavy accent of my son’s neurologist who was calling to provide the results from the forgotten MRI.  I made her give me the date and time for the follow-up appointment first as we were both surprised that no scheduling information had been provided at discharge.  She then let me know that they had found something abnormal on Stephen’s MRI.  It was a sunny afternoon, but my soul seemed to darken with her words.

There was an unusual but small spot on his scan, that hadn’t activated with contrast so she thought it was unlikely to be cancer.  I asked clarifying questions with the concerned detachment of a person used to the responsibility of interpreting medical information for others including the patient.  The spot was not in the vicinity of the locus of Stephen’s epileptic activity as determined by a PET scan during his hospital stay.  The spot was being termed an “incidental finding” to be monitored by a follow-up MRI before Stephen’s next neurology visit in November.  The spot was consistent with the lesions often found in the brains of people who suffer from migraine headaches.  Stephen doesn’t get migraines.  The phone call ended and I resumed my drive.

As I drove, I slipped back into long practiced habits.  I finished my Divine Mercy Chaplet for the afternoon and offered a few extra prayers accepting whatever the overall outcome might be but also with hope that Stephen’s continued bad health not lead us down the cancer trail into a terminal cul-de-sac.  Then I picked up the phone and gave Pam’s mother the first call as I drove.  It is not the type of phone call that I relish making, but I prefer to give correct and realistic information directly to Barb rather than have her hear half-information from second-hand sources. I called my brother Sean next because I’ve found that giving several key people complete information is much better than giving lots of people partial information.  I called Abby as well and repeated almost verbatim what I had told Sean and Barbara.

I knew that none of them would splash the news onto Facebook, but all would be able to provide clarification once the news did hit social media.  Everything eventually ends up on Facebook.  Nicholas, unfortunately, found out that his mother had died via social media while he was on break at Straw Hat.  I hadn’t considered that possibility when I informed several family members of Pam’s death, but chose not to tell Nicholas for safety reasons. I didn’t want him driving home in a condition where he couldn’t pay attention.  I have since remembered to consider the possibility of a Facebook spill with sensitive information.

By that time I had arrived my parent’s house to pick up Natalie.  (The bus drops her off there in case I am held up at work.)  I let my parents know about the spot on Stephen’s MRI face-to-face.  That is my preference for difficult news, but personal conversations are not always possible once the pebble has dropped into the pool in our information age.  With both sets of grandparents dutifully briefed, I drove the couple of miles remaining through Streetsboro boulevards and avenues so that I could pass the bad news to Stephen.  I expected that he would have questions.  My son is in a much better place now with regard to paranoia, but I remember some very bad times with him after Pam’s death.

Instead Stephen smiled at the news and asked me why I didn’t remember watching Nicola Tesla.  At first I thought he was talking gibberish, but after several minutes of further conversation, I realized that Stephen had remembered a forgotten incident from a decade previous back when we lived in Fort Wayne, Indiana.  

A bi-polar child misdiagnosed as hyper-active, Stephen’s made a long promenade through various unsuccessful treatment plans until eventually a doctor decided that Stephen needed a brain MRI.  In preparation for the scan Stephen had to stay up all night the day previous to his test. I stayed up with him.  At about 4 AM we ended up watching a long documentary about the imminently brilliant and simultaneously wacked-out physicist Nicola Tesla.  I had totally forgotten about the entire experience.  Nothing to help Stephen’s condition was found by the MRI, but Stephen did remember being petrified by the discovery of an “incidental finding” of a spot on his brain that was not immediately dangerous but should be monitored in the future.  I guess I forgot to do so.

I spent the next half an hour reeling back in the thread of incomplete information that I had earlier cast out.  It made me chuckle to have finally found the missing bookend of experience to complete the short-lived horror from all those years ago.  An incident that had appeared to be random and pointlessly scary until its import made its comet-like return to my solar system at a time so remote that only my most distracted son remembered the original occurrence. Because there is a God, I know that everything in my life has a purpose and a reason even when the mosaic of occurrences appears too close to be deciphered from my vantage point.

