#I did all my meetings and I did graduation prep and I broke my glasses and I glued my glasses and I made pasta salad

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: May 21

"cryptid (mothman)” by ratwyfe

[alltooreid]

congrats on 100<33

✏️ - idk if this is a good enough concept but something along the lines of reader being scared of something (can be a thunder storm or haunted house or anything u want lol) and spencer comforts reader

(reader can be fem. (she/her) or gn (they/them), it doesn’t matter to me)

i hope this made sense, i didn’t wna go to into detail that way u could work freely with it lolll 💓

omg this makes perfect sense and it’s such a cute idea!! I went a little overboard and this got really long because I added a little meet-cute situation but I hope you love it anyway!! Also I changed Y/N’s fear because I had a really good idea and you were so open!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN! Reader

Type: comfort so like angst/fluff idk??

Word Count: 1.4K (oops)

Content Warnings: discussion of blood

When Y/N was five years old they told their mom they wanted to be a doctor. However, when one is five years old they assume being a doctor only entails helping people, being nice to children and giving them lollipops and that seemed like the best career choice ever.

However, when Y/N was six years old they went on a bike ride with their next door neighbor, a girl their age named Rebecca. This particular neighborhood friend loved to play dangerously and had conceived a game like tag, however you had to stay on the bike the entire time. Although innocent on paper, about 12 minutes into the game Rebecca had stood up on the seat of her bicycle in an attempt to get a better reach at Y/N and tumbled over the front handlebars.

She shook it off quickly and by the time Y/N had rushed over to help she was already on her feet.

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked in a panic.

Rebecca brushed some rocks off her shorts, looked up at Y/N and smiled, “Yep! That was so much fun!” she said, going in for a high five.

Rebecca however, was not okay and had failed to notice that two of the “rocks” she had brushed off were actually her two front teeth. When she smiled and spoke to Y/N they were overcome with panic when they saw her mouth, missing two teeth and gushing blood.

So naturally, they immediately passed out.

Rebecca quickly ran to get her mother, more concerned for Y/N than herself, and still hadn’t even noticed her teeth’s absence. Both children were driven to the hospital, and although Y/N woke up on the way, they got checked out to make sure they didn’t have a concussion.

Soon after they were clear Y/N’s parents arrived. Hovering over their six year old and asking all sorts of questions, the first and only thing Y/N thought to do is turn to their mother. “Mom?”

“Yes sweetheart?”

“I don’t think I wanna be a doctor anymore.”

Y/N’s mother laughed and wrapped her arms around the crying child, “Maybe that’s not the best idea.”

Even with their fear of blood, Y/N career ambitions remained the same: help people, be nice to children, hand out lollipops. So when they graduated Y/N started their own candy store. It was the perfect job for such a sweet soul, and by the time they were 28 Y/N had perfected their storefront. Glass displays were replaced with plastic to prevent people cutting themselves if they broke, they keep a small collection of different patterned and themed band-aids right next to the cash register and without fail had at least one medical student working in the summer in between school years (in case of emergencies).

But no amount of prepping could help Y/N when Dr. Spencer Reid came into their store with his four year old godson.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile as they watched Spencer and Henry zoom around the empty store, Henry throwing all kinds of sugary sweets into his basket and Spencer encouraging the entire thing. Soon enough the two were at the register and dumping at least eighty dollars worth of candy on the counter. Y/N began ringing it up, but was soon interrupted by the small child, barely in sight because of the desk in front of him.

“Excuse me? Do you have a band-aid? I got a paper cut.”

“Yes I do! What kind of band-aid do you want?”

“Ummmm do you have Spiderman?”

“Of course I have Spiderman! Here you go,” they said, setting it on the counter.

“Can you put it on for me?” He reached up his little finger to show Y/N his cut.

Quickly jolting their head, Y/N panicked “Um maybe you could have your dad help you with that. . .”

“Of course, I’m sorry, and I’m actually his godfather. . . “ He looked up and noticed Y/N’s aversion to the cut, “It’s safe to look now.”

Y/N sighed, “I’m sorry, I just can’t stand blood. What did he cut it on?”

Henry was entertaining himself flipping through the pages of his godfather’s abnormally large book, not reading it of course, because although Henry was smart for a four year old, he was not yet fluent in Russian.

“Oh nothing that’s your fault,” the man said. He was then nudged by his godson, and apparently, personal wingman, “Um, I’m Spencer!”

“Hi Spencer! I’m Y/N,” they smiled, finishing their calculations, “Um, your total is $81.92”

He was thrown off, “That’s not right, it should be 96.37. . . Did you forget something?”

“Actually your forgetting my 15% injury discount, and the extra lollipop I give to nice kids,” they reached down to hand Henry a raspberry lemonade lollipop.

“You really don’t have to do that! It was my fault really-”

“No seriously, trust me I’m kind of ripping you off here. I combined the injury discount and the cute guy discount.”

Spencer blushed, “Um well maybe we could go get coffee sometime to make it up to me.”

“I would love that”

On this coffee date Y/N learned about Spencer’s job and was shocked he would go on a date with someone who was scared of papercuts. However Spencer explained he found it admirable that someone could be so affected by other people’s pain, and later into their relationship discussed how he wished he was as affected by the gore of his job as he was during the beginning.

Their romance worked perfectly, Spencer loved having someone waiting at home for him, a person who could be completely separate from work and the cases that affected him so much that he needed to talk about them typically ended up involving more manipulation than gore.

But just over a year in Y/N got a phone call from Aaron Hotchner.

Spencer had been shot in the neck.

They got to the hospital as soon as possible, and rushed to Spencer’s room, completely forgetting about the things they were almost certainly going to see.

So when Y/N walked in at the worst possible moment, as Spencer was getting his gauze changed and his open wound was in full view, they freaked out, letting out a quick scream and crouching to the ground, covering their eyes with their hands.

“Y/N! You’re here!”

Y/N did their best and eventually had made their way to Spencer’s bedside chairs, only having to peek twice. Once there, Y/N’s hands remained firmly locked over their eyes, both to protect themselves from the blood and to cover their panicked tears from Spencer.

“Y/N, close your eyes tight and remove your hands for me darling.”

They shook their head aggressively. Spencer sighed, “Trust me, I’ve got you.” So they did, and as they kept their eyes glued shut, Y/N felt Spencer use his thumb to wipe tears from their cheeks, before tying something around their eyes.

“See, now you can’t see the blood, and I can hold you,” he said, grabbing one of Y/N’s hands and kissing the back of it now that gauze had been tied around their eyes.

Quickly Y/N wrapped their arms around Spencer’s middle as best as they could with him laying down, and cried into him. Spencer soothed them by petting their hair, “It’s okay darling, they just changed the gauze so it’s gone now, there’s no more blood if you feel ready to take it off.”

Y/N sobbed more and ripped their makeshift blind fold off, “I’m so stupid. . . You got shot and you have to comfort me because of a little blood . . .”

“No, no, no. Don’t talk about yourself like that, you are not stupid. You’re scared and overwhelmed. I already knew I was okay but you didn’t when you came in there, not only that but as soon as you came into this extremely stressful situation you were greeted with your worst fear. You’re all I’m worried about right now.”

Y/N smiled “I’m so happy you’re okay. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Well luckily you don’t have to worry about it.”

-Thank you for reading!! please reblog and let me know what you think :)))

Holly’s tiny taglist!!: @hercleverboy @reidingmelodies @rigatonireid @muffin-cup @takeyouleap-of-faith 

(let me know if you want to be added or removed!!)

[ikaris-whore]

Morning Muffin

Pairing: Carter Baizen X Reader

Prompt: “Why are you baking muffins at 3 am?”

A/N: This is for @baezen’s writing challenge. I saw the prompt and had to do it, obviously. ((after months of searching for it on my blog to add to my masterlist after my URL change in February... I have decided to repost it. So enjoy again, or for the first time.))

You were restless, couldn’t sleep a wink. Laying there in bed with Carter’s arm wrapped around your midsection, your mind did what it always did in this situation -- think up new recipe ideas. One hit you and you had to get up to make them. Gently you pried his fingers from you, careful not to wake him from his slumber, as you rolled off the bed placing your pillow under his arm. He pulled it close while mumbling something as you grabbed your glasses off the nightstand and put them on. Smiling, you shook your head tiptoeing out of the room -- leaving the door slightly ajar --  moving down the hall towards the kitchen. 

Pulling out supplies as quietly as you could you set them all out on the large marble island you now had for all your prep work when inspiration hit and you weren’t at your shop. You started mixing together the ingredients, mind wandering on how your life got here in the first place as you continued through the steps of making your new inspired recipe. 

Carter and you had met in Paris when he walked into your little patisserie that was nestled between two shops, your apartment placed above it. It was the only way you could manage to make your dream come true of being among some of the best patisseries in the world. After graduating from culinary school you packed up all of the belongings you couldn’t live without into two large suitcases and hopped a plane prepared to work from the ground up. 

No one had  wanted to hire an American -- and it was painfully obvious you were by your accent when you spoke French in your meetings with potential employers. You had landed a job at one of the more famous places after struggling for a few months, renting a room from a lovely older woman who was great at conversation, full of wisdom, and helped you with lessons in losing your accent. You continued to live with her as you worked your way up to being just below the executive pastry chef. 

Unfortunately your first friend in the city fell ill in her old age just three years after the two of you met. She left you her building — you took what used to be her pride and joy, a flower shop on the bottom floor and turned it into your patisserie. With the top two floors you preserved the old french charm that she had made into her home and moved back into the first place you called home here. 

————————

Carter walked in during a lull in customers the first time looking for the “best dessert money could buy” probably for one of the many girls he had brought to Paris to woo. You internally rolled your eyes at him but on the outside you smiled and pointed out a particular favorite of your customers in the pastry case. Offering him a test taste, as you would any other customer. The way he hummed after taking the bite then went on about the complex yet familiar flavor palette of the pastry had you melting. He took that pastry, and a few others, on your recommendation as you continued to talk him through some of your favorites and offer him samples to see his reaction again and again. Walking out with two to go boxes after a few more customers walked in; he left you a hearty tip and his number. 

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

You did nothing with his number until he came back a few months later. He walked in and you noticed him right away but you were in the middle of helping an older woman pick something for husband. You watched him get his order from one of your cashiers, handing her a note, and leave without a word to you. 

After you finished, and the crowd died down you went back into the kitchen to create some new pastries. The cashier brought the note to you and set it next to the dough you were rolling out. You paused what you were doing immediately to read it. Why? Who knows, but the urgency you felt didn’t stop when you get to the end of the letter where he asked you out on a date and left his number again with a sly joke about never calling him last time. 

Forgetting about what you were doing you pulled your phone out and dialed his number. One ring. Two rings. “Helllo? This is Carter.” He was met with silence. His next “Hello” pulled you out of your stupor. You greeted him and gave him your name and his voice grew softer at that when he replied. 

The two of you went on the date as he promised where he took you to a restaurant you had wanted to get into but couldn’t. The two of you walked along the Seine hand in hand before he dropped you back off at your door with a kiss. Nothing more. He was leaving in the morning, but would be back in a month. He made you promise to leave a full day open for him. You groaned at the thought of having to leave your shop for a full day but agreed, before kissing him again and walking inside with one last glance over your shoulder as he watched. 

His monthly visits turned into daily face timing, then turned into longer visits, and eventually the two of you were basically living together in your apartment -- not wanting to be without the other for too long. 

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

You were broke out of your revery as you hand mixed the glaze for your muffins when a pair of lips were placed on the curve of your bared shoulder that your sweater had fallen off of.. 

“Beautiful.” A kiss was placed closer to under your ear. “Why are you making muffins at three in the morning?” he questioned his voice full of sleep still. 

“Hello handsome.” You purred as you lean the back of your head against his chest pulling the bright blue spatula up out of the bowl to check the consistency — not quite runny enough. “I couldn’t sleep and inspiration struck.” 

He kissed the side of your head and took the bowl from you setting it on the counter before you could add your ingredient to make it more runny. “Come back to bed. This can wait. I can not.” 

“Carter!” It was a whisper yell --  residual from you trying to keep quiet -- as he took the bowl from you. 

Pouting you turn around to face him; turning it up a little more when you felt his chest rise and fall under your palms in laughter. 

“Baby. I mean it.” his face grows closer to yours.

“You know how I am once I get a wild hair, Car.” you close the space more not changing from your pout.

“I know and that’s why I married you.” he placed a soft kiss on your pushed out bottom lip. “Now come on.” His hand grasped the curve of your butt and lifted you up as his hands slid to your thighs, steadying you. He was right, the muffins could wait.

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Maybe James and sirius adopting a kid and being all cute and protective..

((A/N: Mentions of past abuse for both Harry and Sirius, and a discussion of bullying and racism here at the beginning))

"Hey Haz, how was school?" James asked. It wasn't a completely innocent question because Harry had been having trouble recently, but he hoped his tone was light enough that Harry wouldn't feel like he was interrogating him. 

"Fine," he muttered, in that way that always meant it hadn't been fine. 

James looked up from the essay he'd been reading. If it were Sirius, he'd ask if Sirius wanted to talk about it. If he said yes, they'd start talking, and if he said no, that meant they'd talk about it later. But Harry had been neglected before he came to live with them, and letting him have time alone when he was upset didn't feel the same that it would have to another teenager. Watching what he said around Harry was different than watching what he said around Sirius. He and Sirius had been figuring out what bothered Sirius at the same time, when they were both teenagers. It was a whole different playing field now that he was an adult and it felt like Harry was still a kid. Seriously, hadn't he just been ten yesterday? And now, somehow, he was fifteen and dealing with shite that James had never had to deal with. James swallowed, trying to think of the best way to phrase this. "Was something bothering you?" 

Harry clenched his jaw and stared at the floor moodily. 

Wow, James really didn't miss his teenage days. He'd been a pretty happy guy, and even he'd been fucking miserable compared to being an adult. "Was someone bothering you?" He might be way off base, but he remembered getting shit for being Indian at the prep school where pretty much everyone else was generationally British and pasty skinned. 

"It's no big deal," Harry muttered. "I can handle it." He shifted his bag on his shoulder then shuffled off to his room. 

James set the papers to the side and wondered when Sirius would be home; he was always better at dealing with these issues when they came up. He blew out a breath and rubbed a hand through his hair. If he wanted to be a decent father, he was going to have to have these talks without Sirius doing everything for him all the time. He pushed himself up and walked to Harry's room. "Hey," James said, leaning against the door frame. He didn't want to invite himself into Harry's room without permission-- Sirius had made sure to tell him about respecting private space because it had never been an issue when it was just them. "I- erm. I don't want to pester you, but I also don't want you to think that I don't care. I know it's been bad at school, but I can't help unless you tell me what it is." 

"I said I can handle it." 

"Taking people's shit because you think you can stand it isn't the same as being able to handle it. Or- maybe it is, but I don't think you should have to." 

For a minute, he thought Harry wasn't going to answer. "She said you're not my real dad," he said quietly, like he was ashamed of what this other girl said to him. 

"Well I mean, I'm not your birth father, and that means a lot to some people." 

"Sirius only puts up with me," he said, wiping at his face in a way that meant he was starting to cry but didn't want anyone to notice. 

"Sirius loves you," James corrected. "He was the one that saw you first. He told me I should meet you because you were amazing, and he was right." Tentatively, he took a step inside, walking over to Harry and putting a hand on his shoulder. When Harry leaned into it, James put his arm all the way around him and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "We can switch schools if that's what you want." 

Harry shook his head but leaned into James's side. "She was in a bad mood, it'll be fine." 

"Okay," James said slowly, wondering how he was going to broach this next part. Bugger, he'd never been able to manage subtlety. "I. Erm. I'm concerned that people are bullying you. And that you're not telling anyone because you think it doesn't matter." Because at Harry's old school, his cousin had encouraged that behaviour in the other students. No one could be Harry's friend back then even if they wanted to, and James remembered what it was like to be in school; Harry looked different and he didn't dress right and he didn't care to try and be like everyone else. That meant people were going to notice, and they weren't going to keep their feelings about it to themselves. "I- I don't like bringing this up because you probably don't want to think about it, but if that's happening, I would really like it if you told me." 

"It's not- no one's beating me up or anything. It's not like that." 

"Glad to hear it, but that doesn't mean they aren't bullying you." 

"I'm not weak." 

James swallowed. "You remind me so much of Sirius. I love both of you, but that's also pretty scary. His parents... they were abusing him, and he never said anything because he didn't think it was bad enough. I would really like to not wait until we get to that point with you. Being a teenager isn't the greatest, but I also don't want for you to look back on this time and only be able to think about how much you hated everything." 

Harry kind of broke down crying, and James couldn't tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

*

In other news, Sirius went down to Harry's school-- soon to be his old school-- to get some record or summat that they needed to transfer him, and they tried to convince him to change his mind. Sirius ended up yelling at a few people, which wasn't really anything new. They almost called the police on him, which also wasn't anything new. 

Harry thought it was hilarious. 

*

"Nobody told me being a parent was so bloody stressful," Sirius mumbled, his face smushed against James's chest. 

"No offense, love, but what did you expect?" 

"Your parents never seemed that stressed." 

James snickered. "I brought home my boyfriend when I was sixteen and asked if he could live with us. Believe me, they were stressed about it, even if they never let us know about it." 

