#writers bagel basket

[thestrawberrymari]

✨️🍓Introduction Post🍓✨️

Mari • she/her • late-diagnosed autistic

✒️ English professor & writer

✏️ a very casual artist

🎬 I make videos sometimes! Check out my channel here and watch me talk about the American Girl DS games and play Kirby's Dream Course with my husband @bacon-with-wings 💙

🫶 Things I love:

•DUNGEON MESHI

•Ghost in the Shell

•Fruits Basket

•Project Diva/Vocaloid

•Fashion Dreamer

•Pompompurin :3

•Madoka Magica

•Graphic novels

•Southern Gothic & horror books

•Weather content (special interest 🌧)

•Gardening & composting 🌱

📑 Tags I use:

•#strawberryprose for drafts and writing ideas

●#bagelbite for photos of my cat Bagel

[xtruss]

Are We Living Through a Bagel Renaissance?

A New Wave of Shops Has Made Its Mark Across the Country—and Shaken New York’s Bagel Scene Out of Complacency.

— By Hannah Goldfield | April 28, 2024 | Nashville Now

Illustration By Milo Targett

A few weeks ago, after a rare earthquake in New Jersey sent tremors through New York, giving the denizens of the five boroughs a mild shock and an immoderate jolt of self-importance, a writer named John DeVore posted the following on X: “i know nyc isn’t the first city to ever experience an earthquake but imagine how Los Angelenos would react if they, one day, suddenly, ate a delicious, fresh bagel in their city.” It’s an old joke, not least because Los Angeles has lately grown rich in bagels—bagels that some New York transplants insist are actually good, bagels that have earned accolades from even the New York Times, which dared publish, in 2021, an article titled “The Best Bagels Are in California (Sorry, New York).”

I wouldn’t go quite that far, but to write off bagels made outside of New York would be a mistake—not only because there are plenty of great ones to be eaten elsewhere but because New York’s bagel culture, until recently, was growing rather stagnant. I’m hardly the first to note the broad downward spiral of New York bagels, which were first made by Ellis Island-era Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe and, over the course of the twentieth century, began to assimilate. Once uniformly small, dense, salty, and malty—traditionally, the dough is boiled in water and barley malt syrup before baking—bagels surpassed doughnuts in popularity in the U.S. but also evolved to look more like them, becoming sweeter, paler, and softer. Even in New York, they’ve attained obscene new forms (see: the rainbow bagel), adopted increasingly outlandish flavors, such as French toast (what cinnamon-raisin hath wrought!), and grown ever more puffy as traditional methods of hand-rolling gave way to high-output mechanization. Despite popular claims about the quality of municipal water or baking altitude, the science of bagel-making is not about terroir but, rather, context: every bagel reflects the tastes of the people it exists to serve.

L.A. is just one data point in what Bon Appétit has dubbed “The Great Bagel Boom,” and what Sam Silverman, the founder of New York’s annual BagelFest, calls “a bagel revolution.” Cities across America have long been home to flaccid facsimiles of New York-style bagel shops, but lately they’ve been joined by a new breed: bagel businesses undertaken by ambitious, savvy young people, who are seeking not to replicate some Platonic ideal of the bagel so much as to make it their own. Every city—see Miami’s El Bagel, where the menu includes a bagel layered with guava marmalade, cream cheese, and a fried egg, and New Orleans’s Flour Moon Bagels, which offers bagel “tartines” (plus, sometimes, a crawfish-stuffed bialy)—seems to have its own new-wave status bagel, which draws fanfare on social media and long lines in real life. “The bagel business has been, historically, a pretty terrible business, but the rise of this sandwich culture really helps,” Silverman told me. “It’s a vehicle that can infuse any sort of local culture and cuisine.”

The last time I was in L.A., I made a trip to the most famous of the city’s entries to the field. In 2020, the owners of Courage Bagels, who initially peddled their wares from the basket of a bicycle, opened a brick-and-mortar store in Virgil Village, between East Hollywood and Silver Lake. Midmorning on a Monday, I joined a line that had at first seemed reasonable and quickly became a way to spend half a day, snaking down the quiet block, opposite a dollar store and a tattoo parlor. When I started a casual conversation with the woman in front of me, she seemed almost startled. She had moved recently from New York, it turned out, to work as an assistant to an entrepreneur, whose bagel she was waiting to order. “People don’t make small talk in L.A.!” she said. Another former New Yorker in front of her, overhearing us, nodded in weary agreement.

It was easy to see how a Courage bagel could offend, if not enrage, a New York purist. It brings to mind a rustic, crusty baguette: the exterior is dark, craggy, and heavily blistered; the crumb is a little stretchy with a lot of air holes. (Courage bagels are leavened with sourdough starter, rather than commercial yeast.) If you were to scoop it, another move for which a bagel aficionado might make a citizen’s arrest—stay safe out there!—you’d be left with mostly crust. This makes it especially suited to Courage’s main offering: photogenic open-faced sandwiches. Bagel halves are topped with various combinations of cream cheese, jewel-like slices of tomato, thin coins of cucumber, smoked salmon, roe, or sardines, then painstakingly finished with salt, freshly cracked pepper, a drizzle of olive oil, fronds of dill. A Courage bagel is a Los Angeles bagel, ready for its closeup.

You could argue that the nationwide bagel revival has been a boon to New York’s own scene, shaking it out of complacency. Ten years ago, the introduction of Black Seed’s Montreal-inspired bagels, which are thinner and sweeter, boiled in honeyed water, only improved the landscape. Lately, the city has been home to a growing roster of indie bagel-makers, many of whom started by churning them out of restaurant kitchens during off-hours, or at home. On a recent Saturday morning, as I picked up a half-dozen sourdough bagels and a tub of burnt-scallion cream cheese from Wheated Brooklyn, a pizza restaurant just south of Prospect Park, the owner, David Sheridan, told me, “There’s a bagel movement happening in this country.” Louisville, Kentucky, of all places, had inspired him to get into bagels: as he prepared to open a location of Wheated there, he noticed a huge hole in the bagel market. Back in Brooklyn, he dove into R. & D., selling the fruits of his experiments on the weekends.

Earlier this spring, the people behind Leo, a sourdough-pizza place in Williamsburg, opened Apollo Bagels, in the East Village, which serves L.A.-inflected bagels, open-faced and meticulously assembled. (If I were the owners of Courage, I’d cock an eye at Apollo and remind myself that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.) The Mud Club, a wood-fired bagel, pizza, and tapas restaurant and dance club in the Hudson Valley, is currently popping up on the Lower East Side in the original location of Scarr’s Pizza, where, the other day, I ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese, oozing aioli and roasted-jalapeño-and-tomato jam, on a dense and crusty everything bagel. (They’ll soon open a permanent outpost a few blocks away.) Sakura Smith, the baker behind Bagel Bunny, supplies private clients and sometimes specialty shops with small, soft bagels made from a vegetable-flecked dough; it’s leavened with a fermented yeast that she says was first grown by a monk in Japan in the nineteen-seventies and feeds off mountain yams, rice, and carrots.

When it comes to my own bagel preferences, I am open to creative recipes but believe that a bagel should be, fundamentally, a humble staple—relatively inexpensive and sold by the dozen, or a multiple thereof. A sandwich has its place, but bagels belong, first and foremost, in a paper sack, hot from the oven (they need not be toasted unless they’ve gone stale), grab-and-go. The new-wave shops, especially outside of New York, don’t all seem to embrace the bagel’s inherent utility. In Washington, D.C., at a café called Ellē, my six sourdough bagels came packaged in individual paper sleeves, as if they were croissants or artisanal chocolate-chip cookies. At Courage, I had to wait—and wait, and wait—for my half-dozen. As the sun grew hotter, and I paced back and forth, restlessly sipping on a rose-flavored lemonade, I had to wonder, What were they doing in there? You could imagine a chef adhering sesame seeds one at a time with a tweezer.

The newcomer bagel that best fits my vision can be found in New York but it was born—sorry, haters—in Westport, Connecticut. One day in the summer of 2020, Adam Goldberg, a flood-mitigation specialist in his forties, was floating in his pool with his cousin, “having margaritas at eight-thirty in the morning,” he recalled recently. “We looked at each other and we decided that it was too hot to make sourdough like we’d been making every other day for the whole pandemic.” They decided to make bagels instead, imagining that they’d be “more refreshing.” After just a couple of weeks of recipe-developing, Goldberg settled on his ideal formula, and it wasn’t long before he was selling bagels out of his back yard. Four years later, the business, PopUp Bagels, is growing rapidly, with multiple locations in Connecticut and in tony precincts including Greenwich Village, Palm Beach, and Wellesley, Massachusetts.

PopUp offers, strictly, bagels and schmear, and if you preorder a dozen to pick up from the store, they will still be warm when the paper bag is passed to you. Goldberg is careful not to describe PopUp bagels as New York bagels. “It was the first thing we dropped from our branding,” he told me. “We’re our own style of bagel.” He uses a proprietary mix of flours and commercial yeast, no sourdough, and he has worked under the guidance of a “dough coach,” a championship baker he’s hired “to refine our recipe so that it’s more mobile.” When I asked him if he’d been aware, before getting into bagels, that there were people who called themselves dough coaches, he said, “No. In fact, my dough coach was unaware of it also. But once I told him he was my dough coach, he was very excited.”

A PopUp bagel is a bit less dense than the most traditional New York bagels; Goldberg wanted to make them light enough that you could comfortably eat more than one. In other ways, a PopUp bagel seems archetypal: small, chewy, with a crisp, golden-brown crust—urbane, and almost chic, in its restraint. Goldberg has kept the flavors classic, offering just plain, sesame, poppy, everything, and salt. He only gets playful with gimmicky (and sometimes great) cream-cheese flavors—Old Bay, ramp, coffee cake—and the occasional absurdist collaboration; just last week, PopUp and Dominique Ansel, of Cronut fame, introduced a limited-time-only Gruyère bagel with escargot butter, for a cool eighteen dollars.

This may seem like an awful lot of fuss over boiled bread with a hole in it, but pedantry is part of the fun. We enjoy outraging the purists and then posturing as purists ourselves, bringing our own tastes and associations to the image of the perfect bagel. I discussed this recently with Zoë Kanan, a pastry chef and baker who can make an excellent bagel anywhere (she once did a stint as a bagel consultant in Mexico City) and who will open a Jewish-ish bakery, called Elbow Bread, on the Lower East Side in May. Kanan and I were both introduced to bagels inauspiciously. Every day in elementary school, in New Haven, I ate a sandwich of Genoa salami on a squishy egg-flavored Lender’s bagel—the brand sold in plastic sleeves in the grocery store. Kanan grew up in Houston, where her weekly order at the Hot Bagel Shop was a strawberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese. Which is to say that, when it comes to bagels, we were blasphemers: in the High Court of Bagel, we’d be sternly sentenced to a penal colony.

Despite these beginnings, or perhaps because of them, Kanan and I now share a strong internal compass about what a bagel should be. “Chew is at the top of the list,” she said, as I nodded fervently at the other end of the line. “It should, I think, give your jaw a little bit of a workout when you’re eating it.” She explained that a low-hydration dough (as opposed to, say, the wetter dough you need for a spongy focaccia) made with high-protein flour gives you a strong gluten structure, and optimal chewiness, but can also result in a bagel that stales quickly. To extend shelf life, she’s come up with a slightly left-field solution: potatoes, roasted whole, skin-on, and mixed in with the flour, yeast, and water. “It adds starch, which locks in moisture,” she explained, and also results in “a really thin, kind of crackery shell of a crust. And then, the interior is chewy, and also tender, and moist.” I pictured an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye.

One New York bagel shop that sates both traditionalist tastes and the Internet’s appetite for absurd viral foods is Utopia, in Whitestone, Queens. Here, they hand-roll the bagels, boil them in enormous kettles, and then bake them in a carrousel oven made in 1947. They’ve got all the essential flavors, including pumpernickel—a favorite of mine, and rarer and rarer these days—but if you want sourdough they have those, too, plus rainbow, piña colada, and jalapeño-cheddar. As if to provoke the snobs who complain about ballooning bagel sizes, they also sell a ten-pound “party style bagel wheel,” an audacious rejoinder to the party sub. The giant everything bagel I ordered the other day was, I’m sad to say, completely raw in the center. (My theory was that they’d taken it out too soon, when the garlic that dotted the exterior had started to burn.) But I’d also ordered a party-style pizza bagel, a sesame ten-pounder sliced in half, scooped (the extra dough gets turned into garlic knots), and layered with marinara sauce, mozzarella, and chopped chicken cutlet. It was outrageous yet comfortingly familiar and, dare I say, spectacular. ♦

— By Vaseline

[unorthodoxsavvy]

The X-Philes: Chapter 4

Phil is a psychic. Dan is a detective. When Phil is visited by the ghost of his brother, he knows something isn't right. Can he and Dan solve the case, or will they become the next victims?

Rating: M

For Moe, who always believed I was a writer at heart. May 1941-May 2022

“It’s three thirty in the morning-”

Phil barged his way past Dan into his room.

“Someone’s here,” Phil repeated. 

Dan looked around. “Who? Where?”

“A spirit,” Phil clarified, making a beeline for the desk. He grabbed the hotel pen and notepad.

“Oh, a spirit,” Dan repeated in a sarcastic “of course” tone.

Phil didn’t respond.

“Do you know who it is,” Dan asked, playing along with whatever Phil was doing.

“No, but they’re trying to tell me something… tell you something…” Phil’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Here, take it,” Phil insisted, thrusting the pen and notepad towards Dan.

“I don’t want it!” Dan shoved away Phil’s hands.

“They want to talk to you!” Phil reiterated, bringing his hands back in front of him.

“Great, tell them I said no.” Dan shoved Phil’s hands away again.

Phil gripped the notebook and pen tighter, clutching them to his chest.

“I don’t know how much information I’m going to get out of them,” Phil stated firmly.

“I don’t care,” Dan stared at Phil’s wide eyes, making sure Phil knew he was serious.

Phil’s face fell for a second before becoming stiff. His eyes took on a glassy look, staring straight ahead, as if he was looking through Dan, and his hand moved across the pad stiffly, almost as if it wasn’t of his own accord.

Just as quickly as it came, whatever it was, it went.

Phil looked down at the notepad.

73

“Does this mean anything to you?” Phil asked, turning the pad away from him to show Dan.

“Seventy-three? Does seventy-three mean anything to me?” Dan asked incredulously.

“I told you I didn’t think I would be able to get much-”

“You know what Lester? Just go, okay? Get out of here, go.”

Phil hesitated.

“Out!” Dan’s eyes flashed with anger.

Phil clenched his teeth and looked away, like he was trying not to cry. He returned the notepad and the pen to the table and walked out.

Dan ripped the paper off the pad. He crumpled it up and threw it in the wire waste bin.

“Seventy-three,” he repeated to himself spitefully. 

He got a drink of water, used the bathroom, and then crawled back into the motel bed.

*-*-*-*-*

Phil woke up to a pounding on his door.

This time it was Dan standing outside his motel room.

“Breakfast is downstairs and then we’re going,” Dan informed him before turning away to swipe his key card to his own room.

“Where are we going?” Phil asked, rubbing a fist in his eye.

“You have half an hour.”

Dan shut the door behind him.

“Alright then, keep your secrets,” Phil quoted under his breath.

He closed his own motel door and made his way over to his suitcase which was laid out on the desk. 

He grabbed some clothes and got in the shower.

Down in the breakfast room the motel was serving a variety of things including cereal, bagels, muffins, oatmeal, and more. They had coffee and tiny plastic cups to fill with apple or orange juice.

Phil glanced over the muffins and snickered to himself. He took at step over and grabbed a bagel to put in the toaster.

While he waited he grabbed himself a plastic cup and pressed the button for apple juice. The cup was so small he was able to finish it in two sips.

He threw the cup in the trash, lamenting about plastic waste, and started to make himself a cup of coffee while his bagel toasted.

As the pot was brewing he heard the toaster go off, and from the corner of his eye he watched as his bagels magically appeared.

He placed a paper plate down in front of the toaster and grabbed each half, dropping them swiftly.

Individual cups of cream cheese were available in a basket next to the bagel display. Phil grabbed two and a plastic knife and placed them on top of the bagel.

The pot finished spitting out its drink and Phil grabbed a heat-resistant cup to pour his coffee in, adding the cream and sugar that were also provided to him.

Phil sat at an empty table and stirred his coffee, letting to cool off while he peeled back the coverings on the cream cheese and dipped his knife in, spreading it around. 

