#my old laptop crashed almost a year ago

[voidlesscreator]

Alfred's Relative??

It had been three days since the letter addressed to Alfred had come through the mail. From what Alfred had told them, it was a letter from his father saying that he would be stopping by the manor to visit him.

Tim had wanted to run checks on the letter since it was ‘suspicious’ that Alfred’s father was only writing to him now and was planning on visiting, but the old butler shut it down fairly quickly by telling him about how his father was busy and unable to send any letters or call for years.

Since neither Tim nor anyone else in the batfam had any reason to doubt Alfred’s words on the matter it was quickly dropped, though they were all waiting for the day the butler’s father turned up to see who raised the man who kept them all- in his best ability- alive.

— — — —

The day was like most  others, Damian was busy tending to his pets early that morning, Tim was awake for the whole night and had crashed with his laptop still running his research despite him being out cold. Jason was staying the night due to Alfred’s insistence and was getting ready to leave when the doorbell of the manor rang out.

Since Jason was closer to the door than Alfred, who was busy in the kitchen prepping food for the rest of the manor’s residents, Jason went to open the door. He had heard from Dick about Alfred’s father coming to visit, so the doorbell ringing was most likely him.

From how old Alfred was, he was honestly expecting some frail old man, that would be a more likely choice then dead- which is obviously not the case if he is supposed to be visiting.

…

Jason was wrong apparently, because there was no way that this young man with a build similar to Bruce’s but more lean was Alfred’s father- there was no way.

“Can I help you?” Jason quirked an eyebrow as the man looked at him in surprise(was that concern mixed in there?) before snapping out of that look.

“Ah! Sorry, I sent a letter to my son a few days ago that I would be visiting- Is Alfred here?” The man gave Jason a smile -with clearly too-sharp teeth. This was a record scratch to Jason, quite literally since the man looked like he was Dick’s age, maybe a bit older but still.

“Wait what-”

“Master Jason, who may be at the door this early in the morning?” Alfred’s voice sounded out behind him, and there was a brief moment when Jason was turning to look at the butler where there was a sudden gust of wind before he saw the man at the door now hugging Alfred who was halfway across the foyer.

“Oh my Ancients! You’ve grown so much since I last saw you little Alf!” The man squealed as he began looking Alfred over. It was… an odd sight to see, especially when the man in question was his apparent father but looked half his age.

“Ah- yes father. It has been a few years” Alfred was still as collected as he usually was when he spoke, but it was clear that he was comfortable despite the man pinching his cheeks and cooing with an almost inhuman trill to his voice.

What in the Lazarus pits is this guy’s deal?

[theghostkingisdead]

dpxdc - Neglected Child AU

As one of his first acts as Ghost King, Danny basically created ghost CPS. Mostly they help new spirits come to terms with the fact that they're dead, but situations like Danny's are a lot more common than the Observants had lead him to believe. People who come back from the dead or are exposed to large quantities of unstable ectoplasm often lead sad, short second lives. Either because they are unable to obtain the nutrients their new forms require, or because their communities turn against them in fear. This is a story about Jason Todd.

There was a lot Jazz loved about her job. She loved helping young ghosts find acceptance. She loved matching cases with foster Fraids. She loved meeting new people. She loved the rare excuse to travel dimensions. But some days, Jazz was intimately reminded of why this program was formed in the first place.

Knock, knock, knock.

Jazz looked up from her laptop. “Come in!”

Apple – the ghost of a dryad whose tree was chopped down two summers ago – poked her head in.

“Uh, Lady- I mean, Ms. Phan-, no,” Apple took a shuddering breath. Jazz smiled encouragingly. The girl had only been working here for a season, and already she was making excellent progress. “Ms. Jasmine, there’s a city spirit here to see you, uh, on behalf of a uh, potential client.”

“Thank you, Apple, you can send them in.” Jazz said.

Apple flushed green, closing the door with a sigh. Jazz guessed she had about two minutes before the impromptu meeting began. She used the time to sweep some papers off her desk and into a drawer. It had been some time since she’d had a walk-in like this. Jazz had a strict open doors policy when it came to her office, despite the technical fact that her door was often closed; it was just easier to focus that way! She had no idea why most ghosts preferred to submit claims by mail, really it was much better for them to speak with an officer in person.

Thirty years ago, Jazz would’ve had trouble describing the spirit that walked through the doors. Fifty years ago, even looking at it would’ve been painful. But Jasmine Duchess Phantom had been living in the Infinite Realms for almost eighty years now, and liminal senses reached out subconsciously, cataloging scents and colors that her mortal mind would have balked at.