"Not to mention that one year you had detention literally every day." 

"Yeah... they weren't too thrilled with that. Let's just be happy that Harry isn't more like us." 

Sirius groaned loudly. 

"He only got in trouble once," James said, and he was kind of surprised that, yeah, it had only been the one time. 

"And that was defending his friend so it barely counts. I can't believe he has a bloody boyfriend that he never told us about." 

"He told us about him tonight; that was the whole point." 

"Sod off," Sirius said, shoving weakly at James's head. "I want to whinge, and I can't do that if you're being reasonable." 

James yawned widely, then threw his glasses at the night stand. They skid across the surface and fell to the ground. He was going to regret that in the morning, when he couldn't remember what had happened to them. "Don't let me stop you. Go right ahead." 

"He said he's planning on living with him when he goes to uni. He's way too young for that." 

"Mhm," James said, even though him and Sirius had done the same thing when they moved out of Mum and Dad's house. Technically, with Sirius moving in with him and his parents before they'd graduated, they had done it younger than Harry. 

"He's going to get his heart broken. Harry's too good of a person to deserve that." 

For most people, getting your heart broken at least once was expected. James hadn't had to deal with that because he'd fancied Lily, gotten over it, then immediately fallen head first for Sirius. The closest Sirius had gotten to heartbreak was when he thought James was going to marry Lily and they were going to have five kids together-- never mind that Lily had loudly and repeatedly stated that she didn't like children and later come out as a lesbian. But James had agreed to let Sirius whinge, so he hummed again. 

"I take it back, you're no fun like this." 

"'m tired." 

"Big baby." 

"Says the man curled up on top of me." 

"I'm only half on top of you," Sirius said. 

"Much better. Listen love, if Harry is going to get his heart broken by this Draco bloke, the best thing we can do is be there for him. By which I mean that I don't want for you to freak him out with another sex talk." 

"The first sex talk went fine, you arse." 

"Uh-huh." It had, actually, but admitting that was less funny. James yawned again, snuggling a little closer to Sirius. 

James started to drift off, but he was still aware enough to hear when Sirius whispered, "I can't believe he's moving out soon. It feels like he barely moved in." 

"Yeah, I know." James kissed his head. "He's not leaving us forever, just cause he's moving out." 

"It won't be the same." 

All James could do was hold him tighter. 

[starlocked01]

This Do I Swear, I Will Be There

AO3

Masterpost- Previous- Next

Summary: Logan had faith in his soulmate until an unfortunate accident blinded him. Content Warning: Unsympathetic Patton, Unsympathetic Janus, Physical Injury, Manipulation

Day 22 Logicality- When you close your eyes you can see through your soulmate’s eyes.

Small hands on a windowsill, pulling up and gazing out into the night sky. Focused on the brightest star in the Northern Cross, Deneb. Everything went black.

Logan smiled and opened his eyes, climbing on his bed to look out the window and find the same constellation and star. He and his soulmate would do this every night, a reminder that they were under the same sky, sharing the same star.

He didn't know much about his soulmate yet- until recently their vision had been blurry. Logan supposed getting his own glasses had prompted them to get their vision checked. He shut his eyes again.

Blackness, eyes fluttering open again, hands held up cupped together in the shape of a heart around their shared star, hands on the windowsill climbing down back under the covers decorated with tiny frogs, the ceiling, blackness.

Logan opened his eyes and climbed under his own covers, falling asleep quickly in the quiet night. ---- Sometimes it was easier to concentrate on his teachers' voices when he watched his soulmate’s classes. Logan never recognized the teachers or other students, and sometimes found his soulmate staring out the window instead of focusing. Perhaps this was his version of a window.

One time, Logan managed to catch his soulmate signing a test to hand in.

Patton Connelly . Standing and walking to the front of the class, nervous finger taps, drop the paper, and retreat. Lay head down on the desk. Blackness.  

Logan quickly opened his eyes and jotted his own name down on his notes.

Logan Crawford. :)

He added the smiley face, hoping Patton would like it. He certainly liked the name Patton. He closed his eyes.

Blackness, head lifting and pulling out a pen and post it. :3 Blackness

They had never written notes before. It felt like cheating to use words, but then again he wanted to know more about his soulmate. Logan opened his eyes and drew the symbols for male and female and a question mark. It wasn't cheating if they only drew pictures, right?

Patton drew the same symbols then circled the question mark

Well, that was, not straight-forward.

Logan drew a small heart around their initials L+P and closed his eyes for a response.

Patton's hands forming a heart before they lay their head back down on the desk.

Logan sighed and went back to taking notes. ---- Moving truck. The grass along the highway. A familiar road sign and a turn signal. A pad of paper and pencil.

I hate moving so much :< ---- Logan had watched Patton clean their glasses so many times, he knew exactly what the frames looked like. It always amused him that they matched his own.

He would have recognized those glasses anywhere, but he didn't expect them on the kid whose locker was next to his. Logan closed his eyes.

Books and a well-worn backpack, putrid neon green lockers.

"Patton," his voice came out a whisper.

Head turning. A boy with his eyes closed and mouth agape.

Logan opened his eyes again and smiled widely. Patton looked confused and closed their eyes for just a moment before reopening them with a happy grin.

"Logan!"

Logan took in every part of his soulmate that he could see, "it's good to finally meet you!"

Patton nodded with tears in their eyes before wrapping Logan in a hug and burying their face in his chest.

The pair were inseparable. They studied together in the library and went on dates around town. They found a hill away from the worst of the light pollution and would lay on a blanket just watching the stars together for hours talking about everything.

Logan listened as Patton told him about the pain of moving every few years to a new school and a new group of friends. Patton was sympathetic as Logan ranted about ecology and the damage being done to the Earth each day. They were there for each other, and when they weren't together physically they still had their summer star. ---- Logan didn't want to believe the moving truck in Patton's driveway was real. This was still their senior year, why now when they were so close to graduating?

Patton looked deep into Logan’s eyes, "I will find you again."

"I know it's just hard, Pat," Logan ran his fingers through their hair.

Patton smiled sadly and hugged him tight, "just close your eyes and remember this," they squeezed tighter.

Logan nodded and let the tears slip down his face. ---- Patton was too far away to make it back for Prom and Logan’s parents wouldn't let him go to theirs. But they still made a point to show Logan the dress they were going to wear.

Maybe Patton didn’t realize that Logan could see their date to the dance behind them in the mirror.

Logan didn't want his soulmate to be lonely but it stung to see the boy in a yellow and black tux dancing with Patton all night. His smiles at Patton pierced Logan, but he couldn’t look away. He was thankful when Patton pushed the boy away from trying to steal a kiss. Logan didn't want to share them like that.

Logan focused on his studies, excelling in college prep classes that earned him college credit. He was able to talk the university into allowing him to take a chemistry lab during his first semester.

Logan always wore safety glasses, but the explosion was strong enough that it didn't matter. He was rushed to the hospital but it was too late. Logan had been blinded.

He spent a week in recovery after surgery. Most of that time he spent watching Patton's life. Patton didn’t seem to notice until they tried to find their star and Logan didn't reply. Logan watched them panic, texting him. His phone had been a casualty of the lab accident.

Patton tried to see through Logan’s eyes several times throughout the week to no avail. Logan watched as Patton reached out to friends for comfort. He screamed, scaring a nurse when he saw Patton text that his soulmate must have died.

He wanted to tell them the truth. He wanted to find Patton and know things would be okay for the two of them. ---- Swirling white skirt and sleek white pant legs, what a beautiful combination of dress and tux, the smile on Patton's face for their big day.

Logan was still finishing his degree. It had taken the better part of a year to learn how to physically cope with blindness, and the next five years to work his way through his classes.

Patton was doing just great, apparently. Logan wished he could look away from the point of view of his soulmate walking down the aisle toward another man. Something inside Logan broke. This man had stolen his soulmate and he couldn't win them back. Patton looked happy. Logan didn't deserve to try and win them back for himself.

The voice in his head whispered but you're soulmates and he pushed it down. What did soulmates matter? Just because his heart was bleeding didn't mean he had the right to stop Patton's from continuing on. ~~~~ Finding Logan had been the happiest day of their life. Patton had known the moment they saw Logan that they were complements, meant to be together in life.

Moving before their senior year had been torture, but they quickly found friends to keep themself from feeling empty without Logan by their side.

Their heart was cracked when Logan couldn't come to their Prom. They heard Janus’ silvery voice reassure them that Logan would still want them to go and have fun, so they accepted when Janus asked them to go with him.

Patton never felt smart enough to keep up with Logan, but they were so happy for him when he got into an ivy league school.

Janus was there for them when their world went blank. Janus reassured them that Logan wouldn't purposefully keep them in the dark. There really was only one terrible terrible explanation.

Janus held their hands as they cried. He comforted them and told them Logan would have wanted them to be strong enough to live on without him. Janus said a lot of things. Patton started to agree.

Patton said yes when Janus proposed because it meant they wouldn't be alone. Logan wasn't there to object and Janus wanted them. At least they could pretend that being wanted was being loved.

They adopted a baby daughter together and once again Patton began to feel love in their heart.  She was brilliant and Janus let them name her Mercedes. Patton was so proud of their little girl. Their life was so happy now.

Patton didn’t even think to question Parent-Teacher Conferences. Mercedes was a good student, excited about math and science and she just couldn't wait for Dad and Noni to meet her science teacher Mr. Crawford.

Mr. Crawford looked up, startled when Patton and Janus wordlessly entered the room. Patton knew that face, even though it had been years since they'd seen it last. Janus and Mercedes didn't know anything was wrong. They feared what Logan would say in front of their family, how they would explain themselves.

"Well, shall we begin, Mx. Shepard?" Logan's voice was even, betraying no emotion.

"Actually it's still Connelly. I didn't take my husband's name," Patton's voice came out a whisper and Janus gave them a strange look at the word "still".

"My apologies, Mx. Connelly. My TA must have mistranscribed it into my computer. Now Mercedes is a wonderful student. She could almost be my daughter," Logan's face twitched in the barest hint of a smirk as his words cut Patton like a saw.

"Mr. Crawford is so cool! Nani, did you know he's blind??" Mercedes bounced in her seat with a huge grin.

"Blind?" Patton's voice faltered.

"Oh dear, if you don't mind me asking, since birth?" Janus sounded genuinely concerned.

"No actually, it was a lab accident my freshman year of college," Logan stated simply and heard a sob from Patton, "there's no need to get emotional about it. I've adapted to losing my sight. Mr. Shepard, your partner is quite empathetic. No wonder you two make such a great team raising Mercedes."

"Logan! Please stop!" Patton cried.

"Logan?" Janus looked confused but quickly put the name in its place and his face paled.

"I'm sorry, is something wrong, Mx. Connelly?" Logan's face was set hard.

"Janus, take Mercedes. I need to have a word alone with Mr. Crawford," Patton stood, squeezing Mercedes' hand before Janus led her out of the room, "blind? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't you wait? Or find me, like you promised?" Logan could feel the anger boiling like acid in his stomach. It felt cold and caustic and unimaginably dangerous but he lived with it constantly beneath the surface. He had been waiting for this night from the moment he met Mercedes in his class, "the only things I can ever see are snapshots of your happy life without me, Patton."

"I didn't know," Patton looked as if they were seeing a ghost.

"Did you think I didn't notice Janus was there? Even before you thought I died. We shared our star each night and you shared your heart each day. We're done here," Logan snapped his laptop shut and crossed his arms. If he could see he'd be seeing red.

"But I love you, I thought you would want me to be happy."

"Are you happy? Then go be happy. What I want has never mattered to you because you don't love me. The boy you left behind is dead and you know nothing of the man I've become," Logan stood forcefully, "now, if you don't mind, I have other students."

"Logan let me try again, please," but their request fell on deaf ears. Patton sighed and left the room, glancing back at his soulmate one last time.

Tag List: @stoicpanther @ifrickenhatedeverythingaboutthis @idontgiveafuckaboutshit @tsshipmonth2020

[omgjasminesimone]

Kept Part 3

Bryce x MC x Ethan

Previous Part: Part 2

Next Part: Part 4

Word Count: 2800

Casey stirs her martini with her straw distractedly. She’s bored with the table conversation of the older doctors.

If it was medical talk, she’d be tuned in, taking in all the information like a sponge. But instead, they’re discussing their kids, and SAT prep classes, and college applications, and their vacation homes in Cape Cod that they’re worried they might need to sell to pay college tuition since their children won’t qualify for financial aid, which these wealthy doctors seem to think is unfair. Casey rolls her eyes. God forbid they have to give up their third homes.

“Would you like to dance?” Ethan offers, picking up on her desire to flee.

Casey downs the rest of her martini before nodding enthusiastically, gripping Ethan’s arm and standing from the round table.

Ethan draws her to him, resting a hand on her lower back as his other hand grips her’s. They sway to the light jazz playing softly from the stage.

“You look beautiful tonight Cassandra.” Ethan praises.

Casey glances down at the tight-fitting red dress Ethan bought for her. It’s not really her style, and she’d be more comfortable in something looser, with a higher neckline, but the dress does look good on her, which is evident by the way many of the men here are looking at her. Their wives throw disapproving looks in her direction, and she hears one woman whisper loudly that Dr. Ramsey seems to have brought an escort as his date.

Casey looks down at the ground, feeling insulted, but knowing ultimately, it’s not far from the truth.

“Ignore them. They’re just jealous because you’re young and beautiful.” Ethan tries to comfort, drawing her closer and placing a kiss to the top of her head.

Casey grips the lapel of Ethan’s suit, not feeling comforted, but at least Ethan is trying.

The song ends and Ethan takes Casey’s hand. “Another drink?” He asks.

“Yeah, that would be great.” Casey replies, allowing him to pull her toward the open bar in the corner.  

She feels Ethan’s hand tense in her’s when they make it to the bar. She glances over his shoulder to see what has upset him.

“Ethan.” A beautiful woman greets, eyes briefly drifting over to Casey. She’s speaking to Casey now, but her eyes return to Ethan. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

Casey smiles, offering her hand for a handshake. “No, we haven’t, but I know who you are Dr. Emery. I’ve followed your work, it’s truly inspiring. A black woman serving as head of surgery, and then chief. Just, wow.” Casey spiels. “Oh, and my name is Cassandra Valentine. I’m in my second year of medical school at Tufts.”

“Second year of medical school? Wow, you’re so young, but already running in these elite circles.” Harper observes, a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes aimed at Casey.  

“Harper, I didn’t know you’d be here.” Ethan says, his tone almost apologetic as he lets go of Casey’s hand.

Casey decides to make herself scarce, picking up on some unspoken tension between the two doctors that seems to need resolution. Casey excuses herself to the bar, taking a seat on a stool.

“Hi, can I get a glass of sangria please?” Casey orders.

The handsome bartender nods, opening a new bottle of sangria that looks like it was imported from Spain. Casey pulls a 5-dollar bill from her cleavage and drops it in the tip jar. The bartender gives her a grateful nod as he slides her glass over.

Casey turns in the bar stool as she sips on her drink, observing the room. This is one of Casey’s favorite things to do at these fancy parties Ethan drags her to, people watch. Sometimes when she’s out in Boston with Ethan, they’ll guess at each person’s story. He’s surprisingly adept at reading people for a man who definitely prefers as little human interaction as possible.

Casey observes the doctors networking, the largely empty dance floor, and the many doctors sitting at their tables on their phones, looking like they’d rather be anywhere than this gala. She glances at her watch, groaning when she sees it’s only 9:06 pm. How long until she can get out of here?

Ethan slips into the bar stool beside her, ordering a whiskey and slipping a $20 into the tip jar when the bartender turns away. “Sorry about that.” He apologizes, placing a hand on her lower back in a familiar manner.

“So, you and Dr. Harper Emery, huh? Quite the medical power couple. What broke you guys up?” Casey questions.

Ethan bristles, looking like he doesn’t want to tell her. But then he sighs and looks resigned. “She’s my boss now. An administrator. It changed her. It changed us.” He admits.

Casey’s eyebrows furrow. “So, you didn’t like the change in power dynamics?” She clarifies.

“It’s not the power dynamics, not really. It’s the fact that she completely went back on everything she believes in, that she told me she believes in, for a promotion. She’s all about hospital policy now. She doesn’t strive to be innovative, to take risks. That’s not the Harper I knew. Not the one I fell in love with.” Ethan explains.

“Well, sometimes the tried and true method is the best path of action. I’m sure Harper Emery knows when to take risks, versus when to go with the standard.” Casey tries to defend, but she trails off when Ethan frowns at her.

“Hospital standards are seldom the best course of action. You’ll find that out once you start your residency.” Ethan insists.

Casey wants to respond to that, inform Ethan that just because she’s still in school doesn’t mean she’s ignorant about hospital policy, but she’s interrupted when more doctors approach. One of the newcomers claps Ethan heartily on the back.

“Naveen.” Ethan greets, obliging the man with a small smile.

“Ethan! Why didn’t you tell me you would be here?” Dr. Naveen Banerji, another well-known doctor whose work Casey is familiar with, asks.

“I wasn’t planning on being here, but my girlfriend Cassandra was down here so I thought I’d come down and surprise her.” Ethan responds.