Personally, he felt like plastic knives were basically useless, but he understood their purpose here. In all honesty they reminded him of school meals growing up. His mom, however, had always kept a durable plastic knife that she’d use to cut brownies with. She said they cut better with plastic than with metal. He’d never bothered to try.

Phil took a sip of his coffee and a bite of his bagel when Dan sat down at the table in the seat across from him.

“Are you almost ready to go?”

Phil stared at him over the top of his bagel.

“No?” Phil answered, mouth full of bread and cream cheese.

“Okay, well, hurry up,” Dan ordered, getting up from the table.

Phil turned to watch him walk away.

“You know, I really don’t feel like going to the hospital again,” he implied, but Dan was already out of ear shot.

Phil huffed and turned back to his food, taking care to eat slowly and carefully, as everyone should in his opinion.

When he was done he got up to throw away his empty cup and plate. Dan once again appeared.

“Can I at least brush my teeth?”

“No, now let’s go.”

*-*-*-*-*

“Did you become a detective because you wanted to find your dad?” Phil asked as they drove. 

Dan didn’t answer.

“That’s where we’re going, isn’t it? To see your dad.”

Dan still didn’t answer, so Phil pulled his phone and earbuds out if his pocket to listen to his music.

The drive to the graveyard wasn’t a long on, and before Phil expected to they had arrived.

It was a hilly graveyard with winding paved roads reaching different areas of the grounds. Headstones of all shapes and sizes broke up the landscape as did scattered trees, fountains, and mausoleums. It was a nice place for a final rest.

Dan parked the car along one of these paved pathways and got out. Phil paused his music and pulled his earbuds out before climbing out of the car as well. He moved to the grass on the side of the path, waiting for Dan to come around to his side of the car.

“Stay back,” Dan ordered, making his way over to his father’s gravesite. It wasn’t really a grave, though, not really. There was no body buried there, after all.

Phil put his earbuds back in and sat on the curb. The feeling in the cemetery was potent, but it was peaceful. Phil tried his best to close himself off from the other side. He didn’t make a habit of visiting graveyards and when he did, he kept to himself, not wanting to disturb any resting, lingering spirits. He didn’t want any more to do with the other side right now, not after what had taken place last night.

Phil looked up to see Dan approaching him. He paused his music and took out his earbuds, wrapping the cord around his phone.

Dan sat next to him in silence, like he was hesitant to bring something up. 

Phil waited patiently.

“Would you know,” he finally asked, “if he was still alive or not?”

Phil looked to the headstone that Dan had come from.

“Yes.”

Dan looked up at the gravestone.

“Do you mind?” Phil asked. Dan shook his head.

“Do you want to know?” Phil asked.

“I don’t know.”

Phil took his phone out of his pocket and left it next to Dan while he stood up and walked slowly, deliberately, towards Dr. Howell’s headstone. When he was standing right in front of it he stopped and reached out. He placed the palm of his hand atop the stone. He felt nothing.

Phil retracted his hand and retraced his steps back to Dan.

“Do you have your answer?” Dan asked, staring at his boots on the pavement.

“Yes.” 

Dan looked up at Phil.

“Your father is still alive.”

*-*-*-*-*

“I always thought that if the afterlife was real my dad would have reached out to me.”

Phil looked over at Dan driving.

“Is that why you’re so against believing in this stuff?” he asked.

“Yeah, it is.”

Phil titled his head. “Now what do you believe?”

“I don’t know.”

Phil turned to look out the front windshield.

“I can find him, you know,” Phil said quietly.

Dan glazed over at him quickly.

“What do you mean you can find him?” he demanded.

“I’m a psychic. I can try and find your dad.”

Dan stared ahead speechless before quickly slamming on his brakes. Phil shot forward, seatbelt catching him.

“Woah, what the hell Dan?!” Phil yelled.

Dan backed up.

“Seventy-three.”

Phil glanced up at the sign in front of him for exit 73.

“Do you know this place?” Phil asked in a hushed voice.

“My parents used to take me here as a kid.”

Dan pulled off the highway using the exit.

“What’s there?” Phil asked.

“Woods.”

*-*-*-*-*

Dan parked the car on the side of the road and stared deep into the forest.

“Isolated. Private. Do you think this could be where the files are?” Phil asked.

“I don’t know,” Dan replied and started walking into the woods.

Phil followed him in.

They walked for about 45 minutes listening to the sound of birds chirping overhead and squirrels rustling in the brush until Phil stopped. Noticing the lack of leaf litter crunching behind him, Dan stopped and turned.

“What is it?”

“There’s something here,” Phil replied. “I think we’re close to whatever we’re looking for.”

Phil started walking again slowly, leading the way, hands out in front of him and eyes closed. To Dan, Phil looked like he was impersonating a mummy.

Phil raised a foot to take another step and hesitated.

“Here.”

His eyes shot open.

Phil hunched down and started to gently brush away the leaf litter, then frantically started pawing at the dirt just like he had in Martyn’s backyard.

Phil dug and dug and dug and Dan was sure he wasn’t going to find anything until-

There.

A trap door.

Phil looked up at Dan, dirt smudged on his face from where he’d wiped away the sweat from his brow.

Dan stared down at Phil and then moved his eyes to the trap door.

The door was made from aluminum, and didn’t have a lock on it. Phil was able to grab it by the handle and open it up to his right. Below him was a ladder leading into darkness.

Phil looked back up at Dan.

“Brawn first,” he smiled, gesturing to the hole in the ground.

“More like guns first,” Dan smiled back and knelt to start climbing down the ladder.

“Well whatever you are, you certainly aren’t the brains,” Phil called down gently.

“Excuse me, I’m the detective.”

“And I’m sure you worked very hard for that position,” Phil assured him.

Dan’s disembodied voice floated up towards Phil. 

“Screw you.”

“Is that the best you could come up with?” Phil asked, more to himself than to Dan, and started climbing down the ladder as well.

“I hit the bottom,” Dan announced.

“You hit rock bottom?” Phil joked softly.

“I hit rock bottom the moment you walked into my station.”

“Ouch.”

Phil jumped when he felt a hand reach out and touch his back.

“You’re almost there, be careful.”

With his other hand Dan pulled out his phone and turned on its flashlight to help Phil see better.

“Thanks.”

Phil pulled out his phone and turned the flashlight on as well.

“Do you really think those missing files are down here?” Dan asked.

“I do,” Phil insisted.

Dan sighed. “How am I supposed to justify this in my report?” he asked rhetorically.

The room was larger than Phil had expected, like an underground bunker.

“What do you think this was originally used for?” Phil asked, shining his flashlight on a row of filing cabinets shoved up against the wall in front of them.

“I don’t know,” Dan said, making his way over to one of them.

He opened up a drawer. 

“For someone who wanted this information to be kept hidden, they sure didn’t take a lot of measures to secure it,” Dan pondered, flicking through the file folders.

“Hiking through the woods for forty-five minutes and digging up this trap door isn’t secure enough to you?” Phil asked incredulously.

“How hard is it to place a padlock on the trap door and lock these filing cabinets? They come with locks and keys when you buy them,” Dan countered. “How did they even get them down here anyway?”

“Probably the same way we got down here. What are you finding?”

“Well, these are the patient files alright,” Dan turned to look at Phil over his shoulder.

“What about the rest of the drawers?” Phil asked.

Dan huffed. “I don’t know, why don’t you start trying to open them and see, Wonder Boy.”

“That’s Boy Wonder to you,” Phil chuckled and moved a few filing cabinets down from Dan and opened a drawer at chest level.

“What do you see?” Dan asked, face still buried in his own drawer.

Phil looked back down and pushed all the files as far back into the drawer as he could, reading the first label. There was a name on it. Behind it was a different file with a different name. Then a third. Then a fourth.

So, these files were information on people. But what kind of information?

Dan took out the four files he’d briefly looked at and sat down on the cold, hard concrete floor with them.

“Make yourself comfy,” Dan joked, but Phil didn’t answer. He spread the files out in a semi-circle around him, picking up the first one and scanning it for key words that he hoped he could come across in the other three files.

It seemed to be some sort of informal employee record, each with a focus on one company: MedLife Corporation. 

Phil assumed that MedLife was the drug company that had supplied the cancer treatment trial to the local hospital, but there wasn’t much information on the corporation itself.

Phil closed the files and stood up, placing them back in the same order in the same drawer, which he left open. Behind him was a table with two chairs. Phil took a seat and Dan carried over a file, placing it on the table in front of Phil before sitting across from him.

“Let’s go over everything we know so far,” Phil suggested.

Dan wasn’t sure what that was, but he dragged a finger up on his screen and pressed the “record” button anyway, flashlight still on.

“Around 1999 there was a drug trail for a new cancer treatment here, but it went horribly wrong, and most if not all of the patients died. This was witnessed by the staff, including both of your parents. My brother was down here for college and looking for legal cases to consult on. Somehow he must have heard about this, even though it wasn’t big enough news to make it to the media. He helped patients file lawsuits against the drug company while they were still alive, but after they all died, it was easy to bury the evidence of something gone so wrong. That’s why your parents and my brother took these patient files, to hide them. They knew the drug company wanted to destroy the evidence they contained. They hid the information down here and started looking into the drug company, MediLife, so they could make a case against them. This company was more powerful than they expected, I think. And then your dad disappeared.”

Phil paused, waiting for Dan’s reaction.

“So you think the company kidnapped my dad because he was getting too close?” Dan asked.

“It tracks, doesn’t it? What better warning sign that to kidnap-”

“The head of the oncology department.”

Phil blinked in surprise. 

“You didn’t tell me that he was the head of the department.”

Dan leaned back in his chair. “Well, what can I say? ‘I kind of have a lot going on right now, so I apologize if some things slip my mind’.”

Phil gritted his teeth.

“So, they kidnap my old man and they do what, exactly, with him?” Dan asked.

“He’s the head of oncology. He could be a big asset to their team, to try and perfect the drug.”

“You think they’re still trying to get it right?” Dan asked, surprised.

“Curing cancer? You can’t put a price tag on that,” Phil insisted.

“You know big pharma will, though,” Dan replied sarcastically.

“Exactly.”

“So what now?” Dan asked.

“It’s around 2000,” Phil started, “The drug trial went really wrong and somehow they’ve managed to keep a lid on it, but they can’t count on being that lucky ever again. They can’t work this in a public hospital, it draws too much attention. So would putting up flyers. And if they keep murdering patients, someone is going to notice- unless you target a demographic that’s overlooked- the homeless. You have an increased chance of getting sick living out on the streets without access to medical care, and that increases your chances of getting really sick, not to mention all the things that have come before being homeless, like fighting in wars overseas and such. So they target the homeless,  and somehow they’re testing the drugs on these people.”

“That’s a great story, and even if it’s true, it leaves a lot of questions unanswered, mainly, where would we even start to look for them?” Dan asked.

“We find your dad,” Phil said.

Dan looked at him.

“We find my dad,” he repeated. 

*-*-*-*-*

“What do you think they do with the bodies?” Phil asked quietly.

Dan glanced over at him from the driver’s seat.

“Whose bodies?”

“The test subjects,” Phil explained, “the ones that don’t make it.” He loathed to call them ‘patients’. If he was right (and he knew, somehow, he was) they didn’t come in with cancer. It was given to them somehow.

Dan glanced back towards the road.

“Fire takes care of a lot of things.”

“Do you think that’s what happened to Martyn?”

Dan whipped his head towards Phil.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? That’s probably what happened to him, right? They brought him to the same old place they burn all the other bodies in, probably cut him up before hand to make him fit, maybe ground up his bones so there weren’t any-”

Dan reached his hand around and smacked Phil upside the head.

“Don’t you dare start thinking like that, okay? We’re going to find your brother’s body, and we’re going to give him a proper funeral-”

“Like the one you gave your dad?” Even as Phil was saying it he realized how in the wrong he was. 

Dan clenched his hands on the steering wheel and starred straight ahead, speed steadily picking up.

“Dan, I’m-”

“I oughta toss your ass out the car door and leave you bloody and bruised on the side of the interstate.”

It sounded kind of funny, but Phil didn’t argue. They spent the rest of the car ride in silence.

Dan slammed on his brakes in the parking spot of the motel parking lot when they arrived, narrowly missing the curb.

Phil opened the door slowly and closed it again gently when he climbed out, afraid any sudden movements or loud noises would set Dan off again.

Phil followed behind Dan through the glass doors of them motel lobby and let Dan make his way back up towards their rooms. Dan didn’t pause or turn around even when he noticed Phil was no longer following him.

Instead, Phil squatted in front of the display of brochures advertising local attractions. His favorite one was the Point Pleasant brochure with the shiny statue of Mothman on the front, however he wasn’t looking for tourist attractions. He grabbed a state map up by the top left of the display and carried to back with him to his room.

Phil sat on his bed, map still in hand, and wondered if he should go knocking on Dan’s door. Before he made his decision, though, Dan ended up knocking on his.

“Dan, I-”

“Save it,” Dan said. “Let’s just get whatever this is over with.”

Phil moved to the desk and spread the map out.

“I need your knife.”

Dan didn’t bother to ask how Phil knew he had a knife in his boot, but he took it out anyway, unfolding the blade and handing the hilt to Phil.

“Now I need you.”

“Geez, take a guy out to dinner first,” Dan muttered, coming closer.

“He already took me out,” Phil mumbled, still staring down at the map. “We had pizza.”

Phil grabbed Dan’s hand and flipped his palm up to face him. Before Dan could react, Phil slid the blade over the tip of Dan’s finger and flipped his palm back face-down so the blood dripped onto the map.

Dan yanked his hand back and clenched his fist.

“You’re going to make it bleed more if you do that,” Phil mentioned, eyes closed and hands outreached over the map.

Dan went into Phil’s motel bathroom and looked around for something to stop the bleeding. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find any paper towels, so a pristine, white facecloth it was.

Dan returned back to the desk where Phil was now hunched over, hands spread on either side of the map.

“It didn’t work,” he told Dan bitterly.

Dan looked down at the map.

“What’s it supposed to do?” he asked.

Phil backed up and hopped up onto the end of the bed.

“You and your dad share blood, and I can use that connection to find where he is on the map, but nothing came up.” Phil looked defeated.

“Well, how do we know he’s in West Virginia?” Dan asked.

Phil looked up at him and was quiet for a moment.

“We don’t,” he realized.

“So maybe that’s why it didn’t work.”

Phil was nodding. 

“You’re right, you’re right- we need a bigger map of the whole country.” Phil’s face lit up. “When I was younger, they had maps on the back of the menus at Cracker Barrel!”

“First of all, I don’t know if they do that anymore, and second of all, I’m pretty sure you just want an excuse to go to Cracker Barrel.”

“I’m hungry,” Phil pouted.

Dan sighed.

“Get your things.”

“We’re going to Cracker Barrel?” Phil beamed.

“No, we’re going to Walmart. They have a Subway.”

*-*-*-*-*

Phil pushed the carriage down the isles. Dan had initially pulled it out from the corral they were stored in, but Phil had asked if he could steer the cart. Dan had sighed, and agreed. Phil had smiled, and started pushing the cart further into the store.

They located a map of the world with the help of an employee and Dan lifted it off the rack and placed it into the cart.

“Thirty dollars? Jesus-”

“It has all the state capitals and major highways,” Phil explained.

“I know it does, but why can’t we just have a basic map for ten dollars?”

“Because how are kids going to learn the state capitals that way?” Phil asked.

Dan co-opted the cart from Phil. “I think they’ll manage.”

Phil grabbed on to the cart’s handles as well, placing his fists next to Dan’s. Dan let go and gave Phil control of the cart once again.

“Oh!”

Phil turned down the board game isle, looking up and down the shelves intensely.

“Got it!”

Phil grabbed a ouija board.

“What are you doing?” Dan exclaimed in a hushed voice. “Put that back!”

“But I need it,” Phil said.

“Put. It. Back.” Dan repeated sternly.

Phil moved to put it in the cart but Dan grabbed the other side of it before Phil could make it.

“Give,” Dan tugged.

“No!” Phil tugged back.

“You don’t need a ouija board!”

“I have my own money!” Phil tugged again.

Dan looked over Phil’s shoulder at a mother and her son who were staring at the two grown men. The mother took her son’s hand and quickly led him away. 

“What are you looking at?” Phil turned to look behind him and Dan used the opportunity to give a swift tug. The box fell between them and the board and planchette spilled out, clattering on the tile floor.

Dan took many steps back.

“Disarm that thing.”

“‘Disarm that thing’? It’s not a bomb, Dan.”

“Just shut up and shut whatever portal you just opened and put the damn box back on the shelf.”

“That I opened? First of all, you’re the one who dropped it, and second of all, that’s not how it works at all.”