The shape of a steel-colored skeleton peered out at her from a billowing cloud of grey smoke, which curled around its feet and seeped across the floor. Jazz tasted gunmetal and sugar, smelled stale urine and burned bread, felt desperation-fear-hunger-love crash violently against her. Like a cliff to a wave, Jazz stood her ground, letting herself be tested. This spirit was old and afraid; when it spoke, it spoke in a million overlapping voices.

“My apologies for barging in unannounced, Your Grace. I come before you with an issue of great import. One I have reason to believe our King may have a personal interest in.”

Jazz nodded, “My doors are always open, City Spirit. I’m always happy to help. But before I hear your petition, may I know who I am addressing?”

The skeleton did not move that she could see, but Jazz heard windchimes like chittering laughter.

“I am Gotham, Your Grace. My apologies for my rudeness. I have little reason to travel these days and am unaccustomed to necessary introductions.”

Jazz nodded, committing the name and its taste to memory. “No need to apologize, Gotham. Your situation is not unique amongst your kind. Have a seat,” Jazz gestured at the plush couch across from her desk. “What troubles you so, to bring you so far from home?”

There was more windchime tittering, and Jazz wondered if the spirit was laughing or just readjusting itself on a plane she could not see. A nervous tick, perhaps? Maybe she could send Apple for something to make Gotham feel more at ease. Bullet casings or chocolate chip cookies would be equally soothing to this entity, Jazz guessed.

Gotham folded into itself, form blurring slightly before reforming on the couch, leaned forward with elbows on knees. “Many years ago, a mortal man pledged himself to my service. I accepted him as a City Guard, my mortal Champion. This man has many children who have likewise pledged themselves to my protection.”

Jazz smothered the urge to interrupt. She loathed the idea of child Guards; the fact that this City Spirit was here now asking for help meant that this instance had gone just as well as it usually did.

Unaware of her internal judgement, Gotham continued. “The second child died and revived some seven years ago, I…” This time, the rattling sound emanating from Gotham shook the room with the force of a thunderclap. “You have to understand, I don’t claim kids as champions, so technically he was never even under my protection. And when he came back, he ran! I don’t have power outside the city, you know, so even if, well, it’s not like there was anything I could have done differently,”

Jazz was aware that she was frowning. She could only guess what her aura felt like to Gotham, whose smoky aura was rapidly thickening. A bird puffing itself up to look bigger. A cheap trick. If Jazz were in a more compassionate mood, she might have felt embarrassed at such a juvenile display from a spirit decades older than herself.

“You neglected a child, or-” she cut off Gotham before it could protest, “allowed a child to be neglected. For seven years. What changed? Why petition him now and not then?”

Gotham chittered, “Well, you see, he came back to me just over a year ago, retook his pledge and everything. And, well, things were rough, I thought the fraid was just readjusting itself, but, er-”

“Tell me.”

“Well, the problem is I don’t exactly know what the boy is anymore, but he’s more ghostly than not, and his fraid’s fully human. If this infighting between my Guards goes on for any longer, it’ll tear me apart. I figured The King might want to step in, considering this boy might be a halfa, maybe he could help him and the fraid get back to normal.”

Jazz grinned. “Rest assured, Gotham, The Crown will indeed be taking special interest in your case.” Words dripped from her lips, caustic even to her own ears. “Now, why don’t you go outside and give Apple the rest of the details. I have some visits to make.”

[cannibalizedlove]

My bestiest bestie recommended you and I have a BIG idea. I've always thought about a fic where y/n (any gender) moved into this creepy-ish home. After awhile of being there, there had been strange movements and noises and etc. Often the ghost of the house (timothee chalamet) visits only when they're asleep to either caress their hair or cheek because timothee is afraid to show himself to them; especially from fear of scaring them. He is a very beautiful ghost too. When the reader falls in love with timothee, they can only feel him. The reader is the only person that can physically touch him because of how strong their love is. (I might be a bit cheesy).

and the best part of this story is that when the reader dies in the future — the two lovers can and will always be happily together.

A very fluffy and sweet story! With some slight angst.

This is such a cute idea!! I love a little angst-y, cheesy story so I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. Love your and your besties blog as well!!

Hauntingly Yours.

Information and warnings — Gender neutral reader, gender never specified, Ghost Timothée, old hollywood Timothée, slow burn, very, very long fic.., reader death, Timothée doesn’t know what technology is, hurt/comfort, lover boy Timmy, fluffy angst.

You had recently moved into your new house, an old, southern gothic home from the early ‘20s.

When your friends helped you move, they joked that it was haunted. The rickety house was a bit beat down, chipped paint, leaky faucets and creaky floors galore, but it had good bone structure and charm that you couldn’t pass up.