Unhappily, I was reminded that life can be hard to understand in a different way on Sunday. A 16 year-old daughter of a good friend from my youth died unexpectedly from a brain hemorrhage at Saturday field hockey practice at a high school in New England. I could see no purpose to the death of a young girl within a close proximity to her teammates.  I have seen the impact of that type of situation on servicemen and can’t fathom how a bunch of young women will suffer the impact of witnessing the loss of a friend in those circumstances.  Unfortunately, my imagination is probably sufficient to paint the details of the scene in my head if I try to do so:  a teary-eyed teammate sprinting for help, an adult coach working to revive or fix something in a little girl’s body that cannot be repaired, a collapsed collection of sobbing teenagers left at the scene after the ambulance has departed.  I can make no sense of what has become of the poor girl’s short and seemingly glorious years – she tutored underprivileged kids.

While there is a Mass card for her waiting for pickup in my mailbox, I have no adequate words to send to her teammates or family.  Yet I do know that flowers of love will sprout from the death of Casey Dunne in Braintree, Massachusetts just as good things have come from Pam’s death years removed and a continent away.  That does not mean that I am happy to have lost my wife, Barb’s daughter and the mother of my children.  I accept the experience and understand that good was achieved through God’s plan. While I am very happy that it does not look like Stephen will need a craniotomy, I am no longer naive enough to believe that Pam’s death was the last tragedy that I will experience. I do know that I will accept what comes and trust in God’s goodness even when my human understanding is insufficient to grasp the providence of a horrifying situation.

[finn-nelson-for-the-win]

I bet you didn’t think that by “incredibly soon” I meant about a day later, huh? Truth be told I felt kinda bad about the previous chapter because it was mostly just a filler chapter to speed the plot along and show some time passing, but this one and the next couple chapters deliver some seriously flirty vibes and drama (at least in my opinion) and the words just kept coming so I decided to seize the opportunity and post this ASAP.

I also found this chapter rather cathartic to write because I am still incorporating a lot of myself and my experiences into Rae and the story overall, so I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! This chapter is at about 2,994 words, which is right on track with my goal of making each mini-fic 3,000 words or less!

Wanna get caught up on the updates leading up to this one? Look no further!

Feel free to let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tagged list and I’ll be happy to oblige! As always: each and every one of you that read my writing, like, reply, reblog, etc. are amazing people and inspire me to keep writing! :)

Just a Touch of Sweetness

Friday and Saturday sort of just blurred together, as Rae slowly began falling into the routine of Finn sitting with her and Izzie whenever they all worked together, but by Sunday afternoon when Rae walked into her apartment after a long day at work, she felt completely and utterly exhausted—both mentally and physically.

It was mid-November, which meant that the holidays were approaching and things at work were quickly becoming more hectic. To make matters worse, that also meant that there was less than a month left in this semester of Uni, which was making Rae feel relieved but incredibly overwhelmed simultaneously. It seemed as though all of her classes had suddenly announced the final projects and assignments that were swiftly approaching and the stress of everything was becoming too much for Rae to handle.

As much as Rae wanted to just turn on some music and relax in a desperate attempt to ease her worries about school, she knew that procrastination would only exacerbate the stress she was currently feeling with knowing that she had assignments due that evening in both of her online classes, as well as an upcoming exam in her Economics class that has been the bane of her existence this entire semester.

Groaning and sighing dramatically as she turned on her laptop and opened up Spotify, preparing herself to work on her assignments without stopping until she had finished everything that was due at midnight, Rae pressed play on her go-to playlist that she had made to match her mood this time of year, aptly titled “Falling…”, and began trudging her way through the list of assignments she needed to get done.

Hours had passed when Rae finally submitted the last assignment she needed to complete prior to midnight.

Thank fuck that is finally over with!

Rae was still feeling overwhelmed by everything she had coming up in her classes as she attempted to prioritize her upcoming assignments and she could feel her breath catch as the panic and feelings of self-doubt and fear of failing out of Uni this semester crept in. To an extent, Rae knew that she was taking on too much responsibility going to Uni full-time, working part-time, and becoming financially independent after moving away from her family to attend Uni. She had incredibly high expectations for herself and she could not even fathom letting herself down by falling behind in her classes or losing the academic scholarship that was the only reason why attending University was even a possibility for Rae.