Phil squatted to the floor and started putting the board and planchette back into the box.

“Leave that thing here,” Dan ordered.

“Fine,” Phil said, returning the box to the shelf. “I’ll just make my own back at the hotel.”

*-*-*-*-*

Back at the hotel, Phil did not make his own ouija board. Instead, they had once again spread the map out onto the desk in Phil’s motel room. Phil was quietly praying it would work this time.

“Hand,” he ordered.

Reluctantly Dan pulled the bandaid he’d applied off his pinkie finger and handed it back to Phil, tucking the used bandaid into his jeans pocket. Dan’s hands were rough and calloused, even though he was around the same age as Phil. He wondered how they got that way, but he didn’t bother to ask. It didn’t seem like the time or the place- or the right person.

Phil squeezed the tip of Dan’s finger over the map and the cut opened up once more, spilling tiny drops of Dan’s blood onto the laminated surface.

Phil closed his eyes and placed his hands over the map once more.

Dan rolled his eyes after a moment when, unsurprisingly, nothing had happened. He went into the bathroom to run some water over his finger.

When he came back out, Phil was sitting on the edge of the bed in his room.

“So?”

“So?” Phil echoed. “Take a look for yourself,” he gestured towards the map.

Dan walked over to the map, hand wrapped in yet another pristine white face cloth.

The drops of blood had moved.

“Texas?��� he asked in disbelief.

“Yeehaw!”

[aughtpunk]

I posted 10,439 times in 2021

125 posts created (1%)

10314 posts reblogged (99%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 82.5 posts.

I added 250 tags in 2021

#amwriting - 41 posts

#writer - 31 posts

#writing - 31 posts

#writinglife - 31 posts

#themidwife - 26 posts

#amwritingfantasy - 25 posts

#fairytale - 19 posts

#themidwifefables - 16 posts

#midwifefables - 16 posts

#amwritingscifi - 14 posts

Longest Tag: 86 characters

#i started writing because someone on a podcast described the birth scene from twilight

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Basket update! Now for the tricky part (at Granite Falls, North Carolina) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMr1eWDDkqf/?igshid=pbgbg46j5aq7

13 notes • Posted 2021-03-21 14:56:52 GMT

#4

My new Good Omens fanfic Snevolution (Snake Revolution) is up! Featuring my adopted son Warlock #GoodOmens #GoodOmens30 #Crowley https://archiveofourown.org/works/29518662 https://www.instagram.com/p/CLaB-eBgSM3/?igshid=u1kcd13zp65g

17 notes • Posted 2021-02-17 20:28:22 GMT

#3

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Disco Elysium (Video Game)

Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim KitsuragiHarry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi

Characters: Harry Du BoisKim Kitsuragi

Additional Tags: Movie Nightdate fic Fluff Cuddling Snuggling First Kiss Can I stop writing fluff about these two probably not Kim POV The failed version of Smallest Church is the best version fight me Not beta We sing our hearts out at karaoke like men

(These were not dates.

Sure they might sound like dates. Look like dates. Were better than actual dates Kim had gone on. But no matter what everyone said down at the 41st they were not dates. Every time someone joked about it Kim would silence them with a twitch of his eyebrow and change the topic back to work. Sure it didn’t help that Harry kept calling them dates no matter how many times Kim corrected him, but the truth could not be denied. These were not dates.)

Kim and Harry watch a movie. Kim totally falls asleep. Cuddling happens.

19 notes • Posted 2021-08-13 16:36:06 GMT

#2

Oink. #knitting #knittersofinstagram #knitstagram #knit #knittingaddict #knitter (at Granite Falls, North Carolina) https://www.instagram.com/p/CTnLUICn7Ki/?utm_medium=tumblr

19 notes • Posted 2021-09-09 19:11:15 GMT

#1

BREAD BREAD BREAD BREAD BREAD

Toast always lands jelly-side-down around Crowley.

This does not seem to be a big deal at first. After all, even if you take into consideration the thousands upon thousands of meals he and Aziraphale shared it still wasn’t likely that any toast would fall during that time. Toast tended to stay put on the table. It’s toast. And, one might even argue, of course the toast is going to land jelly-side down. That side’s heavier. It only makes sense.

Which is what Aziraphale always thought until he held a piece of toast roughly a finger’s length over a plate and dropped it only for the bread to defy all laws of physics and land jelly-side-down anyway. He then went on to test it with jam, preserves, marmalades, compote, and even had one go with peanut butter. Every piece of toast landed spread-side-down no matter the height in which it was dropped. After he had ruined nearly half of a loaf worth of toast Aziraphale decided this was A Demon Thing and left it at that. 

***

Toast always lands butter-side-up around Aziraphale.

At first Crowley assumed this was An Angel Thing. It certainly sounded like an angel-thing. Forever blessed by Her Grace to protect her flock from ever having to wipe butter off the kitchen floor with a paper towel. Crowley had even went out of his way to see if the type of bread mattered. After making his way through the local bread aisle he went on to try bread-adjacent test subjects like bagels, croissants, muffins, scones, and even the most hellish breakfast item he could think of: an english muffin. All landed butter-side up. 

What Crowley didn’t know is that this wasn’t An Angel Thing. Why would it be? Aziraphale was the only angel who enjoyed eating enough to go out of his way to butter a slice of toast. In reality this was An Aziraphale Thing, as no bread or bread-adjacent food item wanted to hurt Aziraphale’s feelings by landing the wrong side down. Even breakfast items couldn’t stand to see him disappointed. It was for the best that Crowley didn’t know this. Being on the same emotional wavelength as bread would just be too much for his demonic heart to take. 

***

As always, it was the humans who mucked things up. 

Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t meant to befriend the humans they met at the end of the world. Usually they did their best to keep away from humanity. Nothing personal, of course, it just never seemed worth a bother considering they would be dead before you really got to know them. Better to admire humans from afar and help/hinder any of the mayflies that wandered across their path. 

(Neither man would ever admit that the exact opposite was true. In fact, it was really easy to truly know a human inside and out in a short amount of time. Even easier to befriend them, or love them. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? The short amount of time. Both men carried a graveyard of memories in their hearts. And with every gravestone there would always be that promise--never again, keep them distant, it’s not worth it--only for them to dig burial plot when another human entered their lives. But enough about that. We’re here to talk about bread.)

They were prepared to leave the humans to their now-normal lives right up until the lot of them showed up at Aziraphale’s shop one morning demanding answers. Turns out that there was just enough non-humanity around them to trip up their brain’s instinct to forget everything that had happened. Every time one of their memories started to slip another person would clear their throat and loudly ask if anyone else was visited by aliens that day to make it all come crashing back. 

In the end it was decided they should all get together once a month for a nice cup of tea at Anathema’s place. Aziraphale agreed if only to make sure there were no odd side effects from Adam’s meddling. Crowley agreed simply because the other option was getting poked with a large silver pin over and over until he confessed his nipple amounts. They were both lying to themselves, but that was fine too.

(Don’t worry, we’re getting to the bread)

They were all having a nice conversation about how Crowley invented showing up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks to balance out Aziraphale’s invention of showing up fifteen minutes early with a dozen donuts when Adam lost his grip on his marmalade drenched scone and helplessly watched as it landed face-down with a large squelch. 

“That’s Crowley’s doing too,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, “toast landing jelly-side-down I mean.”

“Come on angel, it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose!” Crowley pointed accusingly at Aziraphale, “at least I’m not bending reality to keep butter from getting all over the carpet.”

“I’m sorry?” Anathema asked after the awkward silence went on a moment too long. 

“Toast always lands butter-side-up around my angel here,” Crowley said willfully ignoring the fact he said my angel, “go on, test it.”

Anathema took a scone, slathered the top with butter, held over the edge of the table and let go.

The scone landed butter-side-up. 

She picked the scone up, held it butter-side-down, and dropped it.

Butter-side-up.

She didn’t even see it flip around. 

“I don’t know why, but somehow that’s the weirdest thing that’s happened to us yet.” Said Madame Tracy. 

At that point both celestials and humans alike might have gone back to their tea and forgotten the whole toast-jam-butter thing ever happened, but Newt just had to ask a question. That’s what humans did after all. They got in trouble by asking questions. No wonder Aziraphale and Crowley liked them so much.

“So, wait, what happens if you spread butter and jam on the same side?”

Aziraphale and Crowley stared blankly at Newt. 

“You haven’t thought to try that?” Asked Madame Tracy. 

See the full post

261 notes • Posted 2021-02-11 17:34:13 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[cyanwormonastring]

I Can Be Useful: Part 5

are you feeling uninspired? do you want a list of completely random things to get you thinking? of course you don’t, anyway here you go. (my friend pointed out that these would make good chapter titles, so here you go, bitches with writer’s block)

1. My Grandma Wished Me A Happy Birthday, I Wish Her To Die

2. Stale Chocolate Chip Muffins

3. "I'm Just a Painter and I'm Drawing a Blank"

4. 9:00 PM

5. That One Friend of a Friend Who's Just a *Bit* Too Obsessed With Queer Representation in a Netflix Show

6. "I Would Never Listen To That Emo Music” I Said...

7. A Really Shitty Rendition Of An Album Cover On An Index Card

8. ...And Look At Where I Am Now, Motherfuckers

9. Listening to Classic Rock On A Saturday

10. You Look So Good In Blue

11. The Woodchucks Are Dead

12. Bagel Supremacy

13. Spinning Like A Ballerina

14. "I Know I'm Supposed to Love You"

15. Some Pretty Dusty Speakers

16. COOKIE JARRR

17. Who Needs a Boyfriend When You've Got- Uh- A Basket Full of Rocks?

18. I'm Going To Make It! (I, In Fact, Did Not Make It)

19. The Homophobic Employee Wishes You A Happy Pride (They Know You're Gay, Susan)

20. I'm Never Going To See Them Again

[dawnpil]

first draft

summary: you were raised to be careful with your heart around witches, but one pretty word witch is determined to change that. pairing: young k x reader genre: fluff bc honestly what else do i write notes: a continuation to a series i started literally a year and a half ago, oops (stone witch!wonpil)

you know about the day house boys, of course

you’re starting your junior year and they’re the most popular people on campus, after all

hell, you’ve got one of wonpil’s hematite rings for focus

your favorite scarf is one dowoon knitted warmth into the fabric of

you’ve seen brian around the house, but you’ve never gone to him for his magic

out of the witches his magic can do the widest variety of things, which means he charges the steepest price, and you’re just a broke college kid

your friend, who goes to brian every full moon, tries to explain how his prices work

but you’re not having it; you need your voice too much to lose it for three days, and you’re not sure you have anything else he’d want

here’s the thing: word magic evolves constantly, and word witches always need to know what phrases are going in or out of style

so from what you’ve gathered, brian’s price for his magic is to take a customer’s words for varying durations of time

and you can’t have that, not with your three a.m. spot on the campus radio

besides, you don’t really have a need for his magic: you’re never in enough trouble that dowoon’s woven charms don’t work, or wonpil doesn’t have some sort of stone for your problems

you avoid his magic successfully for two and a half years, but you don’t avoid him

he’s in your fundamentals of linguistics course your second semester, soft black hair falling in his face as he takes diligent notes

when you go to pick up dowoon’s charms at the start of fall sophomore year brian’s curled up untangling thread with nimble fingers, and he throws a soft little smile your way

you’re not sure what makes you proceed to drop your wallet and dowoon’s charm four times before you make it back out the door, but your friend is convinced it was brian’s smile and won’t accept any other answer

you shove their arm, tell them that they shouldn’t be projecting their own infatuation onto you

but it happens again near winter break, when you’re selecting a few pieces of onyx and rose quartz for your friends back home

brian’s wandering wonpil’s shop, inspecting the little baskets of crystals, and when you turn to head to wonpil’s register you nearly run into brian

startled, you start to take a step back, eyes wide, but he reaches out to stop you

it’s a good thing he does, or you’d have knocked over the table of crystals, and you really don’t have the money for that

his hands are warm on your shoulders, his dark eyes apologetic, and this close his chest is a whole lot broader than you’d thought from a distance

“sorry,” he says, and his voice is more musical than you’d remembered from linguistics. “i should have been more careful.”

this time you don’t lose your fine motor skills, but you do forget how to speak

he’s just. beautiful, this close up

so you stare at him and try to remember how to form words and after a moment he laughs gently, the sound honey-sweet

“i didn’t even have to cast seen and not heard to enchant you. interesting.”

is he flirting? you think maybe so. your friend thinks definitely so.

that really kind of terrifies you; it’s not that you don’t trust the day house witches, just that you were raised with tales of enchantments and love potions and falsities, and that kind of cautionary bedtime story is hard to forget

so you take to avoiding him as much as possible; you send your friend to get your hematite and carnelian recharged, and even as the warmth charm in dowoon’s scarf starts to fray you refuse to go get a replacement

if you could never set foot in day house again you’d be perfectly content

despite this you still think about him, about the silk in his voice when you go to karaoke night, about the way you always seem to find him in the library hunched over his textbooks at odd hours with coffee cups littering the table, about the way sometimes you daydream about holding his hand on the way to the coffee shop just off campus

you try to ignore these thoughts, try to ignore him, and bury yourself in your work for the rest of sophomore year

but the thing about junior year is that your classes are getting more serious, and as a creative writing major you’re expected to have new work for two different classes almost every week, and it’s draining

your carnelian is losing its charge quicker than ever, because this far into the semester you’re struggling to find creativity this constantly and on top of all your other work

it completely loses charge a day before a ten-page story is due for workshop and you’re stuck with a blinking cursor and a blank page

your roommate looks over when you slam your head onto your desk and understands immediately

“go to brian,” they say. “he’s got a spell for writer’s block, according to momo.”

if you weren’t so tired, so frustrated, so desperate you would never have considered it

but it only takes a few minutes’ persuasion for you to be lacing your boots and shoving your laptop into your bag and heading for the familiar little house

jae’s the one to open the door for you, feathers in his blond hair, and he grins

“please tell me you’re here for younghyun. he won’t shut up about you, not after the open mic last tuesday.”

you consider turning around and leaving—the poem you’d read at the open mic was much more personal than you’re usually comfortable sharing, and to think brian was so focused on it terrifies you a little

but then you think about how close you were to crying out of frustration, about the days of staring at that blank page and ticking cursor, and you nod at jae

“he’s upstairs,” jae says, “third door on the left.”

brian’s playing guitar when you find his room, sitting on his bed plucking at chords with his black hair falling over his face as he bends over the instrument

you freeze, in the doorway: you had no idea the room jae was sending you to was brian’s bedroom, since wonpil has the shop set up downstairs and sungjin works out of the kitchen. this is oddly intimate, and you almost turn tail and run

before you can brian looks up, his fingers stilling, and he smiles, and your resolve melts

he beckons you in to sit at his desk chair, and he sets the guitar aside to look seriously at you. “what are you here for?”

“writer’s block.” you run your hand through your hair with a sigh of frustration, and he smiles sympathetically

“writer’s block like you don’t have any ideas or writer’s block like you don’t know how to start putting them into words?”

there’s no magic in his voice, not yet, but there might as well be, with the enchanting lilt in every syllable. you could listen to his voice forever, you think

“the—um, the second one,” you say, fidgeting under his dark eyes, and again he nods

“my price is your words for a period of time.” it’s your turn to nod. “with this spell it’s usually a day, but i know you’ve got the radio show in a few hours and i wouldn’t want you to not be able to do your job.”

he pauses, considering, and you tug at your sleeves as you try to find a way around having your words taken away

“why...why do you take people’s words? like, what about them is the reason they’re your price, when you could be making money or something?”