Casey flinches at being referred to as Ethan’s girlfriend. She’s Bryce’s girlfriend. She’s simply Ethan’s paid play thing. She hides her initial reaction, determined to continue with the act. She can act like Ethan’s girlfriend for the night if that’s what he wants. She flashes a brilliant smile at Dr. Banerji.

“Nice to meet you Dr. Banerji. Cassandra Valentine, and I’m a big fan of yours. I’m interested in going into Diagnostics myself.”

Dr. Banerji smiles. “We could use you in Diagnostics Cassandra. I can tell that you’re a good judge of character.”

“Diagnostics would also benefit from some more diversity, and I can’t tell what you are exactly, but you’re at least part black, right? So that would be good for black patients. They’d feel like you’re really listening to them, that you care. The diversity angle must have helped you when you applied to Tufts, I heard it was very competitive last year.” A young man around her age interrupts.

Dr. Banerji frowns, glancing at the blonde male. “This is my research assistant, Dr. Landry Olsen. He recently graduated from medical school and started his residency under me.” He explains.

Casey’s blood boils at Landry’s insinuation that she only got into Tufts because she was a minority candidate. Of course, it couldn’t be because of all the studying she did between working several part time jobs in college, or her stellar recommendation letters from professors who saw how talented and passionate she was.

She glances over at Ethan to see if he’s going to defend her, mention all the promise he sees in her, the promise that spurred him to pay for her textbooks and tuition initially. But he’s watching Harper talk to some pharmaceutical reps out of the corner of his eye, seemingly not even listening to the conversation.

She can’t help but compare Ethan’s reaction to how Bryce reacted when a drunk, rude frat boy asked her what she was at a Harvard party he brought her to. It’s not like she’s not used to the question, with her mix of Black, Latina, and some European DNA, but no one had ever stuck up for her before Bryce.  

“She’s a who, not a what, asshole.” Bryce replied, taking her hand and gently pulling her away from the questioner.

Bryce was always doing nice things for her, going above and beyond what she expected. He planned an entire romantic Cape Cod weekend for them, and she ditched him to hang out with her sugar daddy who’s clearly still in love with his ex and using her as some kind of more comfortable and powerless replacement.

Casey frowns, glancing down at the floor and wishing for not the first time tonight that she was at dinner with Bryce. Casey turns her attention back to Landry. “And where’d you go to school Dr. Olsen? I assume your parents must have made a large donation to get you in, since I can’t imagine you did well at your alumni interview.” Casey snaps back.

Landry’s jaw drops, and Casey notices Naveen biting back a smile. Ethan still isn’t paying attention.

“Please excuse me.” Casey says, squeezing through Naveen and Landry to return to her table.

“I like that one.” She hears Naveen tell Ethan as she leaves.

She’s alone at the table for several minutes before Ethan returns. He’s brought more drinks, and he nurses a whiskey as he watches Harper for the rest of the evening. Casey isn’t jealous, but she is annoyed. Normally, Ethan would have wanted to leave by now, but he seems determined to watch Dr. Emery all night.

Casey lets out a sigh of relief when Dr. Emery finally slips out of the building with a handsome anesthesiologist around 11 pm. Casey has made all the small talk she can muster, eaten every appetizer, and she’s sleepy drunk at this point. Now they can finally go. Ethan downs the rest of his fifth or sixth whiskey, slamming the glass down on the table when he’s done.

He stands and offers Casey his hand. “Let’s go.” He says shortly.

Casey nods and slides her hand into his, nodding at the doctors still at their table as they excuse themselves. Ethan picked her up in a Dryve ridesharing car, and he orders another one as they wait outside in the crisp Cape Cod Fall air.

Their ride arrives fairly quickly, and they clamor into the back seat. Casey frowns when the driver goes past where she knows she needs to take a right to get back to Bryce.  

“Did you set it to go back to where I’m staying with Jackie and Sienna?” Casey questions.

Ethan blinks slowly. She’s never seen him so drunk. “Oh, I forgot. Why don’t you just stay with me in my hotel tonight? I’ll order you another Dryve in the morning.”

Casey frowns. She wants to go talk to Bryce, convince him to continue with their current status quo, tell him that she loves him too, but she can’t give up the lifestyle Ethan provides. But she can’t tell Ethan any of this, so she simply nods.

When Ethan closes his eyes again and starts to nod off, she pulls her phone from her purse and texts Bryce.

‘Hey, I’m still out. Don’t wait up. I’ll be back in the morning before it’s time to drive back to Boston.’ She texts.

She sees that Bryce has read her message, but he doesn’t respond. She frowns, but now is not the time to address that.

The Dryve pulls up to a very nice hotel, and Casey shakes Ethan’s shoulder to wake him from his drunken slumber.

They make their way up to his room. Ethan stumbles with the key card a few times before managing to successfully slide it into the door.

Casey walks into the suite, looking out the floor to ceiling window view of Cape Cod and the bay. It’s stunningly beautiful, but of course she’d expect no less from Ethan. He’s taken her on a couple of vacations before, and he always spares no expenses.

Ethan stumbles over to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. “Would you like a glass of water Cassandra?” He asks, and Casey nods gratefully, joining him at the kitchen counter.

She gulps down the water quickly, releasing a happy sigh when she’s done. “What?” Casey questions when she notices the way Ethan is looking at her.

“Do you think Harper is going to sleep with that doctor she left with?” Ethan asks. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but his feigned disinterest is unconvincing.

Casey shrugs. “If you still love her, you should tell her. She can’t read your mind.”

“I don’t still love her. I have you now. You need me, you let me help, you listen to my advice.  Everything is easy with you. Nothing was easy with Harper.”

 Casey glances into Ethan’s stormy blue eyes. “Easy isn’t necessarily better.” Casey presses.

“Trust me, it’s better.” Ethan insists, arms going to either side of her, caging her in against the counter. He kisses her sloppily.

Casey turns her head to the side to break the kiss, but Ethan is undeterred, lifting her onto the counter and stepping between her legs. “What are you doing?” Casey asks, attempting to push him off her.

“Don’t you see? I’m not your boss. There are no weird power dynamics like what I have with Harper. So, we can do this. We can do everything.” Ethan explains as he begins to unzip her dress.

Casey pushes him away with more force this time, and he stumbles back, surprised. “No weird power dynamics? You’re literally paying me to pretend to be your girlfriend.” Casey retorts.

Ethan’s eyes narrow. “You’re right. I am paying you. And if you want those payments to continue, I’m going to need more than your companionship and a few kisses here and there.”

“I’m not a prostitute.” Casey counters, eyes narrowing.

“Could have fooled me.” Ethan retaliates. Before she can think better of it, Casey slaps him.

She breathes heavily in the aftermath of the slap, her cheat heaving with rage. “How DARE you. I wanted a mentor. Someone with more experience who knew how to navigate the medical world. You’re the one who turned it into this, and I went along with it because you’re an amazing diagnostician and I thought I needed to stay in your good graces, but fuck you Ethan Ramsey if you think I’m going to sleep with you just so you’ll invite me to these parties where the doctors I’ve studied and respected treat me like I’m an escort and you do absolutely nothing to defend me.”

Ethan scoffs. “So, you’re done? Then I’m done paying for your penthouse apartment, and your tuition.” He threatens.

“Do what you have to do. In your mind you’ve warped this into you being charitable, helping out someone in need, but that’s not what this was. You’re a narcissist who is in the midst of some midlife crisis because your ex-girlfriend is more successful than you, so you had to find someone weaker and try to keep them down so you could maintain the upper footing. Well, I’m done letting you step all over me.”

Casey slips off the counter and slams the door behind her.

It’s raining when Casey makes it to the lobby, so she waits inside for her Dryve, literally shaking with rage. She doesn’t know how she read things with Ethan so wrong. She really never thought he would take it this far. She assumed he had some respect for her, but obviously, she was very wrong. She squeezes her eyes shut, resisting her desire to cry. Bryce was so right about everything.

When her driver finally arrives, she slips into the car and sits in silence, going over the night in her mind, planning her next steps. She’ll need to move. Maybe she’ll see if she can become an RA on campus. The free housing RAs get would be a major perk. The only thing in her future that is clear to her is that she wants to be with Bryce, if he’ll still have her.

When the Dryve pulls up into the driveway of Bryce’s professor’s summer home, Casey quickly runs out and through the rain to the front door. She pounds on the door heavily as she continues to get drenched.

Bryce opens the door, in his pajamas with his hair disheveled from sleep. “Casey? I thought you were staying with Ramsey- “

Casey cuts him off by gripping the front of his pajamas and pulling him down into a passionate kiss. Despite the fact that she’s dripping wet, Bryce pulls her to him anyway, slipping his tongue into her mouth.  

“I want you Bryce. Only you.” Casey decides, before kissing him again.

…

Author’s Note: Next chapter will be an epilogue to tie everything up.

taglist:  @octobereighth  @akrenich  @lovehugsandcandy @regina-and-happiness  @brightpinkpeppercorn  @choicesarehard  @lizeboredom   @desiree-0816  @hellooliviaolivia @dreaming-of-movies  @friedherringclodthing  @weaving-in-words  @fairydustandsarcasm  @goldenjellyfish12   @pessimystic-fangirl  @mimikoasahina  @srta-give-me-my-jax-rl   @god-save-the-keen  @caroldxnvxrs  @cora-nova @emceesynonymroll @ohsnapitzlovehacker @choicesgremlin @anxious-arliah​ @cordoniasmost @lahelable @annekebbphotography @liamzigmichael4ever​ @crispycrunchyleaves​ @mskaneko​

[arcticdementor]

When I saw him, he was outside Payne Whitney. Nothing about the tall, gray façade suggests it is the university gym, unless there is a new trend of contractors housing athletics departments in Gothic cathedrals. You wouldn’t guess by looking at the frosted glass panes and arches that the third floor hosts the world’s largest suspended indoor swimming pool. It is a work of art, like the rest of Yale’s buildings.

Marcus was smoking by a bench, his face jaundiced from three packs that day. This is atypical for Yale students—most abstain from smoking. There was no reason for him to smoke so much, just as there was no reason for me to ride around campus on a blue Razor scooter. But Yale students tend to have such quirks. His suit-jacket was dusty and smelled of sweat—he didn’t mind lifting weights in a dress shirt and trousers if that meant more time to read Nietzsche alone at the bar.

When I hugged him, he felt skeletal. I asked if he had eaten today. He assured me that his earthly requirements were limited—no need for anything other than alcohol and cigarettes. “I can buy you a sandwich.” He refused. I insisted. A nice one. Bacon and egg. Or steak and cheese. I was testy now. “GHeav is right there. I’ll be back in six minutes.”

He turned his face towards me, warm with friendliness—and with one sentence, he changed our relationship forever.

“You know I’m rich, right?”

“What?”

“You know I have a trust fund, right? I can buy my own sandwich if I wanted it.”

This is the moment when after three years of friendship, Marcus sat down and told me his life story. His cottages in Norway. Sneaking into the family study. Learning about the cost of hardwoods and hearing his boorish, critical father sulk in 5-star hotel rooms.

Marcus did not act this way out of anxiety, grief, stress, or because he had nobody to tell him his habits will kill him. He lived as a starving writer not out of necessity, but for the aesthetic. Out of some desire to imitate the Bohemian 19th century writers. Out of artistry. Style. Intentional choice.

…

This is a story about an institution and an elite that have lost themselves.

…

Over the past decade, elite colleges have been staging grounds for what Matthew Yglesias has termed the Great Awokening. Dozens of scandals have illustrated a stifling new ideological orthodoxy that is trickling down into the rest of society through HR departments, corporations, churches, foundations, and activist organizations. The nation is becoming polarized and its parts disconnected. The right is evil, and the left is stupid. Or is it the other way around?

The campus “free speech” debate is just a side-effect. So are debates about “diversity” and “inclusion.” The real problems run much deeper. The real problems start with Marcus and me, and the masks we wear for each other.

…

Based on statistics from the class of 2013, approximately 2% of students hailed from the lowest income quintile, while 69% came from the top 20%. How did those poor students fare after graduation? Around 2% of students at Yale move from the bottom to the top quintile. In other words, nearly all of them. You show up poor, and you leave rich. Going to an Ivy League school may be the fastest way to join the upper class.

But this low number of 2% surprised me because when I was at Yale, everybody kept talking about how broke they were.

…

Poor people—actually poor people—don’t talk this way. They tend to stay under the radar because they don’t know the rules of the game. But I bought it—at least when I was a freshman. If they were constantly announcing how broke they were, my assumption was that they must have even less money than I do.

This turned out to be wrong. The reality was that they were invariably from the upper-middle and upper classes. I know this because they eventually told me, like Marcus did. But there were tells. These students didn’t act the way my friends and I did growing up. They didn’t know how much pens or flights or cars were supposed to cost. They couldn’t tell when a restaurant was a good deal.

Pretending to be poor is a lot easier than pretending to be rich—just because there are so many different ways to be poor. But there are still small quirks you have to get right. Social class doesn’t just influence how you walk and talk; it influences how you interact with others. The stereotype is that poor people are improper—but sometimes it is the opposite. They try to do things as they think they are meant to be done. Spending a hundred hours building bat wings for a Halloween costume. Renting a limo for their child’s prom.

But lying about anything is tricky—you risk being found out—so what were these people trying to accomplish by acting broke? And this raises the broader question: why pretend to be of a social class you are not?

…

What about the regular rich? Not the children of billionaires, but the children of millionaires. The common impulse is to emulate the people one or two levels above you—so they might also act poorer than they are. But whereas the super-rich learned purposeful discretion from their parents at weekly dinner table meetings, the regular rich did not. They learned it through mimicry—and with varying degrees of success. The less sophisticated copycats end up brazenly proclaiming that they are “broke” and “upper-middle class.”

For some people, this isn’t an act; they actually believe this. After all, they do seem poor when compared to the hyper-rich. They can’t afford spontaneous Spring Break trips to private Bali islands. They see their prep-school classmates’ Facebook photos and realize that they are one, or maybe two, pegs down from that, and so they use the term “upper-middle class” without really knowing what this term refers to. They have no idea how the actual upper-middle class, the middle class, or the poor really live. Those students never went to their prep school, so for all intents and purposes, they do not exist. Like Krasnoyarsk, Siberia—we know it exists. We can find it on a map. But we don’t need to concern ourselves with it. Often, this is what the real poor are to rich people—they are a theoretical construct that exist somewhere else.

…

In another instance, I was privately discussing with a professor the pros and cons of a Food Stamp reform proposal. After some analysis, I commented on my own experience with the program. His response was complete shock. “You don’t really mean you were on welfare. You just mean you were supported by your parents, right?”

In a world of masks and façades, it is hard to convey the truth.

And this is how I ended up offering a sandwich to a man with hundreds of millions in a foreign bank account.

…

On the surface, there is nothing wrong with haphazard and sometimes warped class signaling. But if you put on a façade for long enough, you end up forgetting that it is a façade. The rich and powerful actually start believing that they are neither of those things. They actually start believing that there is not much difference in status and resources between themselves and the upper-middle class, the middle class—and eventually, between themselves and the actual poor. They forget that they have certain privileges and duties that others do not. They forget that the inside joke was just a joke all along.

…

When these kids grow up, they end up at conferences where everybody lifts their champagne glasses to speeches about how we all need to “tear down the Man!” How we need to usurp conventional power structures.

You hear about these events. They sound good. It’s important to think about how to improve the world. But when you look around at the men and women in their suits and dresses, with their happy, hopeful expressions, you notice that these are the exact same people with the power—they are the Man supposedly causing all those problems that they are giving feel-good speeches about. They are the kids from Harvard-Westlake who never realized they were themselves the elite. They are the people with power who fail to comprehend the meaning of that power. They are abdicating responsibility, and they don’t even know it.

…

There is another reason why people might pretend to be poor. This reason is much more serious than fitting in or avoiding hitmen. The rich and powerful are expected to take responsibility for things, and blamed when they go wrong.

“Check your privilege.” Just about every college student has heard this phrase since 2013. What it means is evasive. But like most memes that strike a chord with people—there is some point to it. The rich have privileges. They therefore also have responsibilities. The responsibilities are not always so fun.

…

Would you want to be the strongest man in the village right at the moment when you failed to use that strength properly and the village is dying and rivals are out for blood? Or would you rather be the average person, eating the normal amount of food, without being hated?

But that was just a thought experiment. Those are people in crises—in a hunter-gatherer village at war. We live in America. Certainly things are different during a stable, prosperous period, in a technologically advanced society. Would you want to be exceptional then?

Not necessarily. The elite are faced with certain hard burdens.

The elite are expected—by everyone else, and by each other—to use their power to make sure society works properly. That is, they are expected to rule benevolently. The reason they are expected to do this is that if they don’t, nobody else can or will. The middle class and the poor do not have the powers and privileges that the rich and elite do, and cannot afford the necessary personal risks. But without active correction towards health and order, society fails.

…

In times of political uncertainty, when things are not going well, elites face more scrutiny, and more internal pressure to find people to blame—whether rightly, or as scapegoats. It becomes a bigger liability to be openly elite.

Further, such times are themselves caused by political dysfunction among the elite, when elite institutions forget how to listen to reason (or have decided not to) and forget how to coordinate towards benevolent rule.