Knowing that she had to calm down before she had a proper panic attack, Rae gripped the edge of the desk in her bedroom she was sitting at tightly and began counting quietly under her breath, attempting to regulate her breathing.

Just breathe, Rae…In 2-3-4-5-6-7-8, Out 2-3-4-5-6-7-8, In 2-3-4…Out 2-3-4….In…Out…

When her breathing was almost back to normal, her grip on the edge of her desk loosened and she flexed her fingers that had begun to cramp from how tightly they were clenched.

Despite calming down slightly, Rae knew that listening to music could only do so much to help her relax, so Rae turned to the next biggest comfort and sense of enjoyment in her life: food.

Rae has had a strange relationship with food for as long as she could remember. She had a tendency to overeat to the point of being sick to cope with stress and sadness as a child; however, as she grew older and her self-esteem plummeted as bullying “the fat girl” was a more common occurrence at college, Rae began to not eat in front of strangers. This continued until she also refused to eat in front of people that were not her family, until eventually she skipped meals entirely on a regular basis.

For years she struggled to find some semblance of balance because she knew the dangers she faced from both binging and skipping meals, that is until she found a way that she could love food without the temptation and regret she had previously associated it with.

When Rae was 16 years old she discovered that her casual interest in cooking was a true passion and she had quite a knack for it. As she continued cooking for her family and friends and experimenting with new foods and new recipes, Rae gained a new appreciation for food as a form of art and expression that did not lead to her hating herself afterwards. And so even now, nearly 4 years later, Rae would go on “stress baking” and “stress cooking” sprees to help clear her mind and get relieve stress.

Hmm…what shall I bake today…?

Rae walked into the small kitchen in her apartment and perused her cabinets trying to determine what she had the ingredients to make before grabbing her phone off of the counter to get a second opinion.

Rae: Hiya Izz, random question: Do you like cupcakes?

Rae set her phone back down on her kitchen counter and it buzzed almost immediately indicating that Izzie had already replied.

Izzie: OF COURSE I DO, RAE. All sweet things beckon to me! <3 <3 <3

Rae: Lol…In that case, I just might have a sweet surprise for you tomorrow before work! ;)

Rae returned her phone to its place on the kitchen counter, making a mental note to read Izzie’s response as soon as she had a spare moment after getting the cupcakes started.

Two hours later Rae was putting the finishing touches on the three dozen cupcakes she had made and examining them to determine if there was anything else she should add to them.

Hmm…chocolate cupcakes with a chocolate-hazelnut filling and a cream cheese buttercream…Well, you can never go wrong with a little more chocolate!

Rae proceeded to drizzle the top of each cupcake with the remainder of the chocolate she had incorporated into the filling she had made. She quickly cleaned up the last traces of her late night baking, licking the spoons used to mix the batter and taking pride in the perfect balance of sweetness and rich chocolate flavor she had achieved on this particular batch of cupcakes.

By the time she finished tidying up the kitchen a bit, it was just past 2am and Rae decided it best to get some sleep, fully aware that she had to go to work early the next morning.

***

Rae walked into work well over 15 minutes earlier than she typically arrived, especially on a Monday morning, and took a seat at one of the tables in the break room before retrieving her cellphone from the bottom of her purse to browse her social media accounts.

Uninterested in what she saw while scrolling through Instagram and Twitter, Rae set her phone to the side and began examining the small white box containing the cupcakes she had brought to work for a few of her coworkers until she head the door to the break room open.

“Whoa…Finn, you’re here really early today, aren’t ya?” Rae asked raising an eye brow as Finn walked toward the table she was sitting at with a massive grin.

“Good morning to you too, Mae,” Finn replied, feigning that he took offense to what she had said to him.

“Oh, don’t be that way Finn! It’s good to see you, I just didn’t anticipate you being here so early.”

Rae noticed that Finn stood in front of the table she was sitting at and was shifting awkwardly from one foot to another, biting the skin on his thumb subconsciously.