“it’s how my magic works,” brian explains. “the more people use a certain phrase, the more power it’s imbued with, so i take people’s words to see if they can give me new spells.”

this fascinates you—your parents had never let you learn about magic, and as a result hearing the littlest bit about it is making you think of questions you never knew you had, and you want to learn everything about this

it’ll be good for stories, anyway, you think, good world-building and maybe an opportunity for new types of characters and stories

and you might have a way out of this, a way to pay brian fairly while keeping your words

“what about languages other than english?”

he pauses at this. “i have a few korean spells i got from my mom, but i hadn't thought about other languages. which one were you thinking?”

you’ve taken spanish courses for a few years, and you speak it with your roommate and their friend, enough to be reasonably conversational, and when you explain this to brian he nods and you spend another five minutes hashing out a schedule for you to come over and teach him

finally the business has been arranged and you set up your laptop at the little table he keeps in his room for this purpose, and he sets a mug of coffee and a bagel next to your things

“odds are you’ll be writing for a while, and the spell makes it hard to take breaks. if you need anything else let me know and i’ll grab it for you.”

his eyes are soft obsidian, and despite your overall hesitation about magic you wonder if there isn’t some sort of enchantment that’s making your heart beat like this

but a second later he sets his hand on your shoulder and murmurs “use your words”

it’s like a dam bursts: suddenly your fingers are flying over the keys, your mind racing sentences ahead faster than your hands can manage, and the story you’ve had rattling around in your head is taking shape on the formerly blank page

when you resurface a few hours later, a completed draft sitting in front of you, brian smiles as you take a bite of the bagel

“got something finished?” you nod, and return the smile

“it’ll need editing, but i got the draft done for workshop, and that’s what’s important.”

a glance at the clock says you barely have enough time to rush to the dorm basement the radio uses as its studio, so you gather up your things and down the last of the coffee and clamp the bagel between your teeth as you tie your boots

you’ve got one foot out the door when he calls your name and you turn, a question in your eyes since there’s bread in your mouth

“call me younghyun,” he says. “younghyun’s for friends.”

is that what you are now? you debate this with yourself for a week; you’ve only gone to him for one spell, though the first of your spanish sessions goes well

he’s got plans for de nada and de tal palo tal astilla freaked you out a little bit when he used it to perfectly replicate the origami rose you got from a girl in one of your workshops last semester

you think if you aren’t friends yet you’d like to be, now that you’re losing your fear of his magic

on the nights you lie awake staring at the fairy lights strung above your bed thinking of obsidian eyes and nimble fingers and lilting words you let yourself admit maybe you want to be more than friends

it takes another two weeks for anything to happen

it’s the last of your spanish sessions, the last of your payment for the spell, the last of your excuses to spend time with brian

he seems nervous the whole time, too distracted to remember en boca cerrada no entran moscas and as a result he has yet to make the silencing charm work

no matter how much you coach him through the syllables slowly, his attention is elsewhere

to be fair, yours is as well: trying to figure out where his mispronunciations are is giving you an excuse to stare at his lips, and regardless of whether he works magic into his words his voice is ridiculously easy to lose yourself in

before you know it the time is over, and you sigh and remind him of the list of phrases you’ve given him so he can strengthen the spells without your help, and he hesitates with his backpack slung over one shoulder but can’t seem to bring himself to say anything

as you study his now-familiar features you give in, and this time you’re the one to stop him halfway out the door

“one more phrase,” you say, and he turns and you square your shoulders

“tú me gustas.” i like you.

he’s like a deer in headlights, eyes wide, but he recovers fairly quickly and crosses back to you

“i thought you weren’t a witch,” he says, a smile playing on his lips

“i’m not,”you say, though your voice barely makes it above a whisper; his hair is flopping into his eyes and all of your restraint is going into keeping your fingers out of the dark curls

“then how can one sentence be so enchanting?”

he grins when this time you’re the one to get flustered, and he reaches out and takes your hand and your words get stuck in your throat

“what kind of word witch am i if i can’t find the words to confess to the person i like?” he says, then shrugs. “since you confessed first, can dinner be my treat?”

the first time younghyun kisses you he meets you just offstage when you finish a reading of one of your short stories in the little student-run coffee shop: your papers are still clutched in the hands you throw around his neck, and there’s a smile on his lips as they press against yours, and the moment weaves an enchantment you know has nothing to do with younghyun’s magic and everything to do with younghyun and the way the two of you fit against each other like a perfectly-crafted metaphor

dating younghyun is coffee shop dates to people-watch and pick out threads of language, is borrowing his hoodies even when it gets too warm for them, is laughter and falling in love with the way he scrunches his nose when he’s acting cute, is resting your head on his shoulder at a poetry reading and pressing kisses to his jaw between poems

dating younghyun is him waiting outside the studio at 3 a.m. with hot chocolate and that assignment you needed to print, is running your fingers through his hair until he relaxes enough to sleep after getting anxious about a test, is teaching each other the languages you speak and rewarding each other with kisses when you remember vocab, is closing his laptop and pulling him to bed when he refuses to stop working, is coffee and ink-stained hands and switching languages mid-sentence

more than anything dating younghyun is like a story, a draft that gets better the more you pour time and effort and love into it, is the magic of surprising turns of phrase, is a collaboration you couldn’t ask for a better co-author for, and you know for a fact this is going to be your magnum opus.

[aspiratinganxiety]

Birthentine’s Day

@rock-x-kpop-fangirl:

Hey 💜🖤, first of all, I hope you are having a good day/night :) Secondly, could I please make a request for a fic/imagine with Jason Todd where the reader (his ‘partner’ in vigilantism and life 😂) dislikes Valentine’s Day because it’s also her birthday and she’s always found that awkward. Plus she claims to hate all the cliche lovey things because she tries to be dark but in reality has a soft spot for some things? I am so sorry if this is weirdly explained, I wasn’t really sure how to put it into words 😂😬 Thanks anyway 💜🖤❤️

 I got this fic done the night before so that I could be sure to get it up for you this Valentine’s!!! Have a good one, babe. I hope that this fic makes you feel the love.

Tag List:  @possiblyelven, @thepuckishrogue, @jinkies-its-a-writer, @queeniepearls (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)

“I don’t like this,” you mumble again, squeezing your eyes shut too tightly in an effort to ignore the sticky sensation of Jason’s sweaty palms on your face.

He chuffs behind you, eager like a schoolboy and unperturbed by your repetitive negative comments. “You said the same thing last year, and we had a great time.”

“No,” you correct him. “You had a great time. I had an allergic reaction to the dehydrated strawberry powder that some asshole decided to sneak into hot cocoa mix.”

“Oh, right. I forgot that happened.”

“Yup, the same way you forgot that I was allergic to strawberries.”

Jason shrugs in response to your petulance. He directs you out of the elevator and down the familiar hall of your apartment complex with his hands still covering your eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he says. “You get some itchy hives; it’s not like your throat closes up or anything. Also, I will remind you for the millionth time that I didn’t know the hot cocoa was actually chocolate-covered-strawberry cocoa. It wasn’t written anywhere on the packaging. I picked that basket for the flowers, not the other junk that came with them.”

You scoff, unsoothed. Not being one for overt gestures of affection, the contrariety of falling for someone like Jay isn’t lost on you. Jason Peter Todd remains the sappiest grown man you’ve ever met, even after years of being brutally teased by both Roy and yourself. Managing to tread water as the sole target of all his intense romantic focus is a wonder. That your sweet boyfriend never lets your mopey cynicism thwart his elaborate conglomeration of birthday and Valentine’s plans is nothing short of an incomprehensible act of God.

Back before you were dating he’d bypass all of the lovey-dovey pink shit and make sure February 14th was about nothing more than you racking up another year. It was nice to have a buddy willing to ditch girlfriends and ignore the pleas of other single friends not wanting to slog through an awkward evening of mockery and embarrassment alone. The memories of those previous birthdays are treasured far above any of the attempts Jason’s made to mix the two celebrations thus far.  

You genuinely appreciate Jason’s dedication to making your birthday special without overlooking the couples’ holiday of the year. However, you just aren’t in the mood to welcome any of his efforts this evening. The best shots he gets at sweeping you off your feet fall on anniversaries or during unexpected moments of spontaneity, not in observance of poorly-timed cesareans and crappy Hallmark holidays. Jason knows these to be your preferences, even if he doesn’t know your food allergies.

Your sense of dread deepens as the door to your apartment gets unlocked. Jason pushes you into the warm interior, and you half expect a repeat of the surprise birthday party he’d thrown for you almost five years before. When no one vaults from behind your furniture shouting, you take in the smells around you. No baking smell or tacos. Homemade dinner of champions had been a part of your birthday requests last year.

Upon reflection, last year was a pretty great time. Strawberry debacle aside. Not that you’re willing to admit that to your boyfriend until he recognizes the danger of feeding you anything to do with those dastardly little fruits that are so popular this time of year.

Your jitters get the better of you, and you stop trying to guess. “Jason, lemme’ see.”

“You sure?” he teases, setting his chin on your head and weaseling up close behind you.

An impatient huff escapes your throat as you go about tugging his hands off of your face. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, having been covered for quite some time. The scene that greets you melts your heart along with your reservations about celebrating Valentine’s Day. Your couch is covered in a brand new plush throw blanket. Though it is pink, it looks soft enough to be worth the eyesore. Snacks are piled on the coffee table, a wide selection of everything from luxury chocolates to your favorite flavor of potato chip. The TV is paused over the opening titles of the Netflix original you’ve been trying to make Jason binge with you for nearly six months.

You are so touched trying to take it all in that you almost miss what Jason’s saying: “-so I figured, why not both? You told me that time we watched a ton of stupid 90s movies and ate garbage was your favorite birthday.”

“All of the snacks and colors are from Valentine’s day,” you observe, tilting your head back into Jason’s chest.

“Well, accept your cake. And the chips and popcorn. And those nasty frozen pizza things you like.”

“You got me the bagel pizzas?” Your eyes practically have stars in them at this point. This revelation, by far, is the most heartwarming part of the night. Jason loathes the quick frozen foods you’d been living off of before the two of you moved in together and he took initiative in the kitchen.  

Jason grumbles, pretending to be put upon where he’s victorious. “Yeah, I got you your damn gross bagel pizzas.”

“And you baked them in the oven?”

He speaks as though resigned to the childish back and forth, but he loves it. You know he does. “And I baked them in the oven.”

You swoon theatrically while Jason pouts in a good-natured fashion. He catches your weight easily, scooping you up and plopping you on the couch on top of a mountain of heart-related plush items and a bag of those chalky heart candies with corny sayings that nobody likes, but everyone remembers eating.  

You beam at him and snuggle close when he settles in beside you.

This is perfect. Low-key, just the two of you at home, good-bad food, and an awesome show.

How could you have ever doubted him? Jason Peter Todd is a genius, and he’s the best boyfriend with whom you could spend Birthentine’s Day.

[let-it-raines]

Single Riders Won’t Stay Single (3/4)

Ah, so here we go again on our third trip. We must really like this ride! This third part is for every person who commented, reblogged, or messaged me that they absolutely had to see what happened when these two got back to Boston! You guys are all enablers, and it’s wonderful!

My brain most definitely wouldn’t let me write anything else until I finished this!

The prompt for the original story can be found | here |

Part one on Tumblr can be found | here | and part two | here |

All three parts together can be found on ao3 | here |

Rating: Mature

Tag list: @resident-of-storybrooke @profdanglaisstuff @wellhellotragic @onceuponaprincessworld @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @ekr032-blog-blog @winterbaby89 @nikkiemms @lifeinahole27 @mayquita @bmbbcs4evr @snidgetsafan @celestial-fire-writer @laschatzi

I hope you guys enjoy!!

When Emma wakes up in the morning it’s to her phone ringing, the shrill sound of the ringtone making her want to toss it across the room. It’s that thought that has her really waking up and realizing exactly what room she’s in, and oh wow she really did sleep with the guy…no with Killian, and she really did stay with him throughout the night. Two years ago, a one night stand couldn’t even get her to stay while he was throwing away the condom, but she stayed the entire night. Hell, she wasn’t even the slightest bit drunk when it happened, the alcohol from dinner having completely worn off. She didn’t do it to scratch an itch. She did it because she wanted to, because she likes him, and that might scare her more than anything.

 She doesn’t think anyone is equipped to ride her emotional rollercoaster.

 She’s got to stop with the puns. She’s really going off the tracks…nope, her mind has to stop. This is insane. Has she completely lost it? Is there a history of people losing their minds and suddenly only speaking in puns?

“Swan,” Killian moans against the back of her neck, the feeling of his breath on her skin sending a shiver through her that has her aching for a repeat of earlier, “answer the damn phone.”

 She swipes across her screen before the tone ends, only to hear Mary Margaret’s frantic voice on the other end. “Emma, where the hell are you? Are you okay? Are you dead? Oh David, she could be dead!”

 “Marg,” Emma protests as Killian begins to rub his chin on her shoulder, the scruff growing there a wonderful sensation even if she was about ready to bolt on him a minute before. He’s working his lips against the skin at the concave of her shoulder and her neck, and damn that feels good. Meanwhile Mary Margaret’s still talking on the other line, worrying over if they need to call the police to report a missing person.

 “Mary Margaret Blanchard.”

 “Yes?”

 “I’m fine. Calm down, and under no circumstances are you to call the police.”

 “Well, where the hell are you? You didn’t come back to the hotel.”

 “And you’re just now noticing this at,” she pulls her phone back to check the time as Killian’s hand makes its way down her side to cup her inner thigh and that’s not distracting at all, “six in the morning?”

 “We fell asleep early!”

 Killian’s still trailing kisses over her shoulder and up the side of her neck, and she cannot help but backing up into him, his hard length nestled against her ass. He groans at the contact, and she wants to groan as well but she’s on the phone with her friends who are suddenly very concerned about where she is. She should have texted them. She can’t believe that she didn’t. That was crazy stupid on her part, but Killian is crazy hot and she’s obviously lost her mind.

 “I’m perfectly safe, Marg.”

 “Where are you, though?”

 “You know that guy I met yesterday?”

 “Emma,” she chastises, “you did not.”

 “You most definitely did,” Killian whispers in her ear before biting down on her lobe. She can’t take him doing things like that anymore, so she scoots away from him and off the bed, making sure to drag the comforter with her because damn it’s cold in this room and she never got redressed after their second go round. She takes a little bit of pride at the pout on Killian’s face.

 “I did,” she tells Mary Margaret as she leans against the window.

 “Why would you do that?”

 “I like him?” Emma squeaks only to have Killian’s eyebrow pop up and for the pout to transform into a smirk. He’s stupid attractive like this, hair all over the place from sleep and from her hands running through it, and his eyes are so, so blue in the early morning light. She’s not sure if she loves it or hates it.

 She loves it…no, likes it. That’s a much more normal thought to be having.

 “So you slept with him?”

 “You slept with David on the second date, so it’s a little bit like the pot calling the kettle black here.”

 Killian’s staring at her now with this look like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, and that’s no less distracting than when he was running his tongue behind her ear.

 “It’s different.”

 “Marg, your judgmental is showing.”

 “I know, I know. I’m sorry. You know our flight is this afternoon, though, right? You’re not about to run off and get married, are you?”

 She watches as Killian gets out of bed and slips into a pair of boxer briefs, and pity that.

 “Yeah, not until four. I’m right across the street from you guys. I promise I will be there before we leave for the airport, okay? And I’m definitely not doing that last thing you mentioned.”

 “Oh is he listening?”

 “Yes. I’m going to let you go, Marg.”

 “Just be safe, in more ways than one.”

 “Goodbye, Mary Margaret,” Emma sing songs, hanging up the phone before David manages to get to the line because she imagines he’ll probably want to go full detective on Killian.  

 “So you told your friends about me. I must be something special.”

 “Shut up.”

 “I believe you said you liked me, love,” Killian teases as he makes his way over to her, his lips upturned on one side while he places his hands on her hips through the comforter. It’s not a very thick comforter.

 “Did I? I don’t recall.”

 His lips are inches from hers, and she can’t look away from his eyes. They’re so blue contrasted against the black of his eyelashes, and maybe she should send somebody one of those gift baskets Killian was talking about.

 He raises his eyebrow, as if he’s asking for permission to kiss her, and she nods her head, her nose brushing against his before he lightly touches his lips against hers before pulling back far too soon.

 He’s a damn good kisser. He does this thing with his tongue, and she’s getting off track again.

 That one wasn’t a rollercoaster joke. Just unfortunate timing for that phrase. So point to Emma.

 “I like you, Swan.”

 She likes him.

 “Yeah?”

 “Yeah,” he confirms, backing away from her to slip on a pair of sweatpants, and she wants to whine at the lack of Killian without pants. Just briefs was okay, but this is unacceptable. “Get dressed, love.”

 “Why? You don’t want to go another round? Another ride so to speak.”

 Oh God, now she’s saying the puns out loud. That point she just got should definitely be taken away.

 “I do,” he chuckles, “but I feel like we may need to slow things down, and we’re running on about three hours of sleep. I need some damn coffee.”

 “Damn coffee sounds good.”

 His hotel serves breakfast, but all she really wants is the damn coffee. So while Killian loads up a plate with things like eggs and fruit and not a semblance of an unhealthy item, she gets them the two tallest cups of coffee available. She doesn’t know how he takes his, so she leaves his black while loading hers up with cream and sugar. The caffeine content of coffee is great, the taste of it by itself is not. That’s why she’s so shocked when Killian simply picks up his cup and gulps the hot liquid down, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

 Why is that hot? She means Killian, not the coffee. But also the coffee.

 “I’m a simple man, Swan. I like my coffee black and my women blonde.”