At elite conferences, they wonder how to regain trust, or otherwise deal with the rising atmosphere of populist discontent. They acknowledge that something is deeply wrong. But they dare not lay the blame at their own feet, caused by their own overreaches and dysfunction. Anyone who did would immediately be under suspicion. No longer one of us, but one of them. So, those who might otherwise lead the difficult but necessary elite self-critique instead keep their mouths shut, or they say the wrong thing without ideological, psychological, and social preparation for the consequences and get cast out. Only the true believers incapable of self-critique, the incompetent, and the cynics, remain as voices in the public forum. They talk in circles, never quite able to correct course and come to any new conclusions, except the need to double down on current ideological practices.

…

They say that the recent scandals at Yale had to do with racial and social justice. I don’t think that’s what it was really about. When looking at one or two scandals, it’s easy to buy the story that it is just students organizing and using their rights of free speech and assembly to protest what they see as injustices perpetrated by the university. But when looking at all of the scandals together, another narrative starts to emerge.

And that narrative is much closer to this: members of the ruling class are not sure what to do with themselves—and they are not even sure they want to rule.

…

When people think of universities, they think of their local state school, or else Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. And when they think about Yale, it is often when they are reading about a president, a Supreme Court justice, or the editor of The New Yorker. That’s because Yale graduates play no small part in running the world. It is the school the elite want to send their kids to. It is the school the lower classes assume their kids will never go to.

…

What happens when a school with this position is embarrassed about its role as an international trendsetter? What if instead of doing the hard work to set the tone for responsible rule, it abdicates that responsibility?

…

But the appearance of bottom-up protest politics is always a bit of a false narrative.  It would be one thing if the students were polled and a majority said they wanted the name changed, or some other process was used. At least the university could say that it was making decisions based on some objective democratic process, and wasn’t just being pushed around. But this is not what happened. No polls were taken. There was no authoritative process. The school said no for a few months, then caved. If the school were actually confident in its position to resist, it could have easily pushed back on the protests. Instead, it folded on demands from a small number of students willing to make noise. Either the university administrators are spectacularly spineless, or the protests just provided a convenient impetus and excuse to do something they already wanted. We can look at several more incidents and notice a similar trend.

…

What do all of these events have in common? Some had student support. Some did not. Some started as public outrage taken to the street. Some were completely internal. What they had in common was an administration and student body coordinated around an ideology that continually mutated to ensure moral entrepreneurship and a continued supply of purges, as new forms of human behavior or commonplace descriptors became off-limits. Some of this energy was genuine, some cynical.

These were not kids protesting the Vietnam war, or graduate students mobilizing for better pay and medical care. Nobody would have had a gun shoved into their arms and sent across the world if Yale had not fired the professors. Nobody would have lost money if they did not change “Master.” In fact—Yale lost money on these changes in the form of alumni donations and administrative time. Meetings, committees, redone paperwork, and brand new “head of college” plaques. These changes were neither meant to save lives, nor to save money.

But what was the point of it all?

…

Thousands of hours of human effort and labor. And for what? What was it for?

If you ask supporters, they will tell you the cost does not matter so much, because this is about creating an ideal world. Of course the professor should be fired—how dare she stand against the minority student organizations? Of course it’s okay that the Yelp reviews were published—she should never have written them. Of course names should be changed if they hint at or honor the wrong ideology. What does preserving history matter if history is racist? The university is handling things according to its proper ideals of empathy and inclusion.

In short, their point was that this was all to help poor people. Immigrants. People whose parents are from distant, impoverished lands. People of color. Changing “Master,” firing the dean, and firing professors was all for this.

Except this did so little to actually help any of these people that this could not possibly have been the main motivation.

None of this was actually to their benefit, except for the few activists willing to invest time and energy into the game. It is not easy to stay up-to-date with the new, ever-more complex rules about what you are allowed to say to qualify as the bare minimum of sociable and sane. It is cognitively and socially demanding. I had to not just study psychology and computer science, but I had to stay up-to-date with the latest PhD-level critical theory just to have conversations.

…

If words like “Master” are deemed offensive based on questionable linguistic or historical standards, then this means other words and phrases can become offensive at a moment’s notice. Under these rules, only people in the upper ranks who receive constant updates can learn what is acceptable. Everybody else will be left behind.

The people best positioned for this are professors at elite universities. They are ingrained in the culture that makes up these social rules. They get weekly or even daily updates, but even they cannot keep up.

…

A cynical observer might conclude that this is all just revolution as usual; a small clique of agitators seizing more and more power, and purging their enemies by virtue of their superior internal solidarity, a bold and demanding ideology, lukewarm popular moral support, and no real organized opposition. In some ways, that is what’s going on. They have the bold ideology, the ambient support, and no real opposition.

But importantly, they don’t have internal coordination by any means other than adherence to the ideology itself. Even members of the clique are never really safe. Anyone who contradicts the latest consensus version of the constantly mutating ideology, even if they have worked to its benefit or are otherwise obviously on side, gets purged. If you don’t keep up, you get purged.

It doesn’t matter that the ideology is abusive to its own constituents and allies, or that it doesn’t really even serve its formal beneficiaries. All that matters is this: for everyone who gets purged for a slight infraction, there are dozens who learn from this example never to stand up to the ideology, dozens who learn that they can attack with impunity if they use the ideology to do it, and dozens who are vaguely convinced by its rhetoric to be supportive of the next purge. So, on it goes.

This is the nature of coordination via ideology. If you’re organizing out of some common interest, you can have lively debates about what to do, how things work, who’s right and wrong, and even core aspects of your intellectual paradigm. But if your only standard for membership in your power coalition is detailed adherence to your ideology, as is increasingly true for membership in elite circles, then it becomes very hard to correct mistakes, or switch to a different paradigm.

And this helps explain much of the quagmire American elites are stuck in: being unable to speak outside of the current ideology, the only choice is to double down on a failing paradigm. These failures lead to lower elite morale, resulting in the class identity crisis which afflicts so many at Yale. Ironically, the result is an expression of that ideology which is increasingly rigid on ever more minute points of belief and conduct.

…

What is the point of this new ideology? This ideology is filled with inconsistencies and contradictions, because it is not really about ideological rigor. Among other things, it is an elaborate containment system for the theoretical and practical discontent generated by the failures of the system, an absolution from guilt, and a new form of class signaling. Before, to signal you were in the fashionable and powerful crowd, you would show off your country club membership, refined manners, or Gucci handbags. Now, you show how woke you are. To reinforce their new form of structural power, people dismiss the idea that they even have the older, more legible forms of status. They find any reverse-privilege points they can, and if they are cis-white-men, they pose as allies. On an institutional level, the old ways of legitimizing power are gone, and the new motto is this: diversity is legitimacy.

There is a deep comedy to this sort of signaling. Only around 2% of the student body was in the bottom 20% of American society, and yet extremely wealthy Singaporean students who had spent just a few years in America marched in the street and referred to themselves as “people of color.” People’s experiences were ignored when they volunteered information that countered the main narrative, because the surface-level debate wasn’t the point. The point was to signal that you were with the program. Only a select and secret group of student “leaders”—who were already savvy enough to engage comfortably with hierarchy—were invited in to chat with administrators.

Shouting from the rooftops that “They aren’t doing enough!” is much easier than following any traditional system of elite social norms and duties, let alone carefully re-engineering that system to reestablish order in a time of growing crisis.

…

But there is more to selling out that nobody talks about. These jobs are the dream jobs of the middle class. They’re not supposed to be jobs for the sons and daughters of millionaires and billionaires—these kids don’t actually need the money. They want independence from their parents and proof that they can make it on their own—and prestigious work experience—but they have wealth acquired through generations that they can always fall back on. These people are generally as harmless as the middle class—which is to say completely harmless. They keep to themselves. They quietly grow their bank accounts and their 401ks. And just like the real middle class, they don’t want to risk their next promotion through being too outspoken. They have virtually no political power. This mindset is best encapsulated by: “I’ll go with the program. Please leave me alone to be comfortable and quietly make money.”

They effectively become middle class, because there is no longer any socially esteemed notion of upper class. They have a base of power, of f-you money, that they could use to become something greater than just another office worker or businessperson. But there is no script for that, no institutional or ideological support. What would it even mean to be an esteemed, blue-blooded aristocrat in 2019? So they take the easy and safe way.

How else do Yale students give up their responsibility?

They go in the other direction. These are the people who call themselves idealists and say they want to save the world. They feel the weight of responsibility from their social status—but they don’t know how to process and integrate this responsibility into their lives properly. Traditionally, structurally well-organized elite institutions would absorb and direct this benevolent impulse to useful purpose. But our traditional institutions have decayed and lost their credibility, so these idealists start looking for alternatives, and start signalling dissociation from those now-disreputable class markers.

…

Who is winning? This question is an important one. Yale administrators had lofty goals. In an attempt to placate their own biases, the administrators and faculty forgot that they are the ones who are supposed to be teaching. Instead of expelling or suspending the small number of people actively undermining the student body and university as a whole, the university does nothing, or actively accelerates the process. The professors are the ones who leave. The radical clique feels emboldened.

Now we can begin to understand the real problem at Yale. It is not free speech—and it is not non-inclusivity. The standards of reality, and the standards of morality not based solely on being woke, are ousted. That’s because the conventional standards of elite morality, based on responsible use of power—actually responsible, not just a convenient feeling of doing good—are much harder, and based on the very self-consciousness that everyone is trying to avoid.

…

The result is an institution increasingly unable to carry out its own mission, as tuition rises to pay for more administrators, and ideological drama makes it harder and harder to actually teach. And now we are back at the original question. What was the point of Yale? What was the point of going to Yale? What is the point of elite institutions?

Is the point of Yale to promote the humanities and knowledge of the West that is hard to learn anywhere else? This is not the full mission. Donald Kagan and Lee Bass’s year-long history of the West program was cut, due to faculty protesting that it was not multicultural enough, despite having large interest and $20 million in funding.

Is Yale’s vision a futuristic, technocratic university? Is the university divesting from the liberal arts for the purpose of committing to the technology of the future? This isn’t the case, either. Computer science enrollment has increased significantly in the past decade. But Yale’s computer science department is lagging behind other schools. The university has taken steps towards improving the department, but in general shows no signs of a visionary commitment to expanding tech or significantly expanding professorships.

…

Maybe the university has lost every purpose other than giving students a social environment in which to party. If the students aren’t educated or visionary, at least they’re networking and hedonically satisfied.

Except they’re not. It would be one thing if they were happy—but even this is not true. They don’t know what is expected of them, or what they should aspire to be. The lack of expectations creates nihilistic tendencies and existential crises. In 2018, around one quarter of Yale undergraduates said they sought mental health counseling. One quarter of Yale students took the “Happiness and the Good Life” course in 2018 in an attempt to find answers. Students are demanding more mental health resources. A new wellness space was created with bean-bag chairs and colored walls. But the real sources of unhappiness are more systemic. They are rooted in uncertainty about the future.

If Yale students are uncertain about the future and their role in it, what does that say about the rest of society?

…

So what if Yale, and Yale students, are abdicating responsibility? We can all just send our kids to Harvard, or MIT, or move to California and go to a state school. I heard UC Berkeley is pretty good.

But the problems present at Yale are present at every other university, and schools outside of the United States look to elite American universities as role models. If things are broken at elite universities, things are broken, period.

…

Yale is supposed to be using its power and reputation to set standards for excellence, but instead it is abandoning its responsibilities and getting embroiled in controversy after controversy. Yale is not special in this regard—other colleges are also often embroiled in controversies. But the controversies of top colleges matter most because they determine what is acceptable for everybody else.

And what’s happening at Yale reflects a crisis in America’s broader governing class. Unable to effectively respond to the challenges facing them, they instead try to bail out of their own class. The result is an ideology which acts as an escape raft, allowing some of the most privileged young people in the country to present themselves as devoid of power. Institutions like Yale, once meant to direct people in how to use their position for the greater good, are systematically undermined—a vicious cycle which ultimately erodes the country as a whole.

Segments of this class engage in risk-averse managerialism, while others take advantage of the glut to disrupt things and expand personal power. The broader population becomes caught up in these conflicts as these actors attempt to build power bases and mobilize against each other. And like Yale, it seems a safe bet that things will continue and even accelerate until some new vision and stable, non-ideological set of coordination mechanisms are able to establish hegemony and become a new ground for real cooperation.

[bettycooperthefirst]

If You’re Looking For a Sign

Betty is supposed to go on a blind date, but when he doesn't show, a stranger steps in in his place. (Ship: Bughead)

Read on Ao3 

Betty didn’t even want to go on the blind date that Veronica had been prepping her for all week. The dating world wasn’t worth it- she was sick and tired of kissing so many frogs and she was starting to think there was no prince. If she had to sit through another meal where some pretentious man took over the conversation to discuss his social climb up the work ladder or go off on a tangent about how he was a sensitive painter- if she had to suffer through another date where the grown adult sitting across from her treated her like a piece of meat- she might just walk out of the restaurant and never date again. It seemed like that was what the universe wanted. All signs were pointing to Betty never finding a good guy.

But Ronnie had been raving about this guy for weeks now, so Betty had sighed and put on a nice skirt, made her hair look presentable and applied some pink lipstick. She would give it one last shot and so help her god, if this one was a dud, she would probably lose her mind.

Walking up to the Italian restaurant where they were supposed to meet, she smiled at the hostess, trying to convince herself that it would be a good situation. Smiling releases endorphins to make you actually happy. I am happy right now.

She was a few minutes early and decided to sit down at a table and wait there. She had the guys number, so she sent him a quick message to let him know and took a look at the drink menu.

“Water?” A waiter appeared next to her and she nodded and thanked him as he poured her a glass. “Waiting on someone?”

Betty looked at her watch. 6:00 sharp. “He should be here any minute.” The waiter nodded in understanding. But he wasn’t there any minute. He wasn’t there 20 minutes later and he wasn’t responding to her texts, but Betty had ordered a lemonade and knew deep down, somewhere in the pit of her stomach, that if she paid for it and left, she’d walk out the door and emotionally close herself off. The last straw in a long line of crappy dates and crappy guys. She felt her chest tightening as she ran through her head the possible reasons he was late.

Stuck in traffic. It is a Friday night- traffic is busy, parking can be rough.

Maybe his car wouldn’t start- but then why didn’t he let her know? The excuses poured in as the clock ticked ahead.

A family emergency.

A personal emergency.

A veterinary emergency.

The couple one table over had eaten their meal and were starting to glance her way. Betty could see it in their eyes that they felt bad for her, this girl sitting alone in a nice restaurant, clearly waiting for someone, having glanced at the door so many times. A group of college aged girls were glancing her way too. Betty had graduated a year ago herself, but these girls looked younger. She saw one girl, all strawberry blonde curls and dark eye makeup, look at her and then talk to her friend and laugh. The girl she spoke to turned around, blatantly looking in Betty’s direction.

Betty could imagine the conversation. Don’t look now but there’s a girl over there who has clearly been stood up. Pathetic. No don’t look now, she’ll know we’re talking about her!

Betty felt a spiral coming on. Her fingers curled into her palm, the way they unconsciously did anytime her anxiety kicked in. She had decided that this date would work out if the universe wanted it to. Well obviously the universe wanted her to sit alone in Vivaldi’s on a Thursday night. Betty looked at the empty chair across from her.

If you’re looking for a sign this is it.

Betty started to look around for her waiter when someone suddenly dropped into the seat that had been empty moments before. He had dark, messy hair and smiled at her like he knew her.

“Sorry I’m late sweetheart. Got caught up in traffic and then couldn’t find parking. I hope I didn’t worry you.” He gave her a sincere look of apology, taking off his jacket and putting it over the back of the chair.

She blinked back at him in surprise. “Excuse me?”

The boy opened his eyes a little bit wider, looking at her like he needed her to understand something, as he continued. “Making you wait on me like that. So rude. Can you forgive me?”

Betty had seen pictures of the guy she was supposed to be meeting tonight. He had red hair, an all American type. This wasn’t him. So who was this boy across from her, still smiling at her, waiting for a response?

She only had a split second to process all of this make a decision.

“That’s okay.” She said carefully. “I forgive you.”

The boy across from her broke into a bigger smile and Betty felt the eyes of the girls from the other table fade off of her and find something else to talk about. The couple one table over ordered their dessert, seemingly moving on from their glances in Betty’s direction. She let out a small sigh of relief as her fingers stretched back out from her palm.

The boy continued to smile. “Saw you sitting here the last 20 minutes and got worried.”

“People were staring at me. Those girls at that back table were whispering.” She nodded to where the girls had just received their second round of drinks.

The boy- Jughead- nodded.

“I went to school with them. They feed off of drama like succubus. It’s nothing personal.” He gave her a small smile and she noticed that his eyes smiled too- a calming blue sky to contrast his dark forest of hair. “Still sucks though.” He added. “You don’t have to tell me why you’re here alone. Just wanted to relieve some of the pressure of it.”

For whatever reason, she decided to just tell him the truth. “I was stood up.”

“Really?” His face showed no indication of what he thought of this.

“I didn’t even want to come, but I did, and he didn’t even show. Another failed attempt to be a person in this world.” She didn’t know why she was saying this, she didn’t owe him any explanation and she definitely didn’t need to detail her overall life situation. But there was something about the way his eyes crinkled a little bit when he smiled, the stray curl of hair falling in front of his eyes, his easygoing smile, that made her feel comfortable with him, like he wasn’t going to judge her at all.