Why does Finn seem nervous? It’s just me after all, he’s got nothing to be nervous about.

“Finn, you know you can take a seat at the table with me is you want to, right?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry…” Finn pulled the chair nearest to Rae out from under the table before sitting down and giving her a small close-lipped smile to help hide some of the embarrassment he was feeling.

“I just didn’t know if you’d be okay with me sitting down at the table with ya or not…” He trailed off until he was barely mumbling and went right back to biting the skin around his thumb.

Rae and Finn sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes until he lightly tapped the top of the square box she had sitting in the center of the table.

“What’s in the box, Rae?” he asked, clearly curious but resisting the urge to open the box and take a look for himself.

“This box, my dear Finnley,” she began but stopped to smirk at her use of the nickname she knew he secretly hated, opening the box to let both of them see its contents, “contains some of the Chocolate Hazelnut cupcakes that I baked last night and brought for some people here at work.”

“Ah, alright…wait, did you say you MADE these? They look like they’re professional quality! How’s that possible!?” Finn exclaimed, making no attempts to hide his surprise and how impressed he was that these cupcakes were homemade.

“Yeah, I like to cook and bake when I’m upset or stressed, and I’ve been pretty overwhelmed with Uni lately, so last night I did some stress baking. I still have a lot to learn about baking and decorating cakes, but thank you, I tried to make them look halfway decent at least.”

“‘Halfway decent’? Are you shitting me, Mae? These cupcakes are perfect looking! Why in the hell would you want to share these with other people? If I were you I’d just keep them all for myself…”

Rae tensed slightly, trying to determine the best way to respond to Finn without making him think that she was weird.

Careful what you say, Rae...one wrong thing and Finn will always see me as some crazy, fat blob.

“Uh, well I love to cook, but I don’t have much of an appetite for sweets. So whenever I bake a lot, like I did last night, I give most of what I make to people here at work.”

Finn nodded and continued examining the cupcakes that still sat in the white cardboard box while Rae tried to read Finn’s face and figure out what he thought of the explanation she had given.

“Hiya Rae! Morning Finn…you two are here quite early today!” Izzie mused excitedly as she pulled out the chair at the table across from Rae and Finn and sat down, nearly bouncing with her usual level of energy that seemed impossible this early on a Monday.

Both simply shrugged in response, which made Izzie laugh because she could almost swear they were the same person at times with how similar they are.

“Izzie! I have a surprise for you, love, as promised…” Rae opened the box containing the cupcakes, showing Izzie the sweet surprise she had brought for her today.

“Oh my god, Rae! These look amazing! And you made and decorated these yourself!?” Izzie removed a cupcake from the box to examine it further.

“I was just telling Rae the same thing when she showed me the cupcakes! It’s not just me that thinks you’re insanely talented, girl,” Finn replied, playfully poking Rae’s arm to further prove his point to her.

Rae stood up from the table, cheeks blushing a deep red color, and pushed the now vacant chair back under the table, thoroughly embarrassed by Izzie and Finn’s praise and acknowledgment of her baking skills.

“Well, I’m gonna head inside and get to work now. Are you planning to stay out here to eat a cupcake, Izz?”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t mind saving my seat for me, Rae…These look too good and I can’t wait much longer to give them a taste!”

Rae giggled and informed Izzie that she would save her a seat but Rae expected to get Izzie’s feedback on the cupcake as soon as she finished.

“Hey, wait up, girl!” Finn walked hurriedly towards where Rae stood holding open the break room door, allowing him to catch up to her.

Finn gave Rae a huge smile, making her chuckle, and walked beside her toward the seat to the right of Izzie and Rae that has become his regular spot to sit for almost a week. As they passed the radio in the corner of the room, Finn stopped to turn it to Rae’s favorite Alternative music station, which earned him an appreciative nod and genuine smile from Rae.

Just as Rae and Finn got logged into their computers and began getting settled in to answer customer questions, Izzie came bounding through the door, scanning her badge in the process, before rushing to take her seat on Rae’s left.