 She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, so she blocks her face with her cup as she drinks it to try to keep the weirdness of the morning and his flirtations at bay. Emma Swan does not do this. She doesn’t do the morning after breakfast and the flirting and the not running away as quickly as possible. Yet, here she is watching this guy that she really does like who lives in her city and doesn’t seem to be a creep or a jackass piling scrambled eggs into his mouth like he worked up some kind of appetite last night.

 Well, he kind of did.

 She did that to him, so another point to Emma. Why the hell is she doing this point thing?

 They don’t really talk much during the breakfast, and eventually Emma does cave on the food thing and decides to get herself one of the bagels, even if she knows it’s going to be stale. But it keeps her occupied so that she doesn’t combust from nerves.

 “So you’re leaving today?” Killian asks when they’ve both finished their meals and are each on their third cup of coffee. They probably should have gone back to sleep instead of getting hyped up on caffeine.

 “Yeah.”

 He scratches behind his ear and tilts his head to study her for a moment. “Not to be forward, Emma, but I’d like to see you again…when we get home.”

 She tugs her lips between her teeth and shit, she knew this was going to happen. She wanted this to happen, but old demons are flaring up and she wants them to go die.

 “Killian,” she sighs before running her hand through her hair, “I know that I seemed like this super carefree woman here, but I’ve got ghosts and scars and I have a hard time dating. And I really do like you, but I feel like I’m just going to disappoint you if you get to know me.”

 “I’d at least like the chance.”

 Is it possible for a man to look hopeful and heartbroken all at the same time?

 “It’s not going to work out.”

 “Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”

 She contemplates him for a moment, but her gut is doing the opposite of what she wants it to do and telling her to trust him. She’s officially lost it. This was just supposed to be a fun vacation. This wasn’t supposed to happen…but it did. She might as well go along for the ride.

 “If I give you my number, maybe we can try to go to lunch or dinner when we’re both home. I’m not promising another night of,” she motions between the two of them, “this. My schedule can be hectic, and I don’t know if the pizza at home can compare to the cardboard we ate last night.”

 He laughs and reaches over the table to grab her hand, twining their fingers together. “Aye, I think I’ll manage to deal with that.”

 He kisses her before she leaves, backing her up against the door of his room with his hand rooted in her hair as he devours her and rolls his hips against hers in a move that has her absolutely aching not to leave him.

 “That’s not fair,” she whines. She actually whines. “You know I have to go.”

 “Aye,” he nods, pecking her lips before kissing her forehead, lingering a little longer than normal, “I just think you deserve a proper goodbye. I don’t think my day with Liam and Belle will be quite the same without you. Rides,” he rolls his hips into hers again, “just aren’t the same.”

 It makes her feel better that he makes the corny jokes as well.

 “You’re incorrigible.”

 “You like me, Swan.”

 When Emma goes back to her hotel, her lips swollen and her hair more wild than when she’d gotten ready for the day, to pack up before her flight and to prove she’s alive to David and Mary Margaret, her phone goes off before she’s even inside the room.

 Unknown Number: My favorite ride this week was the Swan. Bloody thrilling.

 She’s got a stupid grin on her face despite the rational (or maybe irrational) part of her still being unsure of this whole thing. Killian’s done not a thing wrong, but men of the past are always echoing in her head to keep her from being as open to things as she was yesterday and this morning.

 Emma: I hear it’s a real thrill ride.

 Killian: Had my heart pumping and body shaking in more ways than one.

 She can’t help but smile as she continues to text Killian until her flight takes off, Mary Margaret peering over her shoulder every chance she gets until Emma breaks down and tells her all about her day yesterday and this morning. Mary Margaret practically squeals at some parts despite her earlier reluctance, and David complains about not wanting to know everything.

 Her week goes on as normal. She’s got another case about a suspected cheating wife, and as much as she hates taking these, she gets a sense of personal satisfaction every time she actually does catch a scumbag cheating. It’s petty and actually pretty fucked up, but she’s not the one cheating. She’s not the one being cheated on either, but the fact that’s how both of her serious relationships have ended makes her feel that way every time she takes a case. But this is how she pays the bills, so she spends her week compiling information on Mrs. Lauren before staking her out to see if Mr. Lauren’s suspicions about his wife are correct.

 It’s as she’s sitting in the corner of a restaurant watching Mrs. Lauren kiss a man who is most definitely not her husband that her phone goes off.

 Killian: I see that not only do you wait in the single rider line, but that you also like to dine alone.

 She immediately whips around, trying to look for him because either he’s in the restaurant or he’s this weird psychic, and she’s really thinking it’s not the second one. Those were not services he offered last week.

 Killian: As the cupid shuffle says, to your left.

 When she turns to her left it’s to Killian Jones in a suit with his jacket hanging over the back of his chair. She’s seen him naked, and she’s never been more attracted to him. He’s smiling from ear to ear, and she really loves the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. She knows it’s because he’s a bit older than her, but she likes to think it’s because they’re smile lines from years of happiness.

 “Hi,” she squeaks, waving over to him at his table like the most awkward person in the world.

 He leans over to tell the two men he’s sitting across from something before getting up to walk over to her, leaning down to kiss her cheek in greeting, and wow he smells good (looks good too, but she’s already thought that) when all cleaned up.

 “Hello, love. Care for some company for a moment?”

 She nods to the empty seat across from her. “Go ahead.”

 “So I have to ask,” he begins, ticking his finger at his chin. “You look lovely, and yet you’re sitting here all alone. Are you meeting someone?”

 She can tell he’s schooling his features to seem emotionless, but he’s definitely a tiny bit jealous.

 “No, most definitely not.”

 He raises his eyebrow at her, and that must be his thing.

 “I’m working,” she explains. “What are you doing here? I didn’t even know you were back in Boston.”

 “Those are two of my department heads,” he nods quickly to them, but his eye contact with her never wavers. “They like to go out to eat before the fall semester starts just to chat about our plans of how we’re going to torture the young men and women of Harvard for the next few months.”

 “Wow, you sound like a fun professor.”

 “I’m the only person under the age of fifty who works there, so I like to think I’m the most entertaining professor around. My classes are always full.”

 “That’s because you’re hot.”

 The words just slip out of her mouth, and she claps her hands over her lips to keep anything else from slipping out. She’s mortified, and Killian is laughing at her, his eyes bright as amusement flitters through them

 “Don’t I know it? Though I do prefer the term dashing.”

 She can’t help but giggle, and did she really just fucking giggle?

 “Don’t let me keep you from your work. I don’t want to be the cause of you being unprofessional.”

 “Please, love. I’m enjoying our third date.”

 “Third? Did I miss the first two?”

 “First was the day we met. Second was the breakfast the next day.”

 “I don’t think either of those count as dates.”

 “No, probably not. But I’d like a real one.” He smiles at her, and everything from a week ago flashes through her mind. It wouldn’t be bad going on a real date with him, right? It would be nice, she thinks. “Will you go out with me, Emma? For real?”

 She shocks herself because she doesn’t even hesitate before saying yes.

 She doesn’t shock herself when she’s absolutely flipping out about her date a week later when Killian is on his way to pick her up.

 “Emma, calm down,” David sighs. She still lives with Mary Margaret, which means she still lives with David, and the two of them are sitting in the living room like two statues while she paces back and forth. “You’ve literally slept with the guy. How are you nervous?”

“Probably because I slept with the guy and now I’m going on a date with him.”

 “I mean, it usually goes in the opposite order, but I think you’re going to be fine, Em. You like him, right?”

 She nods. She does.

 “Then just go and have a good time. You deserve to be happy.”

 “Thank you, David.”

 It’s then that there’s a knock on the door, and she’s practically sprinting over to the door, pulling up her shorts and making sure her blouse is tucked in just the right amount before opening the door. It’s there that she finds Killian Jones in a pair of black skinny jeans and a gray t-shirt, and she feels like she’s on a rollercoaster all over again.

 Her heart is beating fast enough for it.

 She’s got to stop with the rollercoaster comparisons. She thought she was done with those.

 “Hi,” she greets as she waves at him, and she’s really got to get better at greeting him.

 “Hello, beautiful,” he says as he leans down to peck her cheek. See? She should be able to greet him like that. “Are you ready to – ”

 “David Nolan,” David introduces himself, sticking his hand over Emma’s shoulder, “and this is my fiancé – ”

 “Mary Margaret,” she interrupts pushing David and Emma over so that she can greet Killian. “You’re right, Ems. He is cute.”

 Emma wants to die right then and there.

 “Okay, we are leaving. I will see you guys later. Please don’t wait up.”

 Killian guides her out of the apartment, the heat of the August sun nothing compared to the heat of his hand on the small of her back through the linen of her shirt. He’s started lecturing again since she last saw him, so he’s telling her stories of how the first week of classes went. She’s never been to college, so she takes it all in, trying not to feel like some kind of failure compared to him. She’s not a failure. She’s worked hard to overcome being a foster kid with no future to a basically fully functioning member of society. She’s not going to feel bad about herself. Killian isn’t making her feel bad about herself. In fact, he seems to be fascinated by what she does, always asking questions, so she’s going to try to stuff the feelings of inferiority down.

 She has no clue where they’re going. He just told her to dress casually, and now she’s completely following his lead. She’s not used to that, but she likes it.

 They end up eating at Saltie Girl, and she’s never been one to get seafood at restaurants, but what the hell? She might as well go for it. That’s kind of her attitude  for the rest of the afternoon as Killian takes her on a guided tour around Boston like she hasn’t lived there her entire life. But she quite likes her British tour guide, so if he wants to tell her the history behind every cobblestone, she’ll gladly let him. He obviously loves history and academia, and he’s continuously surprising her because a man who has a doctorate in English should not be nearly as fun and as entertaining as he is. Because he is fun and entertaining, and she finds herself laughing just as much as she did on the first day that they met.

 So good. That wasn’t just a one time thing.

 Somehow they end up on Harvard’s campus, and if Killian was a nerd walking the streets of Boston, it’s nothing compared to how he is walking around the place where he apparently spends more time than his own home. They run into a few of his students, and he’s as good with them as he is with her. How is this guy even real?

 By the end of the date, she’s absolutely aching for him to kiss her again, and when he does, just outside her apartment door, she sighs into it, the feeling of his lips against hers again a welcome one. She tries to flick her tongue against his bottom lip when she wraps her arms around his neck, but he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers as she breathes him in.

 “Emma.”

 “What?”

 “Let me court you.”

 “Court me?”

 “Yeah, take you on more dates. Get to know you better. And then maybe we can return to what we did on the night we met.”

 “Why?”

 “Because I like you, Emma Swan, and I’d like to date you.”

 So Killian Jones keeps dating Emma Swan, and Killian truly does know how to court a woman. He texts her in the mornings to wish her a good day every damn day, and he calls her on the nights where she isn’t working and when they aren’t together. But they’re together more often than not, and after awhile Emma finally gets to go to his apartment and it’s like everything she ever imaged it to be.

 It’s near the harbor, so he has a view of the ocean from his living room window, the curtains always open to allow the light in. He’s got an entire wall covered by mahogany bookcases filled with books of all sorts, philosophical to historical to fantasy. There’s pictures of he and his brother everywhere, ranging from when they were young to Liam’s wedding, and one day a picture of Killian and Emma from the day that they met pops up on a frame in his coffee table.

 There’s a matching one in his office.

 “You’re sweet,” she tells him, bumping his shoulder as they watch a movie.

 “I’ve got a beautiful lass who likes to spend time with me. Why wouldn’t I want a picture of her in my home?”

 Most of their dates are like that, just the two of them lounging at one of their apartments while they watch television, sometimes even getting exciting enough for the two of them to sit on their laptops doing their respective jobs. But Killian knows how to show a girl a good time, and when they get the chance, he takes her out to have that good time only for them to stumble home and fall into bed laughing at each other as clothes are shed and skin is bared.

 But Emma knows how to show Killian a good time as well, and when October comes around, she books them a hotel in Salem despite the short distance from Boston so they can go on one of the Salem witch tours. It’s kitschy and it’s touristy, but sometimes those are the most entertaining things to do.

 They did meet at a tourist trap, after all.

 He picks her up at her apartment and Killian Jones, master of sweaters and button downs is standing in front of her with a black tee shirt covered by an unbuttoned plaid shirt with black jeans and boots. If that wasn’t enough, his beard has grown out the right amount to be full, and he’s got a beanie on his head. Damn, he looks good, and damn she likes her boyfriend.

 Something melts inside of her when he smiles at her like he is right now, his dimples showing and his eyes squinting in elation.

 “You ready to go, love?”

 “Absolutely.”

 Killian doesn’t know that she booked them the Haunted Pirate Tour in honor of when he told her that he wanted to be a pirate as a kid on that first day. He was there when she finally got to check a dream off of her to-do list, so it’s the least that she can do to give him the smallest of tastes of his childhood dream.

 “Bloody hell, Swan,” he grins when they get to the tour group only to see that half of the guests are dressed similarly to Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean…they most definitely do not look like Captain Jack Sparrow. She’s still walking ahead of Killian`, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her back to him so that her arms are around his neck as she looks up at him. “What are we doing?”

 “A haunted pirate tour,” she tells him as her hands card through the hair at the nape of his neck that sticks out from underneath his beanie. He needs a haircut, but she kind of likes it like this. “I wanted to do something so you could live out a bit of your childhood dream with an October twist.”

 He kisses the crown of her head before pulling back and looking her in the eyes, and she’ll never be able to get over how blue his are. “You are brilliant, my little pizza prostitute.”

 “Hey,” she protests, slapping his chest. “We said that I was not a pizza prostitute.”

 “Aye, but I was thinking about getting us some pizza later and then enjoying a little pirate booty.”

 “You’re gross.”

 “You’re beautiful.”

 She can feel the blush rise on her cheeks, but Killian doesn’t pay any attention to it, simply grabbing her hand and holding on tight throughout the rest of the tour. The entire thing is incredibly cheesy, but she and Killian, being who they are, trade pirate puns throughout the whole thing, only to get killer stares from the others touring who were afraid to really get into it.

 “You want to shiver me timbers later, darling?”

 “I don’t pillage and plunder with guys I barely know.”

 He raises his eyebrow at her as he gives her a full grin before bringing their joined hands up so that he can kiss her knuckles. Her timbers don’t shiver, but her spine does.

 “You and I both know that’s not true. And you most definitely know me.”

 “Aye,” she responds in her best attempt at his accent with her free hand twisted up to look like a hook.

 When the tour is over, the two of them are happily buzzed with the rum served (it was a pirate tour, what else would one expect?), and before getting back to their hotel, Killian finds them a pizza place, as promised.

 He’s always keeping his promises.

 The last time they were in a hotel together, they were new to each other, and despite their easy back and forth, a nervous energy buzzed through the air. Tonight, though, there’s no nervous energy. She and Killian walk into their room, and there’s no awkward energy between the two of them. It’s comfortable and it’s natural, and Emma wonders how she’s finally found this kind of luck in her life.

 “Thank you for today, darling,” Killian whispers against her stomach as he helps her lift her sweater over her head.

 “Thank you for not thinking it was weird.” She lifts her hips so that he can slide her leggings down, kicking at them when they get to her ankles only for them not to fly off like she wants them to. Damn spanx leggings.

 “Weird?” he laughs as he helps get the leggings off her ankles before shucking his own shirts and bracing himself on his forearms so that he’s hovering above her. “Swan, every part of our relationship is weird, and it’s the best relationship I’ve ever been a part of.”

 “Your grammar is a little off there, Dr. Jones. Ending a sentence with a preposition.”

 He’s kissing at her jaw, nibbling a bit before soothing the sting. She loves when he does this, when he takes care of her, worships her really, with his lips and his tongue and his touch. She thinks she might love him, but she sure as hell isn’t ready to tell him that, even when he kisses that spot behind her ear.

 “I’m distracted by my very naked girlfriend.”

 “Hmm,” she hums while running her hands over the muscles of his back, feeling the warmth of his skin under her fingertips. “Don’t you tell your students that there are no excuses?”

 “If they had you,” he ruts his hips into her and she whimpers at how good that feels, even through the material of his jeans, “naked and writhing underneath them, I think I’d give them a free pass.”

 She runs her lips against his bicep while his hands lightly trail down her sides and he works magic with his fingers.

 “I’ll have to tell them that I’m their girl if they ever need help.”

 He growls before pinching her side before capturing her lips with his, slow and sweet, maybe a little demanding when their tongues mix together, and everything she’s come to crave from him.

 “You’re my girl.”

 “Yeah?”

 “Absolutely.”

 They take it slow the night, the pace never hurried, and when he finally slides into her, he takes his time, just a gradual push and pull as he rocks into her.