“Well it sounds to me like this guy blew it big time. How could be possibly stand up…” he trailed off, waiting for her to fill in the blank, and she realized that she hadn’t even introduced herself.

“Betty. Betty Cooper.”

“Jughead Jones, at your service.” The side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile and he nodded in joking deference. Cute. Her mind noted this against her better judgement.

“Well Jughead, thanks for stepping in, but you can get back to whatever it was you were doing before my pity party distracted you.”

He held up three fingers and ticked them down as he spoke.

“Three things. One: I didn’t come over here out of pity, I came over here because I’ve sat where you’re sitting. Empathy, not pity. Two: I wasn’t doing anything of any importance. Three: Aren’t you hungry?”

Betty had eaten a light lunch, knowing she’d be getting a nice dinner tonight. Her stomach had let out a few soft growls already.

“Yeah. I am.”

There was that smile again. Infectious. “Good thing we’re at a restaurant.”

Betty ran through her options in her mind. She could get up and go home, scrounge through her fridge to find something edible. Or she could stay here, with this person she knew nothing about, and eat dinner at the restaurant that had been the one thing she’d been looking forward to tonight.

“Yes. We are.”

Her waiter showed up at that moment and before Betty could say another word, Jughead was speaking again.

“A bottle of your finest wine, sir.” He announced with a dramatic flair that made Betty giggle.

The server just eyed Jughead suspiciously.

“Okay. Two glasses of your cheapest wine, please?” Jughead tried again.

The server nodded and turned to Betty. “Are you ready to order?”

She’d had twenty minutes to think about what she wanted to eat. She looked at the boy across from her, surprised at the twist the night had taken. Turning back to the server, she ordered her dinner.

“Okay. Fall Out Boy or Panic! At the Disco?” Jughead said 45 minutes later.

“In middle school, Fall Out Boy. 100%.” Betty had eaten all of her food and downed her glass of wine. She felt like she was in a different universe than she had been in and hour ago when she sat down. She and Jughead talked so easily- she’d never been so quickly comfortable with someone in her life. They’d somehow skipped the basics- job, education- and covered topics such as salad v. soup (Jughead argued that soup was the only option), an embarrassing date story of Jughead’s (“to even the playing field”) and a lengthy discussion of Brooklyn 99, before somehow landing on the topic of music they used to listen to between the ages of 12-16.

“Favorite Fall Out Boy song?” He asked this like it was the most serious matter he’d ever encountered.

“Sugar We’re Goin Down.”

Jughead nodded. “Acceptable.”

“And your favorite song in middle school was…?”

“Mr. Brightside. Still one of my favorites now.”

Betty raised her eyebrows. “Do you sit in your room and brood about girls who don’t like you while you listen to it?” She said this knowing full well that she loved the song herself.

Jughead groaned and put his hand over his chest.

“That hurt.”

Betty laughed, and glanced down at her phone. Veronica was calling her, for the second time in 10 minutes.

“I should answer this.”

“No worries.” He picked up the dessert menu. How does he still have room after the amount of food he just ate?

Betty walked over to entry way of the restaurant where it was a bit quieter and answered the call.

“V?”

Veronicas voice was laced with concern. “Betty, where are you?”

Betty sighed. “I’m at the restaurant. Your golden boy never showed.”

“What are you talking about? Which restaurant are you at?”

“Vivaldi’s.”

“Which Vivaldi’s?”

“The one on 2nd.” Betty said this carefully, afraid she already knew where this was going.

Veronica let out a loaded sigh.

“Archie went to the one on Brady St. He waited there for you for a full half hour.”

“I texted him.” Betty remembered. “He didn’t answer.”

Veronica rattled off Archie’s number, and Betty checked to find that she’d put it into her phone 1 digit off.

“I’m sorry Betty.” Veronica said. “I sent it to you wrong, and now you’ve sat at that restaurant alone for an hour. Archie went home but I can let him know about the mix up. Call him, I’m sure he’d still like to meet up with you.”

“Actually V,” Betty paused, looking back at the table to see Jughead looking over the dessert menu. “I had the best night I’ve had in a long time, even without a date.”

“Alone in a fancy restaurant?”

She watched as Jughead furrowed his brow, looking at the cake page. “With a really great guy who sat down with me when Archie didn’t show.”

As she finished her call with Veronica and made her way back to her chair, she realized that she might have gone on a fantastic date tonight after all. But did Jughead think of this as a date? Or was this just a new friendship to him?

As she sat down across from him, she wasn’t sure how to find out.

“Everything alright?”

“EVerything’s great.” She suddenly felt some nerves pooling back in her chest.

Jughead continued.

“So I’m thinking the tiramisu. What do you think?”

“I’d get tiramisu too.”

Jughead shook a stray curl of hair out of his face and smiled. “It’s the best isn’t it?”

The waiter that Betty had had all night approached their table with a look of irritation on his face. He gave Jughead a pointed look as he said “Can I interest you in dessert?”

“I’m going for some tiramisu, please.” Jughead said it cheerfully, ignoring the look on the other boys face.

“Are you alright?” Betty said cautiously. The waiters demeanor had been going downhill over the past hour and she wasn’t sure why.

“Oh I’m fine.” He plastered on a clearly false grin. “We’re just a little short staffed tonight. A guy went on break an hour ago never clocked back in.” He shot daggers at Jughead, who just smiled in return.

“That’s unfortunate.” Jughead said. “I’m sure he’ll make it up to you somehow.”

“Jughead.” The waiter sighed, as Betty put the pieces together. “C’mon man, I gave you your hour, but Toni’s gonna be back soon and when she finds you sitting out here instead of working she’s going to lose her mind.”

“Wait a minute.” Betty interrupted. “You work here?”

Jughead nodded.

“And you’re supposed to be working right now?”

“It’s fine, it’s a slow night.” Looking around the room, Betty could see that this was true. “And Sweet Pea here is my best friend in the world so I cut him a deal.”

Sweet Pea snorted. “A shitty deal.”

“Calm down. You’re serving us and one other table. Well worth my night’s pay.”

“I don’t get much pay if you don’t clock back in.” The waiter- Sweet Pea- shot back.

Betty was even more confused. “You gave up your nights pay so that you could come sit with me? What if I had told you to screw off?”

“I was really hoping you wouldn’t.”

“You know, he doesn’t do shit like this.” Sweet Pea said suddenly, turning to put his full attention on Betty.

“Sweet Pea-“ Jughead tried to cut in, but Sweet Pea put his hand in front of the other boys face and continued.

“He has never missed a shift, never shown up late, never played around. But you came in here and sat down and it was like an alarm went off in his head.” He mimicked an alarm sound. “Pretty girl pretty girl pretty girl.”

“Are you trying to embarrass me?” Jughead whisper shouted at his friend.

“Yes. I am.” Sweet Pea delivered the words directly to Jughead before turning back to Betty. “This guy has been moaning and groaning for weeks about how the world is crap and then you walk in and he tells me this is it. This is the last chance he’s taking and if the universe-“ Sweet Pea threw his hands in the air at this “he loves talking about the frickin universe- doesn’t want it, then it won’t let it happen. Apparently the universe wanted it, but I need to confirm that with you because our boss is going to be back any minute and this loser is about to lose his job if he doesn’t get back to work. So fuck the universe, do you like my lame ass friend?”

She looked at Jughead, the boy who she’d only known for an hour, who apparently thought about the same things she did, who made her laugh, who’s smile made her feel warm inside.

As she looked at him, that smile quirked up on one side of his mouth. If you’re looking for a sign, this is it.

“Yeah. I like him.”

The smile increased. “I like you too.” “Adorable.” Betty heard Sweet Pea say. “Now I will pay for your meal if you’ll just exchange numbers and make him come back to work.”

[salansar]

How the Apocalypse Started

There are many stories about how the end of the world began. Some say it started with the outbreak of war in Europe. Others say it started with the outbreak of a new parasite spreading through the fields of the mid-west in the USA. I amwriting this to tell you that this is not the case. The Apocalypse started at a diner in Hell Michigan.

 I had come home for the summer to visit my family between my graduate and post graduate programs for college. I took a job at a local diner to make some spare money in the meantime. I mostly worked the grill, but that day we were shorthanded so I was working as the waiter while the manager manned the grill in my stead. Tony started at the grill before buying out the shop and his burgers were always so much better than anything I managed to not burn. It was a particularly humid day, and even with the ceiling fans threatening to take the roof off the building I was coated in a layer of sweat.

 The place was pretty dead that afternoon when the first rider appeared. A beautiful, white 1966 Cadillac DeVille pulled up to the large windows at the front of the diner. The driver looked like something between a wealthy business man anda model. He opened the door and the bell let out a crisp, sharp tone that no cowbell had any right to make. He seated himself at a booth near the door and as I brought him his menu I got a very clear look at him. He wore a pristine, bone-white sport coat over a stone grey button down shirt that probably cost as much as my next semester of school. As I placed the menu in front of him he smiled in a way that made me feel like everything that was wrong in the world could be solved by just that smile alone. I must have stood there staring for a while because he finally shut his mouth and said, “I have some friends coming so can I get a glass of ice water while I wait?”

 I was swiftly slapped back into reality and muttered an affirmative as my embarrassment swelled into my face. I returned quickly with the water and set it on the coaster placed in front of him. He smiled again, but not as bright and I returned to wiping down the counter and taking coffee to the elderly couple that came in every day before the dinner crowd. Despite all of that I was always very aware of him and what he was doing the whole time, which was simply perusing our menu.

 About fifteen minutes after his arrival his first friend arrived. A candy-apple red, and chrome Harley Softail roared into the parking lot and the rider expertly placed the bike next to the Cadi. When they entered the temperature of the diner increased a noticeable amount, or it could have just been my blood pressure, because when the rider took of their helmet I witnessed the birth of a goddess. The woman’s auburn hair was cropped short on the sides, but kept tastefully long on top. Looking at her profile every feature on her face was flawless, that was until she turned to look at me. The left side of her face was a model of perfection, but the right was covered in scars that distorted her features. Her ear was missing the entire top. Her eye was intersected with a deep, puckered scar that left that eye milky white with blindness. Even her plump, bow-shaped lips were marred by the same scar that ran from her eye leaving her mouth in a permanent sneer. She sat down across from the man in the booth and I came back with another menu.

 I tried not to look directly at the damaged side of her face, which brought a wicked smile to her lips. “Go ahead,” She spoke in a harsh, smoky voice, “May as well take a good look at it now so you can get over it faster.” At this I looked up at her in shock. Her vibrant, amber eye was alight with an inner hunger that you see in predatory animals when they spot easy prey. I tried to focus on her good eye and finally managed to ask what she would like to drink. “Bring me a coke, no ice.” I nodded and hurriedly retrieved her a drink. When I set it on her coaster she nodded her thanks, but never took her eyes off of me. I did my best to not run away from the table for fear of her jumping on me like a great cat. I began to feel quite miserable with the whole thing, since I was probably not going to receive a tip at all from them when they left.

 I sat on the stool behind the bar sulking in my idiocy when the third one arrived. A plain black town car pulled into the parking lot. A lean man stepped out entered the diner. There was nothing really remarkable about him except the his hollow cheeks, and long, thin neck. His thinning grey hair was combed back, not attempting to hide the shine of his pate. As I approached with a menu I heard my stomach rumble and began to wonder when I would be allowed to take my dinner on break. The man looked up at me with pale, sunken, blue eyes and waved off the menu as I offered it with a simple, “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” I nodded an affirmative and took the other two glasses to be refilled.

 When I returned the drinks to the table I saw the final vehicle arrive. Out of an ash colored 1955 Impala stepped a short, round man wearing a grey polo shirt and khaki shorts. His white hair was a stark contrast from the red-brown tan of his skin. He entered and the air went silent, not the sound of traffic or the whir of the fans could be heard. He sat down at the table next to the woman and everyone at the table gave him a respectful nod. I arrived as this ended with a menu for him andasked if the others were ready to order.

 The first man ordered a plate of fries with a side of mayonnaise so he could make “fry sauce” with the other condiments at the table. The woman ordered a burger special with a side of tots. The final man pondered the menu for a moment before ordering a club sandwich and a glass of unsweetened iced tea. The deep basso of his voice was a stark contrast from his unassuming frame. I took their menus and returned to the kitchen to help with prep.

 I returned with the food in short order and received a round of thanks from the table. Once the food was in front of them they began speaking about their recent past like four strange friends meeting up after a long time. They all laughed at the stories told by the first man and the woman brought them back to somber silence. The last man apparently made dry comments and the second man said almost nothing. Once they were reaching the end of their meal I returned with the check. The last man took it and reached in his pocket for his wallet. I waited for a moment to collect the receipt and a crisp twenty. When I walked away to make change they all stood up in unison and headed back out for their cars. I walked back to the table to see them all enter their separate vehicles and depart in the order they arrived.

 I began bussing the table and realized where the last man was sitting was a tarnished silver coin the size of my palm with a crack running along the surface. Out of curiosity I picked it up and the coin made a small snapping noise and broke in half. As the detached side of the coin hit the table off in the distance I could swear I heard the whiney of horses.

 And that is how it started.

[mymoonlitwitchcraft]

A little late posting (a month or so?) this since I’ve been wrapped up in my move but wow did this spell work! This was one of my first times working with Hekate and man she is intense. Also I totally learned my lesson about using magic in desperation. Without further ado– how I sold my car!

My boyfriend and i needed to sell our second car to afford the deposit on our new house that we are renting together with some friends. I had posted listings at optimal times, updated pictures, everything I could and all the offers were coming back too low. We needed the money the NEXT WEEK so in desperation I turned to what I know.

☀🍃I was inspired to make a sun tea because its hot as fuck in the Texas summer and I happened to have a flowering tea and some cornflowers laying around. The actual contents of the tea still remain a mystery as I was gifted an unmarked tea bundle. Despite not knowing the herbal makeup, I had never felt inclined to use it until now so I figured the herbs would probably work fine for my intentions. Once the tea was prepped we wrapped it in my boyfriend’s work shirt since he has been working so hard to get us the money to move and he couldn’t be there for this part of the ritual. It also ensured the safety of the glass while we charged the tea in our other car.

🚗 We charged the tea in the car for several reasons. I really loved driving around my hometown because the scenery is amazing and as I was preparing to move. I wanted to go to this amazing one lane bridge river crossing one last time. I also love using the friction of the wheels on the ground as you drive to raise energy. The spot in my windshield allowed for sun to perfectly charge and brew the tea while we could watch its progress and finally since we were doing a spell for a car it seemed fitting. The stones we placed around the shirt corresponded to different intentions we had but they were eventually removed because they were getting too hot. Once we reached the river on our drive, I invoked Hekate and asked for her aid in selling the vehicle. We continued to charge the tea for a while longer until we picked up my boyfriend from work and the tea was brewed. Then we each drank a bit of the tea while focusing on our intentions.

🌙 After nightfall we went to our usual ritual spot which is an undeveloped road in the middle of nowhere with a clear view of the stars and a large power grid that intersects with the road. This crossroads is where I first connected with Hekate and where we preformed most ritual work so we set up our altar there and once again invoke Hekate while offering to her the rest of the tea. This is where I bit off more than I could chew. In my desperation I told Hekate that I would sacrifice anything to have my will be done…..

🌼 TRIGGER WARNING: animal death.

The first sacrifice was a fawn. Living where I did, hitting deer in the road isn’t uncommon. You slow down, you try to avoid them, but sometimes it can’t be avoided. This was one of those times but it also wasn’t. I can’t quite explain the feeling but both my boyfriend and I agreed when we got home that it didn’t feel like a normal event. The feeling in our souls when the neck snapped beneath us was intense and powerful and shook us both into a long silence. The association between fawns, innocence, purity and sacrifice were our first clue.

🌿🌬 The second sacrifice was the longest one because it took us a few days the heed the message. It began shortly after we talked about the fawn. We had gotten home and gone outside to smoke some weed. The weight of death was still hanging on us and my boyfriend was assuring me there was no way I could have avoided the little guy. I mentioned Hekate. I told him of how I said I would sacrifice anything and he agreed that this event felt purposeful. We came to peace with it, we smoked more. Eventually, my cat who was outside with us freaked out and in the middle of the chaos the bong fell, rolled off the deck and hit a rock. It was fine. Nothing was wrong with it. We breathed a sigh of relief at our good fortune. Another bowl later I pushed on it too hard and broke it myself. We now had no piece to smoke out of and were out of weed. All of our money was going toward the move and We had no way to get more. We should have stopped there but for the next few days people kept offering us weed and my car kept not selling. Eventually out luck ran out and almost exactly 48 hours without weed later we had someone interested in the car. We were going to drive it up and meet him and sell it. We were fueling up before the trip on the day of when the third sacrifice hit.

📚 The final sacrifice was a double whammy as the first two effected my boyfriend and I together. This sacrifice was in two parts and both events happened while we were sitting in the two cars side by side at a gas station before leaving to sell the car. On my boyfriend’s end of things, he honestly deserved it. He had been selling in game product from a phone game for real money. Ultimately he was caught and his accounts disbanded. This was, however, one of our main sources of income so we desperately needed the car now. At the same time, i recoeved a call. This move that we needed the car to sell to have the money for was ultimately so i could go back to school at the university i always wished i could have attended from the start. The call was the universoty letting me know that my credits wouldn’t transfer because my dumb old university has very specific course codes which don’t match any other school in the country!! Im half waythrough my junior year!! So i cant go to my dream school and officially have to graduate from my original school if i want any chance at grad school (its more complicated than that but the point remains). My final sacrifice was my dream of getting away from the cursed university that drove me to quit school in the forst place.