“Rae, holy shit that cupcake was amazing!”

“Izzie!” Rae exclaimed, laughing at the sound of Izzie cursing, which was a very rare phenomenon.

“I’m serious, Rae! I don’t know how you did it, but that cupcake from the filling to the decorations, to the cake itself were fantastic!”

“Well thank you Izz, I’m really happy to hear you enjoyed it!”

The three of them continued working, only occasionally stopping when Rae and Finn bickered about their opinions of the song currently playing on the radio or when Izzie brought up how delicious the cupcake had been and how tempted she was to take another one during her break that was coming up shortly.

Rae was quickly becoming accustomed to the new dynamic between her and Finn, especially considering that she had been prepared for the worst following the mixed messages she received from Finn last Monday. Sitting next to Finn this week and talking to him more at work than she has heard him speak in the month she had been working here has allowed Rae and Izzie to get to know Finn a little bit better and Rae could almost say she considered him one of her mates.

When Izzie sat back down at her desk after coming in from her break, she turned towards Rae hesitantly, avoiding eye contact.

“Rae…I hope you aren’t too mad at me, but after giving Rebecca the cupcake you saved for her, I ate another one of the cupcakes you brought while I was on break.”

“Don’t worry about it, Izz! I brought them specifically for my friends here at work and I have plenty more at my apartment if you want more. Just let me know!”

“Aw, thanks Rae, I’d really appreciate that!”

Izzie returned to responding to customers and Rae turned in her desk chair when she noticed that Finn was locking his computer.

“Are you about to go on break, Finn?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I just wanted to let you know that if you want a cupcake before Izz eats them all herself, you are more than welcome to take one. I felt like a real dickhead about teasing you with them and not even offering you one,” Rae replied, apologizing for her inadvertent rudeness and lack of manners by not offering Finn a cupcake as well this morning.

“Are you sure I can take one, Rae? You don’t have to give me one if ya don’t want to…”

“Of course I’m sure,” Rae interrupted, “I want to know if it lives up to your expectations or not!” Rae winked at Finn, causing him to gulp audibly and clear his throat before stuttering out his reply.

“Uh, wow…thanks, Rae! You just made my day! I know it’s gonna be amazing because that cupcake looked fucking amazing, but I’m going to give you really detailed feedback, okay? Because I really love critiquing stuff like this like they do in those cooking show competitions.”

“Hell yeah, I love those shows! Don’t spare my feelings either, I want to know what you really think of them.” Rae added, laughing at the childlike excitement Finn was emanating at the mere mention of the cupcakes.

“In that case, Mae, I will be sure to be EXTRA hard on you…err…your cupcakes, I mean…uhhh…I’m just gonna go now!” Finn hurried away, avoiding eye contact with Rae as he walked out the door in the direction of the break room.

Well…that certainly was an interesting choice of words, Finnley…

When Finn returned fifteen minutes later and sat back down in his seat, Rae was already turned in her desk chair facing Finn with her arm propped up beside his computer screen and her chin resting on her hand.

“So Finnley���what did you think?” She asked, biting her lower lip slightly as she braced herself for his feedback.

“Well Mae,” he began placing emphasis on his nickname for her that he knew got on her nerves, “I thought it was pretty fucking fantastic!  I noticed that the cupcake itself was hardly sweet at all, it was mostly just the filling and frosting on top that added sweetness.”

“Thanks, Finn. I’ve always hated things that are too sweet so I always try to focus the sweetness on certain aspects of what I’m making. That way there is just a touch of sweetness and it isn’t overwhelmingly sweet…Was there anything else you would have wanted different about them?”

“Well, don’t get me wrong Rae, I really liked the cupcake,” he prefaced, trying to soften the blow of his critique to follow, “but I really would have like there to be more filling on the inside.”

“Oh, and why is that Finn? Was it not sweet enough for you as it was?” Rae asked quirking her eyebrow in anticipation for his answer.

“It was plenty sweet, but knowing that there was a filling in it, I was kind of hoping to get it all over my mouth and face while I was eating it…I like it a little dirty, you know?” Finn smirked and gave her a quick wink when he noticed Rae’s eyes widen at the double entendre in his statement.