 “You’re so beautiful, Emma,” he whispers against her neck, and he’s about to hit that spot if he moves a little to the…ah, the left. “I count my lucky stars that I met you.” She’s about to see stars. “You make me happy in a way that I haven’t been in a long time.”

 It’s so different when he’s like this, soft and slow, no dirty talk or harsh panting as he ruts into her. It’s sweet, and she likes it this way as much as she likes when they’re demanding with each other. That first night, that first time, was wonderful, but this is something else entirely.

 Something better.

  He’s in love with her, and she’s not talking to him right now.

 He knew she was skittish despite their quick beginning. Maybe a little because of their quick beginning, but two and a half months into actually dating while they were indulging in spiced rum for her twenty-ninth birthday, she spilled to him the stories of Neal and Walsh and how they betrayed her. He wanted to yell at those men for ever treating her the way they did, but instead he shared his own sob story of betrayal and trust issues and having his own heart broken. He thought that maybe she’d understand that he wasn’t just telling her because she was telling him, but that he was telling her because he trusted her, wanted her to know that he understands and that he’d never betray her the way they’d both been betrayed.

 Because he loves her, even if she’s not ready to hear it just yet.

 But then the next morning when he woke up and reached over to Emma’s side of the bed, she wasn’t there, the sheets cool to the touch. He called her, and she didn’t answer. He texted, and she didn’t answer. He went to her door, and she didn’t answer. She never answered, and he never could figure out what he’d done wrong because he was so sure that it was something he had done.

 He’d finished off the bottle of rum that afternoon, and he’d called Liam to keep him from doing something stupid. He’s closer to forty than he is to thirty, and he still has to call his brother for help.

 “So what happened?” Liam questions, popping open a beer while Killian nurses a water, their feet propped up on his coffee table.

 “I think we got too emotional, and she ran.”

 “Just like that?”

 “Just like that.”

 “Why?”

 “Without betraying her trust, she’s got walls.” He really wants more rum or maybe even that beer Liam’s drinking. Mostly he just wants Emma. “She’s been betrayed, just like me, and I have a feeling that she doesn’t share about it too much. That she believes sharing it with me gave me some kind of warped power over her.”

 “Things have been going so well between the two of you, though.”

 Killian sighs and runs his hands through his hair, not really sure what to say. “I love her, you know?”

 “I know, Killian. But just so you know, a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

 “I want her, but I don’t know if she wants me anymore.”

 “Give her time, little brother.”

 “Younger brother.”

 So now he finds himself sitting in his office at the university grading papers, trying not to let his emotions alter how he feels about his students’ papers, but he can’t help his sour mood over not having spoken to his girlfriend for two weeks besides her letting him know that she was safe after working on a case that could have potentially been dangerous. He didn’t want to ask – he did want to ask – but he needed to know.

 There’s a knock on the door, barely noticeable, and when he looks up it’s to Emma standing there with a sheepish smile on her face and her bottom lip between her teeth. Despite himself, he’s thrilled to see her. He also feels like he could hurl in his rubbish bin.

 “Hi,” she greets, not daring to take a step through the threshold. He’s not sure if he wants her to or not. Who is he kidding? Of course he wants her to.

 “What are you doing here?”

 “Can we talk?”

 He’s still torn between yelling and begging her to come in, to come back.

 “Aye.”

 She finally comes inside his office, shutting the door behind her before sitting down in the chair across from his desk, fiddling with her hands as she shuffles her feet against the hardwood. She’s got to be about as nervous as he is, only she had time to work herself up before coming here. He’s just trying to catch up.

 “Emma, I – ”

 “I’m sorry,” she blurts out, looking up at him so that he can see the glassiness of her eyes. He’s missed those eyes. “I freaked out, and I fucked up.”

 “Swan.”

 “Please let me finish.” He nods his head. “I fucked up, Killian. I care about you so damn much, and we’ve basically been having this absolute blast for three months, the last few weeks notwithstanding. And then things got serious, and I freaked out. I haven’t let myself feel something for a long time, and then you come in out of literally nowhere, and suddenly I remember what it’s like to be in a good relationship. But all of my so-called good relationships have only ever ended badly.”

 “Unless you get married or become life long partners, and sometimes even then, relationships are going to end.”

 “That doesn’t exactly instill a lot of confidence.”

 “I’m not trying to, Emma. I’m nearly thirty-six years old. I’ve lived a lot of life and had my heart broken many a time. It’s not easy, what you and I are trying to do, what I hope you and I are still trying to do, but if you find the right person, it’s worth it.”

 “How do I know though? How do you know?”

 “When you love someone you know.”

 “Killian – ”

 He puts his hands in the air, and he’s glad he’s managed to stay so composed throughout this. His emotions are warring in his head, but all he really wants is Emma. He wants to fight for her and to deserve her. And for her to do the same with him.

 “Sweetheart, I’m not saying those three words right now because I don’t want the first time I say them to you for you to be unsure of us. I want you to be ready, and you not speaking to me for two weeks is not you being ready.”

 “How can you not be pissed at me? I basically ghosted you and not even the pirate ghost tour kind of ghosted you.”

 “I don’t know what that means.”

 A laugh passes through her lips, and oh how he’s missed those lips too. “You’re so old.”

 “Aye, I’m old, and while I may not have as much time as you, I’m willing to wait for you. I’m in this for the long haul.”

 He sees her fidget in her seat, her hands constantly twitching and turning. Half of him wants to punch a wall and the other part of him wants to take her on his desk. Mostly he just wants them both to stop dancing around each other.

 “That’s why I’m here.”

 “What?”

 “I don’t want us to be apart anymore.”

 Oh thank goodness.

“Bloody hell.”

 She’s kissing him before he knows what’s happening, and he can’t help but sigh into it, relief and pleasure coursing through him all at once as he pulls her into his lap and her hands card through his hair. He’s pretty sure she loves his hair. He’s completely sure that he loves her.

 “Are you still willing to ride this rollercoaster with me?”

 “I’d wait in line forever, Emma.”

 “I’ve missed our bad puns.”

 “I’ve missed you.”

 So it’s a much smoother ride from then on out, but they still have things to talk about, to flesh out, and to make sure they’re on the same page. For a few weeks, whenever Emma stays over, he’s always waking up in the middle of the night just to make sure that she’s still there. She always is, and eventually he stops having to check because he knows she’s there.

 When you love someone you know.

 By the time the holiday season rolls around, Emma’s told him that she loves him. It was whispered in the dark of the night, so quiet that he almost didn’t hear it.

 “Darling, I need you to say that again.”

 She’s quiet for a moment, pulling his white comforter up to cover her face, and he moves it back down as he puts her loose strands of hair back behind her ear.

 “I love you.”

 He knows he has to have the goofiest smile on his face when he says, “I love you, Emma.”

 It’s one of the best days of his life.

 David and Mary Margaret get married a week before Christmas, and Emma is in such a sinful red gown that’s perfectly hugging her curves so much that he’s almost positive that he did not pay a lick of attention to the ceremony. Most wedding ceremonies are similar, so he thinks he’ll be able to fill in the gaps.

 Before the reception he manages to grab her waist and pull her into an empty hallway off the reception hall, immediately pressing her up against the wall as his mouth attacks hers, and he knows, and doesn’t bloody care, that she’s going to fuss at him for messing up her lipstick.

 “Easy tiger,” she breathes against his lips when he pulls back and rests his forehead against hers, their noses brushing against each other, “we’ve still got a reception to go to.”

 “Can we skip it?”

 “I’m not skipping my best friend’s wedding so that you can get laid.”

 “Isn’t that the point of weddings? To get laid?”

 “If you want to go home with a bridesmaid, feel free.”

 Both of his eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead at that. “Any bridesmaid you say?”

 “No.” She pushes back from him and taps his chest. “The maid of honor is your only option, good sir.”

 He does get to go home with the maid of honor, but only because that’s Emma. And they definitely don’t go back to his apartment until she’s let him dance with her several times throughout the evening. It’s a nice wedding, and he’s glad that he didn’t skip out on it, especially when Emma catches the bouquet and doesn’t even try to hide her smile from him.

 She’s so beautiful, and he has no idea what he’s ever done to deserve her.

 David and Mary Margaret are out of town for Christmas for their honeymoon the next week and since he knows that Emma doesn’t have any other family, he persuades her (not that it takes that much) to spend Christmas with he, Liam, and Belle at Belle’s parents’ home in Maine. She’s visibly nervous, and he doesn’t know why.

 “I feel like I’m meeting your parents,” she whispers in the back of Belle’s car as Belle drives them there.

 “I’m not related to these people, love. Not really.”

 “I know, but I still feel that way.”

 “Imagine how I felt the first time I met them,” Liam laughs from the front of the car, shooting them a look through the rearview window. “It was bloody terrifying.”

 “They’re very kind people,” Belle encourages, “just don’t ask if they got my name from the Disney movie. I was born before it was released, and it irritates my father to no end.”

 Belle’s house is basically a mansion in the small coastal town, and while he knew that from when Liam got married, Emma didn’t, her mouth momentarily hanging open when they pull up to the French Tudor home. He simply reaches over to squeeze her hand, letting her know that he’s beside her always.

 It’s a bit of a whirlwind of a day, people always filtering in and out of the house for the Christmas Eve celebrations, and he can tell that Emma is a bit overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people who she doesn’t know.

 “Hey,” he nudges as they sit on the back porch looking into the house, the Christmas lights of the tree reflecting off the window in shades of red and green, “do you want to go for a walk?”

 “A walk?”

 “Yeah, one foot in front of the other as we move from one place to the next.”

 “You’re so damn cheeky sometimes,” she whines before leaning her head onto his shoulder, her hair smelling like that familiar honey scent as she nuzzles herself into his side.

 “You love me, Swan.”

 “I do love you, Jones.”

 He turns his head to kiss her hair and pull her closer to his side.

 “So about that walk?”

 They end up walking through the streets of the town, peering into the very odd selection of shop windows but never going inside until Emma spots a diner and wants something to eat despite the fact that they just ate a few hours ago. She orders a hot chocolate and a grilled cheese sandwich, and he knows his girlfriend is younger than him but he’s always surprised by some of her childlike tendencies. He supposes that she never really got a childhood, and even if she had, he’d never begrudge her from finding joy in the little things. He didn’t for a long time, and life is so much better when you do.

 It’s as some melted cheese sticks to her face that he realizes that he wants to marry her. It’s crazy and it doesn’t make sense and he hasn’t even known her for six months, but he most definitely wants to marry her.

 “What?” she asks while trying to get the cheese off of her chin, her hair still trapped under her white beanie.

 “Nothing, Swan,” he chuckles as he takes a sip of his own hot chocolate. His has rum. Hers has cinnamon.

 “No, tell me what, babe.”

 When she smiles at him like that, all of her teeth on display and her eyes crinkling at the sides, it’s a beautiful sight that he’s thankful he gets to see. The odds of them meeting were so slim, and he shudders to think of what would have happened had they not.

 She nudges his leg underneath the table, the toe of her boot hitting against his calf.

 “I love you, Emma.”

 She looks at him curiously, tilting her head to the side before her lips press together into a soft smile.

 “I love you, too. Why are you being mopey?”

 “I’m not being mopey.”

 “Yes, you are. You have your thinking face on which usually leads to your mopey face.”

 “You’ve got to think of a better word than mopey, love.”

 “Melancholy.”

 “I am not melancholy,” he protests, reaching over the table to twine their fingers together. “I am simply happy that you’re here with me. That we met.”

 “Me too, Killian.”

 Eventually they do finish eating and make their way toward some of the residential areas of town, looking at the decorations adorning all of the houses. He always liked doing this as a kid when they lived in an apartment and had not house to decorate. It made the holidays seem a little brighter.

 “Do you ever think about getting a house?” she questions as she swings their hands between them.

 “Aye, but it’s just me. I’ve never needed one.”

 “What if it’s more than just you?”

 He stops walking only to have to yank Emma back from where she had continued ahead of him. She’s always doing that when they walk together.

 “What are you talking about, Swan?”

 “You know, if you get married or have kids or have a girlfriend who you really love?”

 “Is this your way of asking to move in with me?”

 “I’m just asking for future reference.”

 “A house would be nice, my love.”

 Emma moves into his apartment in March on his spring break, and while she doesn’t have a lot of stuff, he still breaks a sweat packing everything up and loading and unloading it. She sold most of her furniture, even if he told her not to, so all they’ve really got to carry are her clothes and her personal items. The small amount of personal items she carries makes his heart ache that she hasn’t always received all of the love she deserves. But then when he’s unloading a box of her picture frames, he sees a tiny piece of paper stuck to the back of one of them.

 “Swan,” he calls to her in the other room, “come here please, darling.”

 “What?” she yells, not even bothering to come to him, so he gets up to see what she’s doing in the bedroom, small piece of paper in his hand.

 “You kept this,” he holds out the ticket so that she can see it.

 Something flashes across her face before she goes back to folding her clothes on the bed.

 “I know for a fact that you have your ticket in your wallet, so you cannot make fun of me for this.”

 “I’m not going to make fun of the fact that you keep your ticket from the day we met,” he lens over her from her position on the bed, “because I think that’s the most sentimental and loving thing you’ve ever done.”

 “Really? I have sex with you, love you, move in with you, and listen to you talk about how incompetent half of your students are, and this is the most sentimental and loving thing I’ve ever done?”

 “Absolutely.” He kisses her. “Do you want to go back? To Universal? Maybe over my summer break, right after graduation?”

 “Can we afford that?”

 “I have some savings. We can go for just a few days. Maybe one or two.”

 “You hate the Florida heat.”

 “I love you, though.”

 They make a plan to go back to Universal in the middle of June, just a month shy of when they first met, and while Killian isn’t the biggest fan of theme parks and the overpriced tickets and food, he knows there will always be something special about this place for him. It’s where, by pure chance, he met the woman who is the love of his life, the woman he wants to marry some day.

 Emma is thrilled about their trip all leading up to it, going so far as to plan out the things she wants to do that she missed last time, but once they actually fly down to Florida, she seems a bit jumpy, like she wants to run. God, he hopes she doesn’t decide to run now. They’ve been through so much together, both good and bad, and he loves her too much to be able to live his life without her now.

 He tries not to think about it, about how she’s so on edge, so he simply grabs her hand and leads her through the entrance of Adventure Island at Universal Studios. He wants them to start this trip off with how they met at the Incredible Hulk, but as soon as he gets to the line, Emma stops.

 “What are you doing, Swan? Please tell me you’re not scared of these anymore.”

 “Killian.”

 “What? It’s going to be fine,” he pulls at her hand again, “come on.”

 “Killian, I can’t get on that ride.”

 “Why the hell not?”

 “I’m pregnant.”

 And suddenly they’re in line for a different kind of ride.

[the-mysterious-human]

I was tagged by @i-write-hurt-not-comfort

Are you named after anyone?

My first name is after a netball coach my mum likes and my middle name is a variant of my mum’s name.

When was the last time you cried?

Two days ago because things reminding me of bad memories.

Do you want/have kids?

I kind of want kids but mostly just so I can host the best birthday parties for them and make all the other kids jealous that their mums don’t throw them as amazing birthday parties.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

No, and I’m terrible at detecting it so sometimes I needlessly get salty at people because I thought they were being serious.

What’s the first thing you notice about people?

Me? Notice things about people? How out of character...

What’s your eye colour?

Blue.

Scary movie or happy ending?

Scary movie.

Any special talents?

Managing to look terrifying all the time despite actually being small and very sensitive.

Where were you born?

Australia.

What are your hobbies?

Reading and writing.

Do you have any pets?

No, but I want a black cat!

What sports do you play/ have you played?

Running... away from my problems, dodge-responsibility, high-standards jump, basket-case-ball, swimming... in deep shit, all the time.

How tall are you?

162cm. For reference see Astolfo Granatum or Oz.

Favourite subject in school?

Latin American Politics.

Dream job?

Writer or embassy worker (as long as I actually accomplish something in either of those).

I will tag: @d0nt-touch-m3 (thank you for being here for me to tag you) @the-back-row-bandits @the-twisted-otaku , @bagel-san and @kratqa even though I’m pretty sure you three will already have been tagged

[thundercaya]

Hey again, it's the anon that asked about the angst and James helping Thomas. Anyway, if you're more comfortable with it being non-angsty then go for it; you're the writer, I just wanted to give you an idea. I will admit though that I was kind of curious of how James would try to comfort Thomas.