🌌🌙 All in all, i sold the car, i moved away, im back at my old college trying to make it work, and im living my best life. I’m much more careful about how i phrase my magical workings and i have a new and scary relationship with Hekate. ⭐🌈

[ittybittypbandj]

The Internship - Chapter 1

Trying my hand at a multi-chapter Bittyparse fic! 5 chapters, weekly updates. Also on ao3. <3

Summary:

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

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

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

Bitty frowned hard at the red bowtie. He twisted away from the mirror, tugging it off as he reached for the lavender one. Lordy, lavender was just as bad. How had all his favorite ties had become gauche overnight?

His mama had reassured him over Skype last night, "Don't worry, Dicky. You'll do great. You'll charm the socks off 'em. Before you know it, they'll be movin' you over to that food magazine you love so much." And he was gonna prove her right. He just needed to put in a little time, show them what he could do.

But how could he do it in a tie that screamed I don't know what I'm doing and by the way I’m bad with animals?

Okay fine, maybe it wasn't the tie's fault. If this were Jack’s first game of the season, Bitty would be reminding him to breathe right about now. He would be alright. He was Eric Richard Bittle. He could land a double Axel with his eyes closed and bake a flourless chocolate cake in Georgia in July. He could do this.

Bitty had moved to Brooklyn two weeks ago, eager to start his new internship in Manhattan. For the next three months he would be a Social Media Associate for Fancy Feline cat food. The job paid a stipend - not much, but enough to finance his matchbook-sized bedroom and name-brand butter - and there was a possibility at the end to extend his contract. It wasn't exactly his dream job, but what was a boy supposed to do? A year out of college, a degree in American Studies, and no experience? Employers weren't exactly banging down his door with offers.

A year ago, Bitty thought Jack was his future. At graduation, he had plans of moving in with Jack, finding a job in Providence, and settling down into their shared life.

After Bitty moved to Providence, he’d sent resume after resume to employers but couldn’t find a job. Jack was out of town frequently and Bitty didn’t have any local friends – Lardo and Shitty and Holster and Ransom were all in Boston, which was just far enough away to be logistically difficult – and he found himself more isolated than he expected.

Bitty also realized that he’d only experienced Jack’s intensity and anxiety through the rosy lens of infatuation. They both struggled with the shift in their living situation, lord knows it was as hard on Jack as it was on him. In April when Jack’s playoff run ended abruptly from a wrist injury and an eight-week recovery, Bitty’d been ready to poke out his own eye rather than face another day of both of them at home, dancing around the fact that this just wasn’t working.

And so, after they’d finally talked and cried and shared a joint session with Jack’s therapist, Bitty and Jack called it quits and Bitty tearfully phoned Lardo to break the news. He’d stayed on her and Shitty’s lumpy couch in Boston for two months while Shitty called in a family favor and helped him land this internship.

Even after everything, Bitty was feeling hopeful. All he needed was a few months' experience and a job on his resume more substantial than ‘running a baking vlog’. He took a deep breath and released it, checked his hair one last time, queued up Queen Bey on his headphones, and headed for the subway.

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

Bitty’s first day at the office was a whirlwind of new faces and information. Meesha, Bitty’s fellow intern and apparently the person in charge, led him on a brisk tour through the office and he practically skip-jogged to keep up with her. While they walked, she peppered him with information about the department.

"You’ll coordinate the images and story for all the social media platforms, and you’ll directly manage the endorsement relationships." Meesha glanced over her shoulder to check that he was keeping up. "I do all the site and ad placement, and Tito runs the admin side. We're all a hot mess this week prepping for Kit, but don’t worry - we'll get you settled in just fine."

"Kit?" Bitty asked.

"Oh yeah, Kit Purrson. She's launching as the face of Fancy Feline in, like, three weeks. Totes adorbs and has a crazy-ass following. We've got, like, a zillion things to do to get ready. I'm sure you'll jump right in. You've used Visio, right?"

By lunch, Bitty’s head was swirling with acronyms and spreadsheets. It felt a little like in figure skating when he’d come out of a scratch spin too fast - the world was wobbly and the colors were spinning, but he was confident it would right itself if he grinned and skated through it.

"Heeeey, how's our new boy doin'?" someone yelled as they passed his and Meesha’s cubicle. Bitty spied styled black hair over the cubicle wall.

"Hey Tito!” Meesha called back. “He's great!"

Tito appeared from around the corner, eight coffees in two to-go containers balanced masterfully on one arm. He read the lids and carefully passed one to Meesha. "You guys ready for our guest today? I’m totally having him sign something.”

Meesha rolled her eyes as she inhaled the fragrant coffee. “You are seriously the lamest. Sports are a consumerist construct and the guy is basically, like, Kit’s chaperone. She’s the real star.”

Tito laughed and offered a cup to Bitty, “Hey Eric, I wasn’t sure what to get you. How’s a vanilla sugar oat milk latte? It’s the special across the street.”

Bitty grinned. “Thanks, hon!” His first day was turning out pretty great.

Meesha steered Bitty into a large conference room. Tito ran to his desk for a hat and marker before joining the people assembling around the conference table. Lordy, he hadn’t been lying about an autograph. Who was this guy?

A dozen folks chatted quietly around the table. Their guest was apparently running late, and Meesha took the opportunity to fill Bitty in on launch plans. As she was explaining the finer points of multi-platform synchronization, Bitty heard a man’s laughter down the hall. His ears perked up. Did he know that voice? Surely it couldn’t be –

Bitty’s head jerked up as an effortlessly well-dressed man in a royal blue snapback stepped into the room. Their eyes locked.

Oh lord. Kent Parson.

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

Kent scowled at Kit, his chin resting on his hands on the cold hardwood.

“C’mon, baby, you’ve got to eat it.”

Kit sniffed the dish daintily, nonplussed.

“I know, princess,” he wheedled, “but daddy’s going to make you the most famous li’l furbaby on the internet. You’ll pass grumpy cat like he forgot how to frown. All you have to do is eat the gross food.”

Kit mrowled in disapproval and Kent rearranged his awkward limbs. So this is what his adulthood had come to, he mused. Two condos, three sports cars, a slew of hockey awards, and apparently a cat too picky to eat the goddamn food she was paid a shitload of money to represent.

Tonight’s standoff had lasted an hour, and Kent would be damned if he let Kit win again.

He scratched his nose. He probably should be doing the prep work the Fancy Feline team needed before Kit’s photo shoot. At the meeting today, they’d given him a to-do list that rivaled his off-season training goals. He was supposed to check with Eric Bittle if he had any questions.

Speaking of which, why had Eric Blast-from-the-Past Bittle even been there today? Kent would have appreciated a goddamn heads-up, that’s for sure.

Eric looked good, he thought. A little taller and sharper than he remembered. His hair game was on point. Kent had only seen him a couple times in the four years since the Samwell party where they first met, and of course Eric had grown up, but seriously – he was hot now.

But why the hell was he in New York City? And was this related to the charming, old-man text messages Jack had started to send Kent out of the blue a month ago?

Kent debated texting Jack to ask, but it was a horrible idea. Either Jack and Eric were still together and Jack would send awkward Canadian nonsense about how great Eric was, or they weren’t together and Jack would get pissed and shut Kent out of his life again.

Kent sighed and climbed to his feet, heading to the refrigerator for Kit’s specialty wet food and a glass of white wine to wash down the bitter taste of defeat. He would fight the cat food battle another day. As Kit scarfed down hand-seared filet mignon, Kent sipped his wine and fiddled with his phone.

Kent: hey dude what’s up? I saw your boy today.

Jack: Hey Kent.

Jack: What?

Well shitballs, this was already turning out to be a terrible idea. No turning back now, Kent reasoned.

Kent: Eric was at a business meeting today. all suited up and shit.

Kent: what’s he doing in NYC? u guys ok?

Jack: Oh.

Jack: We broke up in April.

Kent: shit Zimms, that really blows. he seemed like a cool guy

Jack: Yeah.

Kent: sometimes it just doesn’t work out, y’know? i’m sure you’ll find somebody great

Jack: How was the meeting?

Kent: oh

Kent: it was good. boring as watching ice melt but productive I guess

Kent: eric looks good, I mean not in a weird creepy way but he looks like he’s doing ok?

[Jack is typing…]

[Last message received 8:54pm]

Kent: hey, did you see the new netflix show where ordinary people recreate fancy cakes and that crazy lady yells at everybody?

Kent: it’s the tits

Jack: No, but I’ll check it out.

Kent: dooo iiit

Jack: What’s the name?

Kent: fuck if I know. it’s the one with the previews of nasty looking cakes and ppl getting screamed at. you can’t miss it. it’s a goddamn gem.

Jack: Sounds like it.

Jack: And, thanks Parse. I’m glad he’s doing OK.

Kent: no problem man

Kent: any time

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

Bitty paced all eight feet of his bedroom, back and forth, back and forth.

He was supposed to be starting a new life! In a city of eight million people, how had he stumbled upon the one person connected to his life with Jack? And how was he supposed to be professional and work with said person, when everyone (well, maybe just Bitty) knew that he was secretly a manipulative asshole?

Good gracious, he might be freaking out just a little. He needed reassurance. Who could he talk to that knew the situation and would be supportive and not weird?

Bitty: LARDOOOOO

Lardo: BITTTYYYY

Lardo: Why the yelling, Bits?

Bitty: I am coordinating a photo shoot at Kent Parson’s house next week. KENT PARSON’S HOUSE

Lardo: That’s sick bro.

Lardo: They’re giving you a lot of responsibility right away. Nice.

Bitty: -_-;

Bitty: I think you’re missing the point

Bitty: KENT PARSON KENT PARSON KENT PARSON

Lardo: Lol Bitty cool your jets. He’s been pretty chill lately, hasn’t he?

Bitty: If you mean ‘not making my boyfriend have any more panic attacks’, then yes he’s been chill

Bitty: But I’d say that’s a VERY low bar to hurdle

Lardo: Have you met him yet? How was it?

Lardo: Does he know you and Jack broke up?

Bitty: I’m pretty sure he didn’t know who I WAS

Bitty: Period.

Lardo: No way, dude. You’ve meet him multiple times, right?

Bitty: twice, 3 times if you count the disaster at the Haus

Lardo: He totally remembers you, dude. You’re unforgettable.

Lardo: You’re like a delightful minor superhero.

Lardo: You’re Antman.

Bitty: Ugggghhh this is the worst

Bitty: and Antman, seriously? We are SO gonna talk about that later

Lardo: Bitty, bro of my heart, it’s truth time. You sitting down?

Bitty: *sits*

Lardo: Good.

Lardo: Here’s the thing. Kent Parson is just a dude. A dude with some fucked-up history respective to one JLZ, but still just a dude.

Bitty: I know, but…

Lardo: Hush, Padawan.

Bitty: -_- *hushes*

Lardo: He’s probs not an evil person. You’ve only ever seen him in relation to J, and they went thru some messed up shit as kids. When he’s not dealing with that, he’s probably a boring-ass adult with a job and a cat. You can’t judge him forever based on the 3 times you’ve met.

Lardo: Was he awful the other times?

Bitty: Well no, mostly just at Epikegster

Bitty: But he was Really Bad that time

Lardo: I get it Bits, but if that’s his only awful moment, then the dude already has like a 67% not-awful rate.

Bitty: So you’re saying I’m all worked up over nothin?

Lardo: Maybe? Give him a chance.

Lardo: You don’t have to be BFFs. Just be professional and friendly until he gives you a reason not to be. If it turns out he’s a dickhead, you have my blessing to fuck up his shit.

Bitty: Thanks Lards. Mind if I snap you outfit choices later?

Lardo: Do it. Matching polish?

Bitty: Yes’m but toes only. I miss your help with fingers. It gets all smudgy when I do it

Lardo: I miss you, bro.

Bitty: You too :-*

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

Kent pressed the center button on his phone again…8:51am. This was officially the longest morning in the history of time.

So far he’d gone for a run, made a smoothie, showered, arranged the throw pillows, hidden the dopey photo of him and his sis at Disneyland, brushed Kit. Now he was sitting on the couch, running shoes bouncing on the marble coffee table as he waited for the Fancy Feline team to arrive. Maybe he should make coffee? He hopped up, re-fluffed the pillows, and headed to the kitchen.

The crew arrived promptly at nine, accepting the hot mugs of coffee Kent passed around. Eric shook his hand and started up a pleasant and professional stream of small talk as the photographer set up tripods and the assistant unfolded white umbrellas.

Unfortunately, Kit decided this was her party and she could hide if she wanted to. She spent the first hour perched on the bookcase, refusing to budge for treats or catnip.

Kent couldn’t blame her. Usually it was just her and him in the apartment, and even when he had people over, she generally ignored them and slept in the bedroom on the Monsieur Taco pillow he won her at Coney Island. Having a half-dozen strangers in her space, hovering over her with cameras and lights? He’d probably peace out too, if he were her.

After thirty minutes and no success, Kent relinquished the catnip to the assistant and excused himself to start a fresh pot of coffee. From the kitchen counter, he found himself watching Eric.

Eric was frowning as the drama unfolded, his lean torso hunched in concentration. His right foot tapped impatiently on the rug. It wasn’t Eric’s job to get Kit to participate. Eric had explained this to Kent while they were setting up, that his role today was to make sure they got all the shots they needed for the campaign.

As Kent watched him now, Eric nodded to himself like he’d made a decision and marched over to the bookcase. He began talking animatedly with the photographer and gesturing rapidly, taking charge of the situation like a tiny major general. Kent was impressed. Hell, even Kit watched him with interest.

Kent felt a little like a jerk – he’d always thought Eric was childish and annoying, based on their past brief interactions and Eric’s animated Twitter feed (not that he’d internet stalked him, pssh). But maybe Kent had it wrong. This version of Eric seemed full-to-bursting with charisma and natural leadership. Hell, even Queen Kit respected it.

As Eric directed the strategy to coax Kit off her perch and over to the windowsill, Kent couldn’t help but stare. Eric glowed warm and golden, like Southern sunlight was radiating from his pores. He looked good in control.

Kent’s stomach did a pleasant swoop as he thought about Eric taking control in other ways. Or what it would take to convince Eric to give up that control, to go soft and pliant and let Kent – or someone, whatever – do the controlling.

His chest tingled warmly. This probably wasn’t the best train of thought for a professional gathering; nothing like sporting a quarter chub at ten a.m. with people here to photograph your cat. He sighed, rearranged his junk, and headed back into the living room with the coffee pot.

The rest of the shoot ran smoothly. Kit, once she felt comfortable, totally hammed it up for the camera. Eric took behind-the-scenes videos and sent the best ones to Kent. They all shared high-fives when a video Kent tweeted of himself ineptly juggling cat toys got retweeted by George Takei. In celebration of their good social media fortune, Kent poured everyone mimosas.

Before Kent knew it, it was late afternoon and the photographer’s assistant started to disassemble the equipment. Eric herded everyone to the sofa where he handed out packets of instructions and debriefed them on next steps, and then the crew shook hands and headed out one by one.

As Kent shut the door after the last person, he wandered into the kitchen to find Eric still in the apartment, loading the dishwasher.

“Dude, you really don’t need to do that. I can do it after you go.”

“Kent Parson,” Eric scolded, “my mama would never forgive me if I left a host with a mess to clean up. It’s nothin’, really.”

“Thanks, man,” Kent replied. It was cool of Eric to offer and, if Kent was being honest, he probably would have left it a mess until his housecleaner came tomorrow. He started to consolidate cardboard containers of Chinese food.

They worked in silence in the spacious kitchen, making quick work of the cleanup. Kent caught Eric humming to himself. He recognized the tune – All For You by Janet Jackson – and sang along to Eric’s humming.

Eric let out a surprised huff, his cheeks pink. “Oh lordy! Was I singing that out loud?”

Kent just laughed and pulled out his phone, and one of his favorite pop mixes began playing from hidden speakers. Eric bopped his head to Janelle Monae as he dried the glasses. Kent lip-synced into a bottle of soy sauce like it was a microphone.

As Kent reached around Eric’s shoulder to place the wine glasses on a high shelf, their eyes met and Kent winked. He’d enjoyed a few mimosas and Eric was cute, so sue him. He just thought it’d be fun to make Eric blush, and his efforts were thoroughly rewarded. Eric’s blush spread from his face down his neck, reddening the soft skin at the base of his throat.

Kent felt the warm tingly feelings in his chest again. Shit, Eric was cute.

Abruptly, Eric turned and said, “I really should get going. We’ve got the kitchen under control and I need to upload these videos before tomorrow.”

Kent felt oddly deflated, although of course Eric was going to leave when they finished cleaning. He should probably apologize in case his wink had made Eric uncomfortable. Kent spent his days around gross hockey players, maybe he’d just committed some corporate sexual harassment shit and he didn’t even know it. Kent fished around for something to say that didn’t make him sound like a creeper.

He smiled and tried, “Kit really enjoyed having you here today. You’re good with cats.”