Are you shitting me right now? Finn Nelson, you will be the death of me, I just know it...

@eveerez @tinakegg @hey1tskat1e @bitchesbecrazy89 @kneekeyta @milllott @protectfinnnelson @arathewallflower​ @jackiewalsh2013​ @pink-royaute

[ljbarks]

Julien Baker, My Father, Two Decades of Noise, and the Quiet

Soda guns make a funny noise. Like a dozen dentists doing work all at once, some suction and a strange gurgle.

Usually, it’s also a noise that happens nonchalantly, especially in a place like this, the gurgle drowned out by the din and dissonance of the band and the crowd and the night.

Right now though, a couple songs into Julien Baker’s set at White Eagle Hall, the soda gun — and the cracking of a fresh beer, the opening and closing of the standard-issue industrial doors at the back of the room, everything — have become some kind of strange and unwelcome accompaniment, dropping in at all the wrong moments, a laugh-track mistakenly placed over A Very Special Episode.

This, of course, is partially my fault. I’m perpetually late and the kind of short where I’ve had to turn my annoyance at the dozens of phones shooting video that’s never gonna be revisited into an argument for how useful all those glowing screens are as periscopes. Too anxious to push my way to the front under some false “I’m looking for my friends” pretense, because I know my friends are not up there because they’re all at home because it’s Tuesday and we’re in our mid-thirties. And then what happens when I get to up there? Then I’m awkwardly planted next to a person who’s not my friends, inserting myself into this stranger’s night like I just hatched from my pod and am enjoying my first moments in this human body, cumbersome and lumbering, exploring the thing the earthlings call music.

Instead, I don’t move from the spot on the floor that I’ve acquired simply by ordering a beer at the bar and then turning and taking only the amount of steps required to get out of the way of the next person. But the hypothetical awkwardness stays, permeating the room in some other way. As I, from my tippy-toes, and the other 799 people packed into White Eagle watch Baker take the stage, it’s to a strange kind of silence.

The first live music I ever saw that wasn’t my father playing the organ in our house — like the first thing that involved a band and instruments, and an in-hindsight surprising lack of any kind of adult supervision — was a punk show at the Rockaway American Legion.

It was 1997.

I was the kid who wore Nirvana shirts to school every single day. A girl in my first period biology class was passing out flyers.

“I think you like music, I don’t know.”

She tossed the thing on my desk. I was never cool to begin with, but in this moment she was infinitely cooler than me.

I convinced my best friend to come, and my father happily volunteered to drive us, depositing two fifteen year-olds in some random parking lot with only a vague idea about when to return to collect us.

This, that he was so willing to do this, volunteered to do it, was a confusing thing about my father. He was angry and strict, though only about the small and specific things. I never had a curfew, but food falling off your fork at dinner as you awkwardly tried to get this adult-sized utensil into your child-sized mouth would launch some kind of international incident. It always ended with slamming doors and crying and him storming out and me climbing up into the treehouse to write some other life in my head.

The flyer, because it was 1997, had a phone number to call “for directions or sex advice.” I blacked out that second part before I showed it to my parents, marching into our kitchen with this photocopied paper adorned with a giant hand-drawn, bug-eyed and bemowhawked creature with a safety pin through its tongue, the names of a bunch of bands they wouldn’t have known even if their entire record collection wasn’t The Kingston Trio, the soundtrack to The Big Chill and Donald Fagen.

I didn’t know the bands, either, really, but I knew I needed to go to this thing and see it. And so I also armed myself with an argument for why I should be allowed to go. Instead, I just got a “yes.” Simple. Too easy. My father, for all the other stuff, became his opposite self when it came to matters of music.

That November night in the American Legion, I found the thing I didn’t know I’d been looking for for all of the 15 years and four months of my life before it. My home, my people, my thing. My father came to pick us up at the end, and I surely got back in the car, tired and happy and smelling of cigarettes, but really, I never left.

Twenty-one years later that flyer hangs on the wall of my apartment.