Jefferson hadn’t done anything for Mother’s Day in years. Martha had never been able to have children and his own mother had passed when he was young, so aside from sending cards to his sisters and sisters-in-law, there wasn’t much else to do. For the same reasons, Father’s Day was no different. With no one to either please or disappoint, why bother?

Still, sometimes the onslaught of seasonal advertising got to him and he spent more time thinking about his parents than he’d prefer. He tried his best to busy himself with work and spend as much of his free time as possible with Madison, hoping to distract himself until both holidays passed, but when Mother’s Day hit and he realized he still had to endure for another month, he knew that if he didn’t do something about his feelings they’d come to a head.

A visit to the family plot seemed like a good start, though Jefferson hadn’t gone in quite some time. He didn’t like going alone, but he also didn’t want to ask one of his siblings to go with him. If they weren’t missing their parents at the moment he didn’t want to give them a reason to, and he also didn’t like for them to see that he was hurting. Martha used to go with him, but now she was someone else to visit.

Jefferson knew he should ask Madison directly, but he couldn’t seem to. Instead he simply asked the man to spend a weekend with him at his Virginia home.

Jefferson sat on his request for the duration of the drive on Friday night and all through Saturday. It wasn’t until Sunday morning over coffee and bagels that Jefferson got up the will to ask; “would you be willing to go with me to the cemetery?”

“Yes,” Madison said automatically. Then; “Wait. Who’s dead?”

“No one recently. I just haven’t been by to visit my parents lately.”

Madison stared down at his coffee. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to-”

“No, no, I want to go with you,” Madison assured, meeting Jefferson’s eyes. “Do I, uh, need to dress up? I didn’t pack for it.”

“No, you—have you never gone to a cemetery? I mean aside from a funeral.” Madison did have multiple deceased siblings, but not everyone wanted to be around departed loved ones.

Madison gave a half shrug. “I’ve been to a lot of cemeteries, but never to visit anyone. I’m really not sure of the protocol for that.”

“You don’t have to dress up. But what are you doing hanging out at random cemeteries for the sake of it?”

“They’re peaceful.”

Jefferson grinned. “Right. And you’re also a goth.

“I’m going to ignore that,” Madison said with a roll of his eyes “So, do we… need to stop anywhere? To get… flowers or something?”

Jefferson’s smile softened. “That’s an excellent idea.”

Jefferson placed a basket of chrysanthemums in front of his parents’ shared headstone while Madison stood back a ways, giving him space. Jefferson stayed silent; he didn’t think his parents were really there, or anywhere where they could hear him if he said anything. Realizing he might be a while, he looked over his shoulder at Madison. “You can sit down if you want.”

“No thanks,” Madison said. “There might be ants. And aunts.” In a rush he said; “sorry, reflex. That was in poor taste.”

Jefferson flashed a quick smile. “Aunt Judy’s on my cousin’s mantle, but she would have thought it was funny anyway, so don’t worry about it.”

“I take it you get your healthy sense of humor from your father’s family.”

Jefferson shoved his hands on his pockets as he gazed again at his parent’s headstones. “Well, on his side of the family, Aunt Judy was something of an anomaly. Dad was really stiff, honestly, but my mother was a fan of humor. She would have loved you, you know.”

Madison moved closer and set a hand on Jefferson’s shoulder. “Do you really thinks so?”

“Yeah, you’re exactly the kind of guy she was always telling my sisters to go for.”

“She encouraged your sisters to go for walking disasters?”

Jefferson patted the hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “No, she said to go for someone smart and successful, but make sure he’s funny so he won’t bore you to death. And make sure he supports you just as much as you support him. And if he’s good looking, consider it a bonus.”

“I’m maybe two of those things.”

Jefferson chuckled. “Well, you’re definitely funny. And more than that, you’re here with me right now, which I think would have gone the farthest for earning her approval.”

It was silent for a few moments, though when Madison spoke again it wasn’t difficult for Jefferson to imagine the thought trail that led to his next question.

“So… is Martha not in your family plot?”

“No, I would have given you warning before bringing you here if she was.”

“You don’t have to shelter me from–”

“Not from her. From my… demeanor while being around her.”

“Right,” Madison muttered, obviously berating himself.

Rather than continue to draw attention to the error, Jefferson returned to Madison’s question.

“She wanted to be buried with her family. These days, though, I kind of wish she’d chosen this plot. I….” Jefferson sighed deeply before going on. “Well, I know her relatives would let me in their plot, but… I wouldn’t be able to get you in.” He cleared his throat. “I-I mean, I’m sorry, that’s presumptuous. I’m sure your family–”

“My family does have a plot, yes, but honestly I don’t care about where I’m buried or who else is there. If you want to be with Martha that’s fine. After all, I get to be with you now.”

“Right.” Jefferson huffed out a laugh. “I think you mentioned that you wanted to be… loaded into a canon and blasted into the sun?”

“Just into space in general. Having a destination feels like too much pressure to put on someone who can’t do anything about it anymore.”

“Well, they could launch me into space, too. Would be easier than trying to decide where I want to be buried. I guess it’s kind of like being buried nowhere, but also being with everyone because the entire universe is connected.”

“No, see, I wanted to be launched into space because it’s not connected.”

“I guess it’s just a difference in perspective. But if it suits both our needs, it sounds good to me. Either way I think I’m ready to go.”

Madison stiffened. “What.”

“Home, I mean.”

Madison relaxed. “Oh. Are you sure? We can stay as long as you’d like.”

Jefferson shot him a crooked grin. “Come to think of it, did you know that Mary Shelley lost her virginity on her mother’s gr-”

“Time to go,” Madison said, turning away and heading down the hill.

Jefferson chuckled, and just in case his mother was somewhere where she could hear him he said “sorry, Ma, it was a joke,” before following.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Okay so little known fact, I actually worked at a Panera Bread for like 4 years in college so I would be happy to help you out with this!

Okay first note: What is a Panera Bread?

So you guys have a place over there called Pret, and it’s really close to that! Fast food sandwich, soup, and salad. The difference is it has the atmosphere of a Starbucks: “Come in, pull out your laptop, and live here for the next 4 hours.”

It also has a bakery section (hence the “bread” part, and they are SUPER proud of that sourdough recipe. Like seriously, a piece of the sourdough starter is shared with the restaurant like every night.

A big marketing technique is the “You Pick 2” where you can pick half an entree and pair it with another half. So soup and salad, sandwich and soup, pasta and sandwich, etc. With that, they promote a drink with it (once again think Starbucks) and a bakery item for $0.99. This is very, VERY expensive! I have served people who end up spending up to $20 for a single meal. 😬

Anyways, moving onto: What is it like working for a Panera Bread?

BAKERY: So Panera Breads have 2 different ordering stations: in the cafe and in the bakery. This is your McDonald’s style ordering. Only if you’re working bakery you also have to promote the baked goods, consolidating, and cleaning…OMG you can not BELIEVE the amount of flour, bread crumbs, oats, nuts, and seeds that appear each and every night! There is a bagel wall that each basket has to be removed and cleaned under. There is a bread wall, same thing. Also, there is a machine that cuts the bread into slices that has to be cleaned. This easily takes 20 minutes to get between the teeth, clean the crumb catcher, and wipe it completely down. Baked goods leftover are donated at the end of the night, but you are allowed to take a couple home for yourself to promote “knowing the products”. Bread is taken to the food line to be cut into croutons.

CAFE: Cashiers: take orders, clean tables, sweep/mop. Pretty standard fast food job.

LINE/BACK: Prep and make the food. Clean dishes (Panera uses real ceramic for in cafe). Once again, pretty standard.

BAKER: OKAY! If you’ve stayed with me this long, this is where it gets interesting because this is what I think Guillermo’s job was. So Panera Breads close relatively early for a restaurant. Most are at 9pm, mine was at 10pm. But Bakers work overnight. They stay after everyone (including the manager) leaves for the night to hand prep all of the breads and baked goods for the next day. Their hours are 8/9pm-5/6am. It’s a LONG lonely night. Bakers have to be specially trained on how to work the massive ovens, the recipes, how the products should look. Because let me tell you those bear claws are pretty obvious when they have been proofed correctly (too long they are massive, too short they are small and hard).

But a lot of bakers do go on to be managers because they learn a lot of productivity v. profit on the job because bakers only work the night! If you run out during the day, it is the day managers job to bake more which takes them away from what they should be working on. So Guillermo’s comment of “I would probably be manager” coupled with his natural nightly hours just makes me think he was probably a baker.

Okay, I hope that helps?? I could probably go more in depth on any one subject if you have questions. Feel free to DM me! Always happy to help a fellow writer out. 😁

so I'm trying to write this fic, but I realised that I'm literally about to fall at the first hurdle, because I do not know what Panera Bread actually is.

I know it's some sort of restaurant, and I have a vague notion of something to do with soup in bowls made out of bread.

But if anyone has any information about what the fuck Panera Bread actually is like on the inside/behind the counter etc for this poor Brit, that'd be great cos it's about to get described like a McDonald's if we're not careful

[dodung4]

Purchase Toaster Oven Online At Greatest Prices In India

If our different picks have more options than you need, we advocate the inexpensive, no-frills Hamilton Beach 4 Slice Toaster Oven (model 31401). The Hamilton Beach's two quartz heating parts toasted bread sooner and more evenly than any other oven we examined lower than $a hundred. It three handbook knobs to control the settings. While it lacks most of the options included in excessive-finish fashions, reminiscent of preset cooking functions, a convection setting, and an inside light, it excels at the basics, like making toast, cookies, and frozen snacks. Its small footprint is good for kitchens with restricted counter space. It has just a few quirks which are expected with such an inexpensive model (akin to running a number of degrees cooler than its set temperature), but on the entire we predict they're negligible. In pop-up or computerized toasters, a single vertical piece of bread is dropped into a slot on the highest of the toaster. A lever on the side of the toaster is pressed down, reducing the bread into the toaster and activating the heating parts The length of the toasting cycle (and subsequently the degree of toasting) is adjustable through a lever, knob, or sequence of pushbuttons, and when an internal gadget determines that the toasting cycle is complete, the toaster turns off and the toast pops up out of the slots. Reheating. It sounds banal, however your toaster oven will be your go-to for heating a wide range of leftovers. One of the big benefits is that it preheats in a short time — not as instantaneously as your microwave, however much quicker than a full-measurement oven. It also can provide you crisp results the place the microwave may flip things soggy, reminiscent of pizza, fries or even skinny breaded chicken cutlets. I've used a toaster oven to crisp the exterior of a burrito (briefly heated within the microwave to get the inside going) after I haven't had entry to a skillet. To essentially benefit from your toaster oven, you will need one with the correct quantity of house to prepare dinner lots of your favorite meals. From giant bread merchandise to complete chickens to medium pizzas, there is an oven that may match exactly what you want. Nonetheless, you must also consider that the larger your oven, the more counter space you will need in your kitchen to accommodate it. If you wish to use this oven as an air fryer (because as we explain in How we picked , air fryers are simply tiny convection ovens), the Cuisinart also has two convection speeds, common and high. We have discovered that the excessive speed setting works better for air frying, cooking food somewhat sooner. And overall, after testing the Cuisinart against quite a few air fryers for our information to air fryers , we predict it's the better equipment for that function as a result of it matches more food, cooks extra evenly, and comes with higher accessories. https://squareblogs.net/dinhlinh2312/chuyen-gia-len-tieng-ve-2-chat-kich-doc-trong-binh-giu-nhiet-trung-quoc With dimensions of 16 by 13 by 9 inches, the Breville Mini Sensible Oven is the smallest toaster oven Breville makes, and it could possibly match 4 slices of toast or an 11-inch pizza inside. Among the many many features that make the unit simple to scrub are the detachable pull-out crumb tray. It is best to change it often to ensure the gadget would not malfunction, as most toaster ovens are designed to cease functioning when crumbs construct up to an unsafe stage. The Oster Toaster Oven is the only toaster oven that prices lower than $a hundred to make our list. What sets it aside is the graceful digital control panel that operates very like a built-in microwave oven. With dimensions of 19.5 by 14 by 11 inches, it does take up a fair amount of counter space, but it surely additionally suits a 9 by 13-inch casserole dish or baking pan. You should utilize this mannequin to toast six bread slices or bake a 12-inch pizza. A toaster oven, nevertheless, saves power. The smaller oven uses lower than half the quantity of energy as a full-sized oven, making it the greener alternative. A toaster oven can accommodate a few half-pan of cookies, muffins, scones, and other treats. Should you're cooking for a big household or vacation dinner, nonetheless, a full-sized oven can maintain a turkey and one or two trays of side dishes at a time, whereas a toaster oven can't. To function a toaster oven, controls are set, the door is opened, food is positioned on a tray, and the door is closed. If set for toasting, a toaster thermostat operates the higher and lower heating components as selected by the colour controller. If set for baking or broiling, the baking thermostat operates the heating elements as chosen by the temperature controller and probably by a timing mechanism. Although they share a reputation and a operate, toasters and toaster ovens are in many ways distinctive contraptions with their very own sets of professionals and cons to be thought of when deciding between the 2 countertop appliances. And from dwelling to home, cook dinner to prepare dinner, allegiances to both a typical toaster or toaster oven can run deep. Value to install a toaster oven or a traditional oven varies tremendously by region (and even by zip code). Toaster ovens are available in a wide range of sizes, however we narrowed our lineup by taking a look at those who had been large enough to operate as mini ovens—spacious enough to suit 6 slices of bread and tall sufficient to accommodate a 4-pound rooster. Ultimately we ended up with a lineup of 10 toaster ovens priced from about $forty five to about $270. Small cookie sheet. An eight-by-11-inch cookie sheet fits most traditional toaster ovens, however check your model's instruction guide for measurement guidelines. Don't need to head to the kitchen retailer? Aluminum foil all the time works in a pinch. I put this countertop oven to the check to see if it lived as much as the promise of quick, precise cooking. In the course of the Thanksgiving vacation, I put it by means of the paces, and I was happy with the results. It preheated quickly, and the whole lot we cooked — together with a corn casserole and roasted cherry tomatoes — came out completely. It's time to graduate from toast and frozen pizza. Your toaster oven can achieve this way more. Michael Sullivan has spent greater than 50 hours researching and testing toaster ovens for this guide since 2016. As a staff writer at Wirecutter, he has written critiques for all types of kitchen tools and devices, together with toasters This guide builds on work by freelance writer Brendan Nystedt. This Black+Decker is a great alternative if you happen to're in search of a convection toaster oven with standard controls and a large capability. One different thing to remember: Toaster ovens could be good in your mind because they supply precise nourishment. Nowadays, we can't all the time say that about cellphones. Heavy-Duty Equipment: A heavy-duty toaster oven just like the Breville Good Oven will set you again a pretty penny—on this case almost $250—however can carry out almost all of the important tasks of a typical oven in a more compact space. It is a notably great tool for those who are working with an ovenless kitchen. For those who intend to make use of the oven for one- or two-person dishes, reheating, or other easy duties such as baking a number of cookies, a smaller unit may be a smart choice. A number of shelf racks - Having options for positioning the oven shelf provides extra control over distance between food and the heating component. Toasters are typically superior at their main job—toasting—and will result in a more even and consistent brown on your bread or bagel than its counterpart, because the toaster oven depends on a rack, which might block the warmth source from portions of the floor area.

Our Toaster Oven Pan is the perfect size for reheating leftovers and heating up frozen foods like hen nuggets and fries. The unglazed cooking surface will provide you with the excellent results our stoneware is understood for each time you use it. Stoneware can be used in typical, convection and microwave ovens, and is freezersafe. Stoneware is heat-proof against 450°F (230°C). Don't use Stoneware under broiler or on direct warmth source. Comply with oven producer's guidelines.

From Cuisinart to Breville to Black & Decker, we've got a fantastic collection of one of the best toasters and toaster ovens in your kitchen. Creator Bio: I write bizarre, cynical, sarcastic, typically satirical stuff. Tech, social media, porn, video games. Question every little thing. Time is chaos. Chaotic impartial. Toasters rule. Finally, the oven's exterior can get sizzling throughout use, so again, it really works best in a roomy, ethereal kitchen. The $four hundred Breville Smart Oven Air , the equipment I used for this information, ships with loads of extras. They embrace a roasting pan (9 by 13 inches), broiling rack, and pizza pan (thirteen-inch). Breville even throws in a mesh basket rack for correct air frying. A more recent model” of the FlashXpress (the PAN-NB-G110PW ) is listed on Amazon, however it is just a white model of the identical toaster oven.