“Ha, thanks.” Bitty twisted the dishtowel in his hands. “I’m not really a cat person, but Kit’s great. Y’all’ve got a really special bond.”

“Maybe you could come over and get some more candid shots sometime?” Kent made a face. For Christ’s sake, he sounded ridiculous. “I mean, the ones today were really good.”

Eric’s face did something complicated. Kent watched him bite his bottom lip.

“Thanks,” Eric replied finally, “but no. I should go.”

“Oh,” Kent exhaled, “Yeah, of course. Sure thing, man.”

Kent helped Eric retrieve his things and walked him to the entryway. As Kent shut the door behind him, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

He was so fucked.

[sugardaddycentral]

Connor Murphy x Reader Born To Die Part 1

Summary: After his guidance counselor takes notice of Connor's abnormal behavior, he is sent to a support group against his will, where he meets a girl just as fucked up as he is. 

 Song Inspiration: Born To Die / Lana Del Rey

 Warnings: | language | drug use | mentions of suicide | mentions of self-harm | first person writing | mental illness | teenage angst | 

 Word Count: 2k

"Now, let's begin!" the perky counselor started as she took her seat in the circle. "As you may know, I'm Nadine, your counselor." I rolled my eyes for probably the tenth time today. The circle was a lot smaller than it was last week, even smaller than usual. Normally only 5 or 6 kids actually come to these bullshit sessions. We're lucky enough to have parents who give a shit about our mental health, but were too broke to afford a psychiatrist or any real professional. 

 "Let's go around and tell each other our names and...a fun fact about ourselves and why we're here." Nadine started the session while she adjusted her abnormally large glasses.

I exhaled loudly through my nose. This was the same lame ass shit we did last week, and everybody already knew each other. I eventually tuned out after the first person introduced themselves. I reached for my phone in my back pocket and hid it in between my legs, looking up every so often so I wouldn't get caught.

 It was the same mundane routine every day for me. Wake up, go to school, come to support group, and then go home. There was no fucking excitement other than when I get high. Those were the highlights of my day. It was going fine until my mom and dad found my stash and flushed it down the toilet and threw me in into this fucking support group. They thought that my weed was my problem. They don't know shit. 

 A voice cleared their throat. I frantically looked up from my phone, believing that it was Nadine. Instead, a tall, long haired, emo looking kid stood by the door frame. I slid my phone back into my pocket.

"You must be the new addition," Nadine said, looking down at her clipboard. "Come, take a seat! We were just starting." I examined this kid from head to toe. He had to be in my grade, almost graduating. His tangled hair rested easy on his shoulders. The bags under his eyes stood out the most on his face, besides his chiseled features. His lack of any other color besides black was aesthetically pleasing to the eye; even down to the chipped nail polish. He also happened to smell of weed, strong weed. He took a seat in the chair across from mine. 

"(Y/N)? It's your turn," Nadine whispered obnoxiously loud. I let out another sigh and I stood to my feet.

"Okay uhm, I'm (Y/N) (Y/L/N)," I started. 

"Hi (Y/N)," the others answered very monotone, most likely not giving as much of a shit as I did.

"I'm here because I'm fucking depressed. Uh... and one fun fact about me is that I like to read." I slumped back in my seat. Nadine nervously chuckled before she proceeded to scribble something down on her clipboard. The circle of usual greetings continued until we reached the new kid. 

He stood up. Although he was still slouching, he was tall as fuck. 

"I'm Connor Murphy. I'm here because my fucking guidance counselor threw me in here." He introduced himself without skipping a beat. 

"Hello Connor," Nadine grinned widely. "How about you tell us about your erm ...your condition?" 

He scoffed. "Look, I'm just here to watch." A couple of the members, including me, stifled our laughter. Some didn't even bother to hold it in. He glared up at us all. His burning stare sent unsettling chills up my spine. 

The second support group was over, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and fucking booked it. I swerved past anybody who got in my way. But thanks to my lack of coordination, I lost my footing on the curb and fell on the concrete, hard.

 I also didn't happen to see the speeding car that was coming my way. The person behind the wheel honked.

"Out of the fucking street!" they yelled. I looked up to see that Connor kid shouting from out of the window of his ragged car that could easily fall apart with one touch. 

"Yeah, hit me why don't you asshole?" I shouted back, giving him the middle finger, although I low-key wanted him to run me over. "End my fucking misery," I muttered as I gave the hood of his car a rough slap with the palm of my hand. Connor sped away as soon as I walked past the car. He gave a final honk. 

 I felt a burning sensation travel to my jawline and chin area. I flinched at my own touch as I went to feel the damage done. A few drops of blood stained my fingers. I fished my hand into my bag for any type of napkin. I pulled out a used paper towel and pressed it up against the scrape.

"Hi sweetie!" Mom greeted the second I walked through the door. Her effervescent mood earned another eye roll out of me. 

Xanax was always recognizable. 

I dropped my bag off at the entrance and slipped off my shoes. Mom stood by the counter prepping dinner. "Hi," I mumbled. My eyes darted over to Dad, who was too busy scribbling some shit down for his clients. He didn't even bother to make eye contact. 

Mom clearly took notice. She placed her hand on my cheek and gave me a quick peck. She briefly caught ahold of my chin and inspected my scrape. "He's just a little busy, sweetheart," she said in a low voice. "Honey?" she called for him. "(Y/N)'s home from support group." 

Without looking up from his book, he acknowledged that I was in the room. "Hi (Y/N). How was support group?" 

I scoffed at his disinterest. "Like you fucking care," I answered before storming up to my room. I instantly flopped onto my bed and was greeted by my warm comforter. I let out a deep sigh. I tried remembering some of the bullshit techniques that Nadine introduced me to my first day. 

 Inhale...2...3...

 Exhale....4...5...

 But I couldn't even find solace in that. There was only one thing that would help me. I decided to wait until my parents went to bed to sneak out. I carefully unlocked my window, grabbed my keys, and went out through there since all of the doors made too much noise. I made a delicate landing onto the grass below. I started the car and drove off.

I drove off into the night with only one destination in mind. Only a few miles south from my house was a small park. Considering that it was close to midnight, there was a great chance that nobody would be there. I parked my car under one of the tall willow trees. I then reached into the glove compartment where I had a few pre-rolled joints and a lighter. I hopped up onto the hood of my car and took a drag. 

 It was nights like these that I lived for. Better yet, one of the only reasons I lived for. Whenever I felt like I was suffocating or like I couldn't breathe, I'd just walk or drive over to this park and drown myself in the serenity of it all. My weed was pretty much all I had left, besides my one friend. My parents luckily didn't find my small stash that I kept in my car. 

"You can't fucking do that!" I screamed as I watched the green bits swirl down the toilet bowl. 

"Yes we can (Y/N). This isn't healthy! You have a problem!" Dad shouted back. Mom stood by the doorway with her arms crossed. My heart felt like it was barbarically ripped apart. 

 I frantically ran my fingers through my hair. "What, and Mom's Xanax addiction is healthy!?" Mom's eyes misted up, Dad shot me a look of disappointment. It was nothing new.

I let out a puff of air. After the first few times, my lungs didn't burn anymore. A few leaves rustled in the distance. The sound was distinctly, like footsteps. I didn't bother to reach for my pocket knife. If I was going to die, let it happen while I've got drugs in me and I can die calm. The footsteps approached until a tall figure stood a couple of feet away from me.

"(Y/N), right?" a voice asked. My head perked up. I took another drag. 

"Yeah, who's asking?" They stepped out of the shadow. The street lamp gave off just enough light for me to see their face. "You're Connor, right?" He nodded. I had about half of the joint left. I handed it over to him. 

With all of the weed in my system, my nerves and whatever depressive residue slowly faded; for the time at least. I felt pretty fucking generous for once. 

"Thanks," he muttered. He took a puff. I could practically see the stress melt off of his shoulders. He passed it back. He unconsciously rubbed his chin when he glanced over at me. "Uh, your chin..." 

"Yeah, I noticed. Thanks for that, again," I said with clear distaste. He said nothing. There was nothing but silence, other than the occasional night creature and our coughs. The passing of the joint continued. One puff after the other.

I decided to break the silence. "So, you were dragged into support group too, huh?" Connor let out a couple of quiet coughs after he took a puff. We were nearing the filter. 

"Uh, yeah. Some teacher I have thought that it would help me," he replied. I glanced over at him curiously. His hair framed his face perfectly; curls draped down to his shoulders. The light from the lamppost allowed me to fully be captivated by his features. 

"My parents threw me into that support group because they think that I'm some fucking drug addict." I began to mindlessly rant to him like I had known him for years. "They think I'm some pill popping junkie. That's not me. That's my fucking mom. I don't get why they lecture me on me 'doing drugs' when my mom basically can't function without popping a Xanie once a day. They don't even fucking know that their only daughter is depressed out of her own mind. They don't know that I just want to fucking die!" Painful tears formed until my eyes were glossed. I let them fall one by one. 

The silence was back. Connor was almost too stunned to speak. Words were caught in his throat after I unintentionally poured my heart out to him. I wiped the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. "Sorry, fuck," I mumbled. I finished off the joint and flicked it onto the ground before crushing it with the sole of my shoe. 

"Don't worry about it," he replied, a secretive and sincere half smile faintly tugged at the corner of his lips. I then peered over my phone to check the time. 

"Uh, I should get going. But uh, thanks for listening to me dump my problems onto you," I said. I opened the car door. Connor stepped away from the hood. 

"No problem. And uh, thanks for the joint."

The day after was the same routine, as usual. Wake up, go to school, and then fucking support group. At least I sort of had something to look forward to rather than just sit at home. 

I definitely wouldn't call Connor Murphy a friend. I still to this day think he's an asshole for almost running me over. The night before, he was a pair of ears that willingly listened to my ramblings. He probably listened to me more that night than my parents ever did in my entire life. But there was something about him that I admired about him that I couldn't put my finger on. 

I shuffled into the room. The shitty fluorescent lighting flickered to an imaginary rhythm. The seat I usually sat in was kept empty for me. I stood by the doorway examining the scene. The usual group of 5 kids had been reduced to 4, excluding Connor and I. In retrospect, it was bound to happen more often than you'd think. It usually didn't take long until someone lost it or finally found better help. 

"Hey," I heard Connor's familiar voice greet from behind. The obvious smell of pot lingered from him.

I let out a small chuckle. "You're fucking high," I said. I turned around to face him. His sapphire blue eyes were painfully bloodshot and hooded. He leaned against the doorway. 

"Maybe a little." He flashed a smirk that made my cheeks heat up. Fuck, he's devilishly charismatic even when he's high. "But I can manage." 

"I'll have whatever you're having," I muttered sarcastically under my breath. I then glanced over at the support group. Nadine hadn't arrived yet, and barely anybody showed up. An idea popped into my head. I reached for Connor's hand and grasped it tight. "Let's get out of here. They won't miss us." Without objection, he followed behind until we reached my car. 

Connor was slumped in the passenger seat the majority of the ride. His eyes would often focus on what was going on outside. Our rebuttal as to what to eat was never ending. 

"Literally fucking anything," was all he said. I grew impatient of myself trying to figure out what I wanted. The closest thing that open was a Shake Shack. I pulled into the parking lot and tried to help Connor out of his seat, but all he did was swat my hand away and told me to "fuck off." 

"Be grateful I'm getting you food," I fired back. Both Connor and I ordered burgers. Even without the munchies I felt almost as hungry as he was. I watched as he ate every last bite like it was his last. As he went to take a sip of his soda, strands of his hair fell over his eyes. I tried my hardest not to stare. I couldn't say the same for him though. 

"What?" I asked. Connor shrugged his shoulders. 

"Nothing's it's just... thanks," he said quietly. "Thanks for...this." He struggled to find the right words to explain what he had. It wasn't exactly a friendship just yet, but it sure as hell felt better than being alone. A pale hue of pink threatened to color his cheeks.

[weddings2018-blog]

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[sudsybear]

I just got here

That toolbox was the best gift I ever received (well, Bart did give me a 2-speed reversible cordless drill for Christmas a couple of years later. That was pretty cool, too. But it wasn’t completely original.) That toolbox was the key for me to meet people when I was away at school. Hammer, pliers, wrenches, jewelers’ screwdrivers, with Ross’ inspiration, he and Dad prepared me well. There are times in the dorm when you need a hammer, or pliers, or an adjustable wrench. Thanks to Ross, I had them. I used his gift idea several times over the years. On my urging, my brother-in-law took one with him when he left for college. I gave one to my babysitter when she graduated high school. I even gave one to my sister-in-law as a wedding gift. That one was fun – I labeled everything – what a screwdriver is really used for, and creative ideas for bedroom bungee cord use.

 I’d like to say that’s what helped get me together with who would eventually be my husband. But in fact, Bart and I met because he needed a button sewn back on. (Well, he tells the button story. I maintain that the first time we met, we had a squirt gun fight that ended badly. He and his buddies gave up on the squirt guns and brought out the trash cans full of water. I was on the wrong end of gravity. I never knew how I met David or Ross, either.)  My mother was old-fashioned enough to send me off to school with a sewing kit. With sewing kit and toolbox, I was the woman to see if you needed to repair something. Had I been more entrepreneurial, I could have rented out the tools for $5/hour or some such. I could have sold quarters to make money. My roommate thought it quite amazing that I purchased quarters ($10 rolls) at the bank for the washing machines.

 I left for the UofR the 27th of August, a Tuesday. We packed up the Volvo on Monday, and early Tuesday morning Mom and Dad and I drove up I-71, across the Thruway, and delivered me to the dorm. We unpacked the car that afternoon. Dad helped carry my things up to the room, but wouldn’t stay to watch me unpack. “We’ll go back to the motel,” he said. I choked back tears and started unpacking. I was terrified and already homesick. I wanted Ross, I wanted my own bedroom – other than camp, which was some five years previous, I never shared a room with anyone who wasn’t family. I wanted everything familiar. Mom and Dad stopped by later and we got dinner together. They dropped me back off at the dorm, and stayed overnight in a motel. Once I was back in my room for the night, I called Ross from the dial phone in the hall, to let him know I was in and gave him my new phone number. I missed him already.

 Mom and Dad stopped by in the morning to say goodbye. They had to make the ten-hour drive back to Cincinnati. Mommer was still in the hospital, and they had plane tickets for a trip to see my brother Tom out in Oregon. I stood on the steps of the Student Union and watched my parents turn and walk back toward their car. It was a beautiful hot August day. The sun was bright in the sky, warmth radiated off the brick of the building, and the slight breeze was delightful relief. The sky was blindingly blue with white puffy clouds drifting over the tops of the campus buildings. I wanted to scream, “NO! DON’T GO! I’M NOT READY! TAKE ME HOME!” Instead I blinked back the tears, bit my lower lip, inhaled a deep breath through my nose, and, determined not to cry, turned and jerked open the glass door to the building and stepped inside. I needed to stand in line. I paused for a moment while my eyes adjusted from the bright outside to the dark interior. I discovered it was a short line, as the majority of the student body had not yet arrived. It was still freshman orientation week. I stood to have my photo taken and got my student ID which let me into my dorm, and got me my meals, and let me pay for junk food at the student run candy counter. Just like high school, but a ten-hour drive or a six-hour airplane adventure away from home and I didn’t know a soul.

 Over the next fifteen (twenty?) years, I revisited that moment again and again. I wondered, what if I had screamed, “NO!” and gone back home with Mom and Dad? What if I hadn’t stayed? What if I hadn’t been so damned determined to be brave? Would Ross and I have gotten married? Would we have lasted beyond Thanksgiving that year? Would we have had children? Would I have attended Ross’ funeral, and stood at his gravesite with his family and friends, many of whom I never had the opportunity to know?

 Instead, I live with the decisions I made, and the actions I took. I made new friends and I had fun. I lost my temper. I had my heart broken. I cried tears of loneliness, tears of grief, tears of fear. I got drunk. I made love. I broke more hearts. I learned to be alone. I made a life. I lost my balance more than once.

 *          *          *

 Our dorm was a ten story high rise, four six-person suites and two sets of double rooms per floor. I was on the sixth floor, “special interest” housing. The Inter-Class Living Center was decidedly not a freshman single-sex ghetto as so many of my friends from home were getting into. Instead, I lived on a co-ed floor, two male suites, two female suites, one set of male doubles, one set of female doubles. Thirty-two of us, sixteen freshmen, the rest were upperclassmen – sophomores to Seniors. It really was a great arrangement. Since the floor was co-ed and housed more experienced students, it never got too trashed, or rather when it did get trashed, people tended to clean up sooner than if it had been a true freshman ghetto. Also, because it was special-interest housing, we were required to have meetings once/month to plan and execute activities for our dorm and ourselves. That meant the floor residents really got to know each other pretty well.

 Roz and I roomed together during orientation. She and I hit it off, and decided to stick together for the year. We sought out Mike, the floor president, to confirm we weren’t committing some terrible crime against housing. He laughed at our concern, and gave his blessing. We switched our room assignments (swapped the name tags on the doors) and unpacked our gear. So much for all that worry over the summer about who my roommate would be. Vivyan (with the thick accent whose apartment was in the flight pattern of Kennedy airport) and Cindy attended earlier summer orientations and were in for a surprise when they arrived over the weekend.