You enjoyed the aesthetic of the house, and knew the more deserted area it was in would have a positive effect on your writing.

You had been in a slump, your book was 30 pages behind the deadline and your editor was livid. You believed if you were to move away from the loud city, the bustling streets and lit up buildings you could connect with the words and let them flow onto the pages.

It was about a week into settling in, and you were starting to believe your friends. In the dead of the night the floors would creek, and sinks would turn on randomly. When you would write, you felt a cold air touch your neck, and an almost humming sound would whisper in your ears.

You had finally had enough a few nights ago. You were about to lay down for a late sleep, when a loud crash came from the kitchen. You ran quickly to the room, finding a mug your mother had gifted you from your last apartment completely shattered on the floor.

After sweeping up the remaining pieces, you grabbed your laptop, getting to the bottom of this.

You began researching the area and house, and your jaw hung open as you found out the history of your home.

In the late 1930’s, a beautiful star was on the rise. Timothée Chalamet was an actor like no other, he was gorgeous, talented, and had incredible range.

He lived in a gorgeous home, it was in the southern part of the state, off the grid and away from the busy city he desperately needed to get out from.

It seemed as everyone loved him, except the man who took his life.

One night, as Timothée was alone in bedroom, he was shot dead. The shooter was later identified as his costar in his upcoming film.

As you read on, you became increasingly aware that you lived in an old hollywoods stars death bed.

What you weren’t aware of was he knew you lived here too.

Timothée had been alone for all these years, he had felt so alone. He would roam the hallways pacing back and forth for hours before returning back to the bed in which he had died in.

Until you came along.

You were beautiful, and so talented. He loved just standing in the doorway and watching your fingers tap on your weird bright box late at night, he didn’t quite know what it was but he enjoyed reading the words that popped up on it.

Timothée was terrified of letting you see him, so he’d only come into the room late at night, while you were sleeping. He’d softly caress your cheek or pet your hair, watching as your chest moved up and down in your slumber.

You couldn’t sleep, you were too horrified by the idea of sleeping in a deadman’s house, but mostly you were pissed that your real estate agent hadn’t told you about the haunted backstory.

As the late hour rolled around, Timothée had walked into your room, shocked to see you awake. He tipped toed around you too see what was on your light box, as he saw his passing plastered all over it.

His phantom heart sank. Timothée never wanted you to find out about him, he knew you’d be scared and leave him alone once again.

You felt the energy shift, a shiver ran down your spine and you decided enough was enough. You grabbed your phone and began to dial the number of your real estate agent, trying to find out how badly your pockets would be broke if you canceled your contract early.

That was until your phone was flung out of your hands, cracking the screen a bit.

“Hello?! Who’s there!?” You called out with wide eyes, trying to pretend you weren’t terrified in your own home.

A soft whisper rang through your ears, and you felt your heart skip a beat. You knew you weren’t alone.

You ripped a piece of paper off and drew a “yes, no” sign with two pens on top of eachother like the game you learned back in elementary school. This was the only way you knew how to talk to the other side. You sat on the dreaded bed, putting the paper in the middle of the mattress.

A weight shifted on the end of the bed, you knew this was Timothée, he was sitting with you.

“Is there someone here with me?” You asked out, hugging yourself for a sense of security.

Timothée picked up the pen and put it on the “Yes” part of the sign, watching you with tears in his eyes as he watched the utter sense of horror fill you. He was scaring you, something he wanted less than anything in the world.

“Are you the actor who died here back in the ‘30s?” You muttered out, watching as the pen once again went to the “Yes.”

“Are you able to speak to me?” Another question, Timothée swallowed thickly as he began to speak, believing you wouldn’t hear him.

“I’m sorry to scare you mon amour..” A voice softly whispered out.

You jumped, falling off the bed and panting profusely. Timothée was equally shocked, his voice had never been heard before, and was utterly confused by your abilities.

“I can hear you.. I’m going fucking insane. I’m actually insane, oh my God.” You tugged on your skin, pulled on your hair and looked around like a madman, truly believing you were either asleep or finally losing your mind.

“You’re not insane, Dollface. I’m right here.” The voice called out, it had that old hollywood transatlantic accent mixed with a french one, and it had you.. swooning. Impossible, you’re not weak in the knees for a ghost.. right?

Timothée made your way towards you, and sat by you on the ground, “No one has ever heard me before, Mon Cherie. I’m so alone, all I do is roam the hallways and watch you work, I’m overwhelmed with desire when I see you.” His voice filled the room, and you calmed down slowly but surely.