On the entire, it's probably the greatest toaster ovens in Singapore as a result of it is an amazing combination of value and high quality. The Good Oven Plus had low availability on the time of our testing, so we opted to not take a look at it. It is very similar to the Smart Oven Professional, which we have beforehand dismissed. There are a number of toaster oven models, every with its own options. Nevertheless, most operate in the same manner and can be diagnosed and repaired by making use of the solutions that observe. Convection toaster ovens typically have all the features of normal toaster ovens however may warmth food extra rapidly by circulating hot air. The 4-Slicer: For a barely bigger investment, you will get a more premium, 4-slice mannequin just like the Cuisinart Classic four-Slice Toaster While a larger-capability toaster can be useful if you happen to're preparing toast for multiple individuals directly, it would take up slightly more room in your countertop or in your cupboard. The toaster oven actually shines in its skill to brown more than simply toast. Look for an oven with a number of functions resembling broiling and baking, which let you make complete meals and baked deal with just with this one equipment. Advanced toaster ovens will actually have a defrosting choice for components that you take proper out of the freezer. Toaster ovens operate much like toasters. Nonetheless, a toaster oven is more complex and is typically dearer to purchase. The higher value signifies that repairs are easier to justify. may nuong banh mi sandwich 'll probably assume twice earlier than tossing a $75 toaster oven into the recycle bin. And since toaster ovens are much less compact, they're often simpler to work on than pop-up toasters. Beyond efficiency, there are different options that set the Panasonic FlashXpress apart from the competition. Hooks on the door assist eject the toaster's wire rack so you do not have to achieve your hand as far into the oven cavity to retrieve your food. Though this characteristic was frequent with some of the bigger, more expensive models we tested, the Panasonic FlashXpress was one of many few to include door hooks at a lower price. CR's take: The 1,800-watt Breville Sensible Oven Air Convection additionally garners a Very Good score in our baking test, like the Breville above, however it has eight rack positions and a wider temperature range (eighty° F to 480° F). It's terrific at toasting, however the slowest of the models featured right here. Past the fundamentals, it has a convection option, a setting that dehydrates vegatables and fruits for healthy snacking, and an air fryer that trims the fats from favorite foods. How? By using high heat and a convection fan to flow into scorching air to "fry" meals with little or no oil. We tried it, cooking fresh rooster wings, frozen curly fries, and a wide range of other foods, and found that they had been crispy outside and moist inside.

The most effective toaster ovens are extremely accurate at regulating temperature, even higher than some wall ovens, Bishop says. ATK's winning Breville model different no more than 2 degrees from its goal temps, as opposed to the typical 25 levels in a home oven (the poorer performing toaster oven models have been off by as much as 60 levels). Ruspino explains toaster ovens have particular wattage configurations to make sure accuracy and the precise sample of warmth relying on which perform is selected. That is useful for baked goods, such as muffins or cookies. In the event you're somebody who likes to stash cookie dough within the freezer to bake off just a few at a time, the toaster oven is the perfect solution to go. In truth, ATK discovered that sugar cookies made in convection-geared up toaster ovens by which a fan helps flow into hot air baked faster and extra evenly.

Our top-rated toaster oven was once again the Breville Sensible Oven , which prices about $250. This oven had very accurate temperature control, varying simply 1 diploma from our goal temperature over a 2-hour interval. The results of our cooking checks had been remarkably consistent: toast was evenly browned, rooster was bronzed and crispy, cheese melted simply, and cookies were completely golden and chewy. Its heating elements, that are made from quartz, heated up and cooled down rapidly. It is a reasonably large oven, and might accommodate a thirteen by 9-inch steel baking dish (with no handles) or our winning small rimmed baking sheet We also beloved its intuitive dials, nonstick inside, and black enamel pans that offered good browning but had been nonetheless straightforward to wash. The Breville Compact Sensible Oven is additional down our checklist as a result of we liked the compact design of the Mini Oven better. If you want a larger Breville toaster oven, you may think about the company's largest choice, the BOV800XL , which holds six slices of bread, a thirteen-inch pizza, and will nonetheless fit below most cupboards as a result of it's 16.25 inches excessive. With 1800 watts of power, it heats up shortly and toasts bread evenly on either side. On high of that, it employs refined-yet-user-friendly inside temperature compensation expertise, which suggests the ideal cooking time based mostly on the number of toasts. It additionally comes with a speed convection button, which lets you prepare dinner with out waiting for the oven to heat up first. The fairly priced Panasonic FlashXpress excels at making toast, cookies, and frozen snacks. In our assessments, it cooked meals evenly and didn't generate any hot spots that might otherwise cause inconsistent toasting. Impressively, it made toast faster than many of the other models we tried. At round 1 cubic foot in quantity, it takes up very little space on a counter, but it's nonetheless large enough to fit four pieces of bread or two slices of leftover pizza. We expect the Panasonic is greatest for people who just need to use a toaster oven for toast or different small jobs, like preparing a handful of frozen snacks. For engaging in greater duties, think about getting our different picks, the Cuisinart TOB-260N1 Chef's Convection Toaster Oven or the Breville BOV800XL Smart Oven , which hold nine and 6 pieces of bread, respectively. Rack positions: Most toaster ovens have two rack positions, but the largest have three. The added rack place permits for much more cooking versatility and usable house, particularly for air frying or dehydrating. As a common rule of thumb, the uppermost positions are used for broiling, while the middle are used for toasting bread and baking, and the bottom is used for baking large roasts or pizzas. This mannequin consists of nearly all of the options you'll find in our authentic Breville Sensible Oven pick. Nonetheless, the Good Oven Air has a roomier inside. It can toast 9 slices of bread, roast a 14-lb turkey, and fit either a 9×13-inch pan or a 12-cup muffin tray with ease. In addition to having a wide range of cooking functions and a vivid, easy to learn LIQUID CRYSTAL DISPLAY display, this countertop oven contains a mild so you'll be able to easily examine on your culinary masterpiece — or your piece of toast. Either manner, it is one other useful characteristic to help ensure the cooking process goes easily.

[canaryatlaw]

okay. well today was fine I guess. nothing special. I woke up sometime after 12 i think, probably around 12:30, changed into real clothes and went downstairs. had some food and went outside for a little bit enjoying the sun. after that nobody was around for a bit, so I took this as an opportunity to watch this week’s Batwoman episode on my laptop with my earbuds in (so nobody else knows because my brother’s are giant homophobes and my mom isn’t too great with it either). I liked the episode, I feel like the last two have been really strong and are hopefully leading up to an epic grand finale. I’m not sure what the plan is as far as airing the final episodes that may or may not have actually been finished before all this started, so we’ll have to see what happens there. after that there wasn’t really much else to do, so we’re just kinda hanging around for most of the day, but with important conversations thrown in there about things and trying to get things done, because there is a lot of stuff that needed to get done. at this point it seems like I’m no longer going to have the financial backing I’ve had thus far from my family, which is something I’ve expected to happen basically when all of this happened and started trying to put more in my savings, and I know I was extremely lucky to have that support in the first place, so while it’s somewhat inconvenient, I’m all that upset about it, I know I’m still in a better financial situation than a lot of other people and I should be grateful for that. Prior to this though I had started covering most of my expenses myself, the only thing that was charged to the parents credit card (the accounts of which are closed now) were eating out, health care/insurance stuff, and amazon purchases lol. but I don’t think it’ll be a big deal, we will have to cut down on eating out but I have a plan that will hopefully work for that, and I’m getting onto my job’s health insurance next month anyway. but yeah, we kinda chilled out for a bit. someone brought dinner, coincidentally from the same italian restaurant from last night (it’s close to our house so people probably thought it was convenient) but with slightly different dishes (penne alla vodka instead of baked ziti, veal marsala, and also chicken parm which was just dang good so I was fine with having it for two nights). all the food has really been great, but honestly at this point I want to eat some pizza, I’m only here so long and want to take advantage of that while I can, but it seems dumb to order extra food when we have a plethora in the kitchen anyway. oh well. I realized tonight I could get bagels delivered, so I will DEFINITELY be taken advantage of that soon, probably tomorrow and if not the next day. it’s weird though, because there’s all this stuff around the house, gift baskets, flowers, fruit arrangements, cards, and virtually a never ending string of comments and likes on anything I post. I haven’t even posted anything with any actual feelings yet, it’s just been more basic stuff, but it gets blown up anyway. and I just sit her and look at all of this and everything that’s being done, and while I’m grateful for all the ways people have reached out, I can’t help but feel that in the end it’s all useless, and I would trade all of it in a heartbeat for even just one more minute with my Dad. I just kind of feel numb with all of it, knowing I should be happy that people care, but I feel like there’s nothing right now that can actually help me where I need it right now. words are great, words of comfort are great, but there’s nothing that can be said that actually makes any different. I very much appreciate support from everyone who has reached out, though typing out “thank you, I appreciate it” to people I don’t actually know or people I haven’t spoken to in ten years. it’s all a lot and I know it’s going to take a while to process all this trauma, and I am going to start therapy when I get back to Chicago (I’m leaning towards trying virtual therapy and have done some research on that which is a hell of a lot cheaper and honestly is a lot less awkward than having to talk to someone in person). but yeah, sigh. anyway. after dinner I hung around the living room for a bit until Legends came on at 9. I liked the episode a lot, the last few have been really good, and it was just so entertaining and daring in the right ways. I was absolutely losing it when it became apparent that (spoiler alert) the culprit was GARY’S DOG who turns out he “rescued” from Hell???? the son of sam shout out there with him claiming a dog made me do it was absolutely hysterical, and I applaud the writers for that stroke of genius. I really like getting to see Mick interact with Lita, which I can’t say is a plot line I’d been really interested in up to this point, but I really enjoy getting to see him grow into more and more of a father the more interactions he has with her and having the kind of character growth that led him to push his daughter out of the way so the demon dog will attack him instead. that was such a great moment for me. but yes of course, we need to talk about Sara’s “power.” it’s going to be interesting to see from here how it’s actually going to manifest and the ways in which it will function (like she had the vision about killing Gary right before she had the impulse to, but then they use it as a locator when tracking Mick down with John, so it looks like it could work a few different ways. I think it’s fucking hysterical that Sara is really not inconvenienced at all by not actually being able to see, it makes total sense with her league of assassins training and watching he kick butt even without it was fantastic. but yeah, liked the episode. afterwards I just let the news play for however long while on my computer, then I eventually turned it over to Jimmy Kimmel when his show started and watched some of that before going upstairs, showering, and starting to get ready for bed and now I am here and it almost 2 am so I definitely need to be getting to bed, which I will do so now. Goodnight lovelies. Sweet dreams. 

[vlkwsouthpens]

THE COVER SELLS THE BOOK!!

I am thrilled to share with you an interview I did with my cover artist. And she is an artist. I found Karen Kalbacher on Fiverr, as FuzzyM, back in 2013 when I wrote my first book, Now Arriving…Sister Station 1. She has become more than an illustrator, I’m proud to consider her a friend as well. I thought it might be interesting for you to discover what goes on during the creation of a book cover. I hope you will enjoy the interview. I’ve included some samples of her work. I’m sure you’ll agree this woman is loaded with talent!

      1. I see you are also a children’s writer and ghostwriter (so many talents!). Which do you enjoy more, the writing or the illustrations? At heart, I’m a writer. I love seeing a plot come together and creating new and interesting characters and worlds. It comes a bit easier for me, so that helps. That doesn’t mean I don’t love being an artist and creating illustrations, I do. The fun is in the challenge. I like taking another person’s idea or world and bringing it to life for them. It also involves a lot of communication with the client and feels more collaborative. I’ve always had a hard time choosing between them and took several English courses before choosing to major in art. Who knows if I made the right choice? 2. For a new client, what services do you offer when creating a book cover, and how much input do you like from the client? I create covers based on the client’s needs. I can do photo editing, add titles to an existing image, or I can create an entire design from scratch. I normally design in Illustrator to create vector-based graphics. This has the distinct advantage of being easy to resize while maintaining quality and being editable. When a client is new, I like a lot of communication. We are both feeling one another out. I can’t see inside the client’s head, so I ask a lot of questions about style, colors, feel, and often ask for images of covers in a similar vein to what they want. I want the author to love their cover. It’s important to me that we both love it at the end of the project. It’s a lot easier for us to get into a grove if the client has ideas. Blank canvases are intimidating. I can work a lot faster if the client hands me something. It can be as simple as a list of wants and a color they hate/adore. 3. What is your favorite genre to create covers for and why? Wow, I specialize in Cozy Mysteries at the moment. I love them because the settings are always new and intriguing. There are often a lot of elements that have to be balanced like red herrings, Easter eggs, and pets. It makes it like a jigsaw puzzle to assemble and balance. That appeals to my artsy side. My second favorite is children’s books. I love bright colors, the characters are kids or animals and they are deceptively simple. I’d love to break out into more fantasy covers. I don’t get to draw unicorns nearly enough for my taste.

  4. Give us a glimpse into the process of creating a book cover. I like to talk to a potential client before we get a gig going. It’s a chance for us to feel each other out and see if we’re a match. So, generally, I will have a short conversation with you about the size of your cover and what your needs are. After that, we set the price based on the amount of work involved. The client will then send me all the pertinent details. I’ll look at everything sent to me. If there’s a mood board, I will consider what elements are similar in the images the client likes. This could be as simple as colors, shapes, or composition. If there’s no mood board, I will sketch out a thumbnail with the elements the client has requested. This is mainly to see how to balance them on the page and for me to get a feel for the image. Then I’ll sleep on it and let my subconscious work on it. I might also send it to the client if I think it will help them visualize what I’m doing. After marinating, I’ll take the sketch into Illustrator. I’ll hunt for reference photos to help me create the detailed versions of what I’ve sketched. I tend to start with the backdrop. It’s usually complete so I can move the elements around on it like a stage. I add the main element (body, sleuth, kid, dragon,) and move them around until I like it. Then I detail it. I add bagels to the sleuth’s breakfast plate. I add toys around the dog. I find the light source and shadow everything. I might also add highlights. Finally, I drop the titles on top. I will send an almost done version to the client to get their input. The client and I normally go back and forth a bit to shape it into their vision. I’m done when the client is happy.

  5. What has been your most challenging cover/client to do and why? Every cover is challenging, that’s why I enjoy doing them. Sometimes you and the client can’t see eye to eye and that’s frustrating for both. I used to ghostwrite for a client. When she asked me to also create the cover, I was excited. But it just didn’t work. We couldn’t get on the same page. I would send what I thought she wanted. She wouldn’t like it. She would try to describe it better. I would try again. We just ended up aggravated. She wasn’t a bad client. She was a good person. She had just chosen the wrong artist for her vision. We weren’t a match. We went on to ghostwrite together for a while after that. I think an artist is like a psychiatrist, you need to shop around for the one that really gets you. 6. Describe for us the perfect client. Most clients are perfect clients for me. It’s not hard. They need to have a vision even if it is stick figures on a piece of paper. Anything to work with is better than nothing. They need to communicate with me. I’m friendly, I promise! Most importantly, they need to respect me. I will make a zillion changes for a good client. A rude client gets whatever is stated in the deal. They should be enjoying the process. We should have fun together. 7. Life can’t be all about books; what other interest do you have. Did I read something about knitting doll? Hobbies? Who has time for hobbies? I’m kidding! I love walking. I’m lucky in that I live near a little park and within easy driving distance of a dozen more. I am a knitter! A corner of my living room had a laundry basket overflowing with yarn. I have created doll patterns from scratch and I do a lot of fingerless gloves, scarves, hats, and the occasional baby blanket. I have a podcast called Eh, it’s Something to Do that I record on Wednesdays with Rick Connor. I’m also an avid reader. My apartment is brimming with books and art supplies. It’s a bit chaotic. 8. What is on the horizon for your business? Right now, I am looking to expand my client base. I would like to expand into pet portraits, do a few more children’s books and possibly start publishing my own line of books. I would like to do more writing gigs for individuals or businesses. I would like to branch out and so a horror story cover or fantasy. On the practical front, I am constantly learning new Illustrator tricks to improve the quality of my work. 9. Give us a few samples of your work.

  10. How can you be reached? Share your links below. Find me on Twitter: @1fuzzymonster Find me on Instagram: @1fuzzymonster_Karen Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/1FuzzyMonster/ Blog: https://karenkalbacher.com/ Direct link to my portfolio: https://1fuzzymonster.wordpress.com/portfolio/ 11. Any final words for us? Choosing someone to flesh out your vision is an important decision. A good artist/writer will take the time to get to know you. They’ll be enthusiastic about your project. I love my clients. I consider them friends. I look forward to working with them on multiple projects. It’s very rewarding.

Be sure to check out the above sites and see for yourself just how talented Karen is! I know my readers love her covers.

A Special Interview! THE COVER SELLS THE BOOK!! I am thrilled to share with you an interview I did with my cover artist.