Through the rest of my high school life, I’d check out the arts listings in the paper, picking out concerts and pulling out the phonebook so my parents could call Ticketmaster, using the money I’d made from working at the family business and then my job at the mall to finance these miniature adventures. And every time, my father would volunteer his services as driver, dutifully dropping us off somewhere in the middle of Manhattan so that we could enjoy a night with The Offspring.

Once I could drive, we’d spend weekends traversing the state following handwritten directions scribbled on a pick from the stack of flyers we’d been handed at the previous show. Living in all the wonder that comes with the kind of places willing to host an afternoon of complicated-looking kids too into something that was mostly dissonance and sometimes childhood music lessons repurposed into bad Bosstones knockoffs. Elks lodges, VFW halls, American Legions, firehouses, basements, the storefront of a diet food restaurant, high school gyms and random rooms in churches.

Then we’d take the train into the city and see the bigger touring bands that came through. Take a quarter for the payphone to call my mom from Penn and let her know the train didn’t derail on the way. Take the Midtown Direct from Dover for Pennywise, All and Strung Out in the city on Friday, drive to Asbury Park for Blink 182, Silverchair and Fenix TX on Sunday, go to school on Monday. Lars Frederiksen stealing my friend’s lighter outside a Dropkick Murphys show at the Wetlands. Smoking in the downstairs of Roseland as we browsed the tables of patches and buttons that lined the room. Summers with multiple Warped Tour dates, a car accident on the way to Asbury leaving the front passenger side door of my ’95 Golf in a permanent state of not closing right, our nostrils still filled with dust from Randall’s Island the day before.

Then, college, a degree I'd never get and mostly shitty jam bands in a small market city not on the way to anywhere. The other nights, more special. When Rainer Maria came to Higher Ground or AFI played at 242. River City Rebels with Catch 22 at a barn in rural Vermont or Bane in the middle of winter in some school gym. Kill Your Idols and Sworn Enemy and Agnostic Front and My Revenge and the show stopping to throw out some boneheads after they tried to rip a SHARP patch off a kid’s jacket. That night Death Cab played at UVM and someone from the band chased a kid who threw a disc golf disc onto the stage through the halls of whatever building that was. That same place where I saw Q and Not U and I think the only two times I was ever in that building. Our little NJ Scene expat crew, four people strong, watching some punk show on the second floor of the extra-strength hippie dorm.

Post-weird four year exile in Vermont, our little Jersey scene had shifted and died and grown up too much, but the city was still there. I’d learned by then never to take New York for granted. I went to shows.

So many.

Our Wilco/Ryan Adams cousins crew getting too drunk in Brooklyn bars and me as the only one over 21 buying bodega tallboys for everyone to drink from brown paper bags in Greeley Square. Getting lost in Macy’s and losing the car in midtown and getting actually lost on the way back from Camden. Perfect nights walking around Williamsburg and sunny Saturdays in Greenpoint and spending the night on Saint Marks after the War on Drugs got rained out. Happy hours at Matchless and tacos at that spot in Port Chester. The conversation before the Ty Segall show that started with me being excited for my friend and ended up with me on Uncle Einar’s first tour two months later. Too hyped after Run the Jewels and dropping my car key in a rest stop toilet because I hadn’t slept and went to see Rancid and Dropkick anyway. Too much whiskey and the side-effects of a tetanus shot and 13 staples in my leg and a Titus Andronicus show at Maxwell’s that I don’t remember. Getting a contact lens straight kicked out of my eye at that Vandals show at Irving Plaza. The lost weekend that was Punk Rock Bowling.

Plenty of solo trips, too, not wanting to miss what could be — because you never know — some band’s last time, and I’m not even going to bother trying to sell it to my friends. Sleater-Kinney five times in a week, the Piebald reunion, the sweatiest night ever when the AC broke at Webster Hall during the Bouncing Souls, and a fear of frostbite at Sonic Youth after putting a Chuck Taylor-clad foot into the depths of one of those curbside lakes the New York winter creates.

A thousand more that escape me now, but show me the ticket stub and I'll tell you the story.