 In our end-double with bunk beds, Roz liked the novelty of the top bunk. I really didn’t care. As a child I’d had my brothers’ old bunk beds and switched beds every few months. Sometimes the top bed, sometimes the lower bunk, sometimes I pulled them apart and used them as twins. After that decision, there we were, a short-haired mousy WASP brunette from the conservative Midwest, who billed herself as “the ultimate girl next door” in her housing application, sharing a room with a seemingly worldly Jewish blue-eyed blonde from Yonkers. I was suburban public high school, with Friday night football games and cheerleaders. She was East Coast private prep school with swim teams and water polo. What was I getting myself into?

 Orientation was Wednesday-Friday, and classes wouldn’t start until the following Wednesday, September 4th. I had orientation events to contend with…How to choose and register for classes, tours of campus, how to navigate the shuttle bus system, awkward getting-to-know-you social occasions. I already got my student ID, but still needed to rent a post office box, and I couldn’t miss a chaperoned bus tour of the local shopping district.

 One orientation activity was to take a busload of new students to the local “hip” shopping district, and send us on a scavenger hunt of sorts. They gave prizes for the best, or most unique, item purchased for under $5. The prize was $15 cash. I purchased a bunch of random things – a couple of bagels from a bagel shop, a few office supplies (pencils and the like) and once back at the dorms, decided to build, “The Bagel Bike.” I started in on the project, other folks wandered in to kibitz, and ultimately, that bagel bike won us money for pizza. I was “in”.

 Orientation was over and it was Labor Day weekend. My friends at home were heading downtown to River Fest for the holiday. I’d gone with them in years previous, and while the crowds terrified me, I enjoyed the camaraderie. I would miss it this year.

 Roz was inspired to personalize our room, and hoped to paint footprints on our dorm room walls. I said, “Sure, why not?” We found someone from the suite next door to take us out to the home improvement center to buy spray paint. Then back at the dorm, Roz traced her foot, we made a pattern, and together we got high on spray paint fumes while we painted primary color footprints on the walls and ceiling. Hadn’t I just done this? We even put a hopscotch board on the ceiling with black electrical tape, and glued a penny in the 8 square.

 Ross called in the middle of our painting session and I had to cut him short. “Roz and I are working on a project, can I call you later?” Oh that felt awkward. I missed him terribly, but caught up in the moment, I didn’t have time for him. This was going to be harder than we thought.

 “Yea, I guess. Glad you’re having fun.”

 A cheap plastic rolling Roman shade covered our windows. Dusty and gross it didn’t block out the morning sun nearly well enough (we were both late sleepers), and we wanted to cover it. But we still wanted the footprint pattern so as to have continuity. It was a problem to be solved.

 The suite adjacent to ours was called 6124’s. That was either the phone extension, or the official number of the suite in case of emergency, or both. It housed Mike, Rentz (aka Stephen Paul), J.G., Chris, Ken and Tony. Their common room was the “family room” of the floor. They had the bar, built in some year prior to my arrival, the television, and the open all night policy. It was the gathering place.

 Stephen Paul, a junior optics major, was one of the fortunate few to have a car on campus. He drove a Land Yacht – an early ‘80s Mercury Marquis four-door, fully loaded. An only child from Watervliet, NY, (outside of Albany) his parents lived on Easy Street. Really. They petitioned to get the street name changed, and won, so their official postal address was 1 Easy Street. On Tuesday afternoon before classes started, he drove a group of us to the local mall to get out of the dorm, shop and stock up on supplies. While in the mall, I considered the footprints on our dorm room walls and asked, “Does anybody know where I can get felt?”

 That started it. Stephen Paul, Chris, and Roz paused, stared at me, and laughed uproariously, guffawed even. I was clueless – I’m looking for the crafts store, what’s so funny? Sigh. The first of many quotes Stephen Paul kept in his private journal. I wonder if Ross might have laughed? I doubt it, he was accustomed to my blind blunders. He might have teased me a little – maybe jesting an intimate reply, “I know exactly where you can get felt.” I might have understood my gaffe and chewed ‘tardidly. But the guffaws threw me. I blushed and absent-mindedly chewed my tongue when someone finally stopped laughing enough to point out my unintentional double entendre.

 We got back from our shopping trip (stacks of colored felt procured without further incident) and I had a message to call home. I called, and Mom informed me that Mommer passed away the day before, on Monday, the Labor Day holiday. Mom and Dad had flown out to Oregon, said hello to Tom, got the call from the hospital, boarded a plane and flew back home.

 Ross had been with me when I last saw Mommer in the hospital. Now I was alone. Away from family, familiar friends, and no way to get home for the funeral service. I sat on the floor of the phone alcove and wished so much for Ross’ comforting presence. I called him at home and shared the sad news. He had been so patient with me and seemed to genuinely not mind going to visit her. In Rochester, I had no opportunity to grieve, classes were starting and my world started to spin.

 *          *          *

 Classes started Wednesday morning. I stopped at the post office in the afternoon, and found my first mail. It was from Ross.

  Postmarked SEP 3’85

Cincinnati, OH

 Sept. 1, 1985

 Deer Soozin,

 This is a tardid letter becuz this is a tardid terminal that I g0t al0ng time ag0 at W00ster that is from ab0ut 1969 and it sucks.

 Encl0sed is X

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Encl0sed is the c0mplete st0ry on w0mbats.

Als0 s0me cart00ns….

And I th0ughT that y0u might want y0ur asprin case…..and s0me tapes!

M0MX says hell0. S0 d0es SK0T

I cann0t believe h0w much n0ise this thing makes.

 Enough teletypewriter tardidness….

 I felt strange going out with Steve last night because I sort of wanted to go dancing, but then again Steve is not exactly the person to go “cruising” with. Also, I’m not really ready yet. I would much prefer (obviously) to be doing something with you. And I don’t quite know how you feel about me seeing other people, etc…  I know what you’ve said, sort of. I wish you would give me some guidance here. I mean I would like to go out + stuff, but I’m really not sure what you’re thinking on the subject is…. Is this confusing to you? Do you care what I think about your going out?

 Whatever

 I am not good at writing interesting letters like yours, sorry.

 Watching Greg, Victor, Christopher, Adrian, Groteke, and Mojdehi get high the other night was not exactly an ideal way to spend Friday night. I need a FRIEND. Hard to find sometimes.

 Don’t call yourself a bitch. Everybody does stuff like that. I know you are a very sensitive caring person and that I do the same kind of stuff to you. I also know you had one hell of a lot on your mind about going to school, etc. So please don’t call yourself a bitch because you may convince me one day.

 2

 I miss you a lot, but right now I can’t even remember what you’re like! Do you know what I mean? Our telephone conversation today did not sound like Susan Savage to me.

 Query:  Is there anyone you’ve found worth being romantically interested in? I would like to know as soon as (if) there is, even if it may not lead to anything, because it is much easier to deal with if I know something is starting, rather than, “There’s this guy I really like a lot…and we’ve been spending a lot of time together…” type deals.

 Does this sound really possessive? I’m sorry. I can’t write “Light” letters. These are the things on my mind.

 I need a companion.

 You know, I really have no idea what you’ve been doing at school? Sort of a departure from this summer when we-both-knew-what-the-other-was-doing-at-every-waking-minute type attitude was more easily accomplished.

 I am very anxious to:

 start school

make friends

Get the PINTO fixed

Come see you. Here are the flight times:

 Cin – Roch. (Friday)                           Roch – Cin (Sunday)

3:15    6:40                                          7:00 p.m. ?

   3

 I’ll probably just stay until Sunday – but we’ll see.

 Very Sorry to hear about your grandma. I’ll go over tonight to see if there’s anything I can do for your parents.

Your pill Asprin case is enclosed. Sorry, we don’t have enough Asprin to fill it up!

 Well, I’m going to finish this letter so I can send it.

 I love you and I’ll talk to you soon!

 Love,

 Ross

  Did I have anyone in particular that I was interested in? No. Were there several guys who were interested in me? Probably – but I was at school for all of what, a week? Ross knew I didn’t have to work hard to get attention. The male: female ratio was something like 2:1. Do the math!

  I left my aspirin case? Hmmmph. I developed a habit with David and kept it ever since. I leave things behind when we part, my wallet usually, sometimes a sweatshirt or my shoes. When being dropped off at home, I said goodnight, got out of the car and climbed the stairs into the house without a second thought. The next day or several days later, or whenever I needed it, I called David, or he called me, or he stopped by to deliver my forgotten item, or I stopped by his house to retrieve the item. It got to be a joke after a while. I kissed David goodnight, and he said, “Got your wallet?” And I’d dig under the front passenger seat or get it out of the glove compartment. I’m sure a psychiatrist has an explanation for that behavior – fear of abandonment or not wanting to let go, or needing to return to the person. It couldn’t be as simple as forgetfulness. Just like David and Mark, I can’t tell you how many times Ross drove by the house to drop off my wallet, or sweater, or whatever that I had left in the car. I needed to leave something with Ross. I couldn’t leave my wallet, so I left a small plastic aspirin case that held twelve white pills. I wonder what else I left with him?

  Long before Ross and I spent our wonderful summer together, I chose the University of Rochester not for the academics (as my GPA can attest) but for the male:female ratio, presence of a Greek sorority / fraternity system (of which I was never a part – those of us on the floor took a perverse pride in razzing anyone who might choose to pledge a Greek house), presence of ROTC, a ten-hour drive from home, and finally, when I visited campus the previous fall, I noted that the women on campus all seemed to need to lose ten pounds or more. Not the best reasons to choose a college, eh? But I was having fun making bagel bikes, painting footprints, getting in squirt gun fights and getting felt. With peers surrounding me twenty-four hours a day, I was a social butterfly.

  *          *          *

  I brought more than a few childhood mementos with me to school. Of course I brought a photo of Ross, a Polaroid of him being Dum. Some favorite Bloom County comic strips, a drawing of Milo and Opus that Mark made, and a funny postcard from my brother Jack of an obese woman peeing on the beach. I kept photos of friends – Valli, Julie and Erin and David (a rare one of David without his beard) and arranged it all on the corkboard at the back of the desk. On the desktop I put my mini-stereo with tiny removable speakers (the tape player recorded, supposedly to record lectures and listen to them again) new technology at the time. Having no stereo, much less a turntable, I brought no records, only a few tapes I had been brave enough to purchase; Pink Floyd, Simon & Garfunkle’s Greatest Hits, James Taylor, and The Who, Face Dances. Ross recorded a couple of Joe Jackson and some Go-Go’s, and would soon send me a few others.

  On the shelf above the desk, I arranged the select few stuffed animals I brought, a favorite teddy bear, a stuffed dog my grandfather gave me, and the Opuses that were gifts from Ross and his Mom. Included in my mini-menagerie was a treasured stuffed beaver puppet my parents bought for me at the Appalachian Festival when I was a little girl, maybe I was ten or even as old as twelve. It was handmade and expensive at the time, so a special treat. My goal at the time was to collect a Noah’s ark full of stuffed animals, one of every species (dog, cat, bear, camel, hedgehog, fish, beaver, llama, etc). My father finally agreed to buy the puppet on the premise that MIT has the beaver on their school crest. “Nature’s Engineer” is what Dad (an MIT alumnus) told me.

  In the lounge of 6124’s, a half-dozen floor-mates, mostly male, huddled together watching television, conversing around the noise of whatever was broadcast. No one remembers the exact topic now, but relevant to the conversation at hand, and at an appropriate time, I said, “Oh, I have a beaver!” and promptly trotted off to my room to retrieve this puppet. Well, you can just imagine…six guys first started laughing that I said out loud, “I have a beaver.” They were further inspired when I actually produced “Nature’s Engineer.” They did unspeakably rude things to/with my treasured puppet and it really got waaaay out of hand. Just imagine five males between the ages of 18 and 22, and what they can do with a beaver puppet and a broken off hockey stick they called a “Fuck Stick.” I got frustrated that no one noticed how hurt I was, and went back to my room upset. In retrospect, they still believe the incident was very funny. But at the time, I really hadn’t wanted unspeakably rude things done to my treasured transitional object. They did eventually apologize, and I begrudgingly accepted their humility.

  I still have that puppet. For a long time I kept it in a basket with other childhood plush toys in my son’s room. One day when he was about three, he pawed through the basket and for whatever reason grew afraid of it (he’s a smart kid!), so today it sits in a basket in our bedroom. That beaver will never be a child's toy again!

  *          *          *

  I always listened to the music of the men of my life. In the late 70s and early 80s I visited my eldest brother Jack at college. His roommates played the Knack and Devo. Impressionable as I was, I thought those bands were cool. David and Christopher listened to Pink Floyd. In the evenings we lay on the floor of Christopher’s room above the garage and put on album after album. Dark side of the moon, Wish you were here, The Wall. In a more jovial daylight mood, they quizzed me, making a game to see how quickly I could recognize the album and track. The Who and Queen were staples in my high school. Heck, they were probably staples in most high schools for that time frame, the early 1980s.

  But driving around the city late at night, David tuned the radio to the local college station that picked up an NPR jazz show. I dozed as he drove through the night, comfortable in the passenger seat, enjoying the soothing strains that emanated from the speakers on the dash. I didn’t mind that he drove just to feel the speed and force as he took curvy roads too fast through the hills around Cincinnati. Finally, he returned me home, turned off the radio, we kissed and he shooed me inside. I forgot my wallet under the seat or in the glove box and called him later to retrieve it.

  Then later, when I drove the Pinto with Mark riding shotgun, I had two tapes for the cassette deck, Face Dances and Wish you were here. David and Christopher had given me a gift. I actually enjoyed a little Floyd, and Mark was impressed with my selection. Although Mark was angrier and listened to noisier punk bands, he reminded me that The Pretenders were a particular favorite of his and Scott’s. I’d forgotten. No wonder I enjoyed Bart’s music collection when we met.

  But Ross had the biggest selection by far. I became accustomed to asking, “Can you play the one that goes dum-dum-dum da-da-da?” and he pulled it out and put it on the player. My own personal DJ. When we were pen-pals, long before we ever started dating, his letters were full of musical references of the day; U2, Squeeze, Psychedelic Furs, Rush, Kinks. Then later, after we were inseparable, I discovered his true passions, Joe Jackson, Pat Metheny, Chaka Khan, Phil Collins and Genesis, and a private admiration for Neil Diamond. I was sworn to secrecy for that last one. What twenty-year old male in 1985 was willing to go public with his admiration of Neil Diamond??

  That’s probably why I gravitated to Mike’s room with Stephen Paul and Chris. Like Ross, Mike was an album accumulator and the conversation that afternoon was music. Mike was enthralled with the latest band he discovered that summer, Marillion, and we were being educated. The topic eventually turned to Genesis, Pink Floyd and the Who. Well, thank you David and Ross. I knew these bands. I knew the albums, I knew the lyrics, I knew the esoteric information of which only male adolescents are otherwise aware. Thanks to my buddies in high school, I was able to not only participate in that conversation, but “enlighten” those around me. It made an impression on them I guess…Chris remembers it all these years later. (Correction – he remembers not the actual conversation about music, but rather a conversation he and Mike and Stephen Paul had later in the dining hall. He reports that all were impressed with how I had held my own in their conversation.)

  What I find funny, is that while I was competent in several genres, including espousing the virtues of Joe Jackson and Pat Metheny. I was completely ignorant of Bruce Springsteen or Elton John. Evidently there is a distinction between Who fans and Springsteen fans. The two definitely did not mix. Not often anyway, and certainly not in collegiate male album collections in the mid-80s. I know the stereo wars later on got very loud. “Born in the USA” versus “Won’t get fooled again” or “Born to Run” versus “Substitute” or “My Generation”. It got vicious. One of the guys in the triple upstairs was a fan of Olivia Newton-John and cranked her “Physical” album over and over very loudly. The musical mix could be disconcerting at times.

  As I look back at it, that whole musical mix, I recognize that I married yet another album accumulator who still plays DJ on occasion. I also realize that it’s long past time for me to claim more music for my own. I always borrowed the sounds of others. I need to pick and choose and play my own music. But try as I might, I still cling to the music of others. I bought some John Denver, reminiscent of my father’s favorites. He taught himself to play Denver’s hits on the guitar when I was young and he was in his 30s. The music is soothing, a comfort from my childhood. Likewise are the story songs of Jim Croce and Harry Chapin, both men wooing audiences with their sad stories accompanied by guitar. Coincidentally, (or not) all three performers died untimely accidental deaths at the prime of their careers.

  *          *          *

  As soon as the students moved in and all the parents were gone, a construction crew closed off the driveway along the dorms. They would build a new parking lot – reconfigure the drive, add more parking spaces. The contractors arrived early, 7 or 8 in the morning. Sometimes their noise woke me up, so I dragged myself out of bed and watched from our window. The machinery was fascinating and I found it peaceful and relaxing to watch them work. First they tore up the old roadway, shovels cracking the asphalt and filling dump trucks with load after load. Other machines pulled out the curbstones and stacked them for re-use. I was amazed to learn that in Rochester and Western New York, curbs are made of granite. I don’t know where it was quarried, but new curbs were delivered in 4-6 foot lengths and backhoes excavated about six feet down in order to place the slabs. Where I grew up, curbs are built up out of wooden forms, and poured concrete or asphalt. I’m not at home anymore, am I?=ce���