The one constant is noise. There is always noise. The expected kind, of the band and the crowd cheering and singing along. And the annoying kind, of the full-on conversations everyone’s having as the band plays ten rows up, like the Bowery Ballroom is just an extension of their living room.

There is nothing better than a full-crowd singalong.

There is nothing worse than the people behind me at Sleater-Kinney’s first NYC show in nearly a decade having a full-on conversation — as the band was ripping through ‘Start Together’ or whatever — about an article one of them read about a Maraschino cherry factory that was illegally dumping whatever the byproducts of Maraschino cherry-making are into some Brooklyn waterway. It is a bonkers story that also involves a secret basement pot growing operation, but also, in the words of the great Sue Simmons, “the fuck are you doing?”

But both of those parts are also what make up the show. We’re in a room, simultaneously strangers and best friends. Together, doing a thing. That the gaps between songs are filled by this low mumble, that the band sometimes gets treated like nothing more than a backing track to an evening, because this is New York and we’re still too busy to even take this part out of our day to make it an actual part of our day.

There is some strange comfort in that noise, all of it, together.

This night, back at White Eagle, is different. It is silent. Starkly so. In an hour, I will be — we all will be — spit back out into New Jersey’s endless winter, down the steps and onto Newark Avenue, having learned no more about Maraschino cherries than we knew before we entered. I will hear nothing about who’s lunch Susan stole from the fridge at work today, or just how fucked up it was to get to Jersey from Ridgewood on a Tuesday night.

The only conversations I will hear are ones of faintly whispered commentary about how good this is. About “thank you for bringing me.” About “this is amazing.” And at first, it’s weird and jarring and uncomfortable, and every time another beer gets cracked at the bar the people all around me let out some barely audible groan, because for the first time at any show I’ve ever been to, we’re all sitting in that silence, and none of us know how to behave.

The show opens with ‘Over’ and ‘Appointments’ and no one even knows what to do when that’s over. Like, none of us know if we should even clap. Forever and ever, before and after this, the answer is obvious, but here, we’re all in some kind of silent agreement that there’s at least a question as to whether anything should pierce the quiet. Like we’d be as annoying as another person’s vodka soda order being fulfilled if we did.

Slowly, somewhere around the end of ‘Turn Out the Lights,’ we all agree to figure out if clapping is okay. Then light cheering. Eventually we’ve navigated it, all settled into a balance between the silence and the act of being at a show. Some of the people around me even risk a low singalong during parts of ‘Rejoice’ and that one part of ‘Everybody Does’, though the intermittent activity at the bar is still at least as loud.

And maybe, beyond the lack of talking, that’s why I’m so shaken and uncomfortable with this silence. Life is about noise, even in the background. A podcast, music, the TV I’m not watching. The fan that runs at night just so I can sleep. The silence outside my parents’ house makes me uneasy. I am home with sirens piercing the pre-dawn air. Stop the noise and the quiet can make things deafening in your head.

Shows are ringing ears and not knowing if you’re shouting at each other when you talk about how good it was on the way home. Why in some other social setting you’ll find me nodding in agreement even though I didn’t really hear what you just said. It is inherently about noise and sound taking over a room and taking everyone in that room with it.

Here, we’re trying to navigate that same journey with the quiet. Like turning up the volume on the car radio as you try to find your turn.      

The thing I know about Julien Baker, because maybe I read The New Yorker while I’m brushing my teeth, is that she came up in some kind of punk scene that I imagine was similar to, though at least a decade and many states removed, from the one I did. Sonically, her music, just a guitar and some loops and piano and the occasional string accompaniment, is miles away from the basements and VFW halls and Elks lodges where I spent my teenage years. But it’s familiar somehow, too.

Maybe it’s because she’s here, on Tuesday night that’s too cold for April, mostly alone on stage, with just her songs and a couple guitars, a pedal board, a piano, and someone sometimes popping up to play violin, and she’s gotten this entire crowd to stop, to be quiet and sit in this silence and in these songs and find solace or something like it, in it, in them, in this. And that? That’s about as loud, and as punk rock, a thing as you can do.