As you guys continued talking, you found yourself relating more and more to him. He was a kind soul, who didn’t deserve anything he had went through. When he talked about his death, you felt water drop on your knee, and you knew he was crying. You comforted him, telling him that he was okay now and how nothing could hurt him anymore.

Throughout the conversations, you found yourself falling harder and harder into a love for him. He was incredibly talented, smart, and insanely witty. You knew if anyone walked in, they’d think you were absolutely mad, but funnily enough, you had never felt so grounded and happy.

“If you were alive when I was, I bet we would’ve been the best of lovers, Sweet Pie. We could’ve rocked Hollywoods world!” Timothée laughed, you chuckled with your head hanging low, you desperately wished it was true. You wished you could’ve loved him back then, maybe he never would’ve met his terrible fate and you could’ve grown old together. You both could’ve lived in this house, and he could’ve reached the level of stardom that he had deserved.

Soon when you lifted your head back up, complete shock struck you as you were now face to face with the man you had been speaking to all night.

He looked straight out of a black and white movie, he had a sharp nose, heavy lashes, perfectly set curls, and soft freckles that kissed his entire face.

You screamed, throwing your hands on your mouth.

“What?! What’s wrong?!” Timothée exclaimed, his eyes were wide and he grabbed your arm.

“I can.. You! I can see you?! I can FEEL you?!” You had explained in complete shock, locking eyes with him, and staring at his large hand on your arm.

Timothée was overjoyed that you could finally be with him, but he quickly feared that you would be scared of him, more than you were before.

“You’re.. beautiful, Timothée.” You said with a sigh, moving closer to him and gently running a thumb across his cheek. “Much more beautiful than the pictures, I didn’t think you could get prettier.” You giggled, bringing him into a tight embrace.

Timothée hadn’t felt a hug in decades, he began to sob, shaking like a leaf as he held you close. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be seen.” He said through intense tears, and you shushed him quietly, kissing the top of his head and wiping his tears.

“I see you, Angel.” You began to cry with him, and the two of you fell asleep holding each other.

The days went on and you were falling for him more and more, since you could see and feel him now, you did everything together. You taught him what a laptop was, and you showed him new movies and explained how CGI was a part of every film now. He thought it was tacky, and said that hollywood had declined since his time and you laughed with agreement.

It had been about a month since you first met Timothée, and you were head over heels for him. Today was different than the others, because you decided you were going to tell him how you loved him. You cooked the two of you breakfast, and held his hand over the table as you ate with him.

“May I tell you something, dear?” You muttered, rubbing your thumb against his boney knuckles, holding eye contact with him as he had a bit of syrup on the corner of his mouth. He was a complete goof, and you loved him for it, he deserved to know that.

“Of course, darling, what is it?” He asked sweetly, smiling widely.

“I, well, I love you.” You exclaimed, you looked down as you said it, feeling like a fool.

“Oh, Mon Cherie.” Timothée began to cry, he was a very emotional man, and you loved that about him.

He left his seat and picked you up, swinging you around, “I love you more than you know!” His voice cried out.

For the rest of the day, you were clung to his side, you spent the entire afternoon kissing and holding him tightly. You loved him, he loved you and that’s all you needed. When the day had come to a close, you needed a shower. You broke apart from Timothée and left him with a peck on the lips.

You had gotten a towel, and began to undress, jumping into the shower. Everything was normal, you shampooed your hair, hummed songs and went to grab your soap. It fell out of your hands, and with closed eyes you went to grab it, in a terrible accident you slipped on the bar of soap. You screamed and slammed your head on the faucet insanely hard. For a moment you heard Timothée rushing into the room, and the next moment you heard and felt nothing.

You woke up to Timothée crying as he held you close, you were confused as you heard ambulances outside your home and men rushing in your direction. It felt like you were seeing with your eyes closed, and Timothée was whispering comforting nothings into your ears.

It had finally clicked for you, you had passed away due to the hit to your head. You were terrified. You began to scream and cry but your body wasn’t moving, you wanted to yell that you were alive and for them to stop wrapping your body, but Timothée held you down and told you that there was nothing you could do.

Months later your friends and family had a funeral for you, you stayed back, in that southern home.

Every morning you woke up to Timothée in your shared bed, and every night you’d eat dinner, and go to bed with him. You felt at peace, you knew that you and him would be in love forever, and you knew that nothing could tear you apart.

Your souls were intertwined in that home, till the end of time.

[nico-di-genova]

A Lesson in Braking

Chapter 2

Read on Archive of Our Own

A/N: hehehehehehe (my only thoughts while writing this fic).

Warnings: NSFW and a brief mention of anti-harm dorm furniture.

“I fucked an old guy last night,” Lance says to Esteban, when he’s lying on the floor of his dorm room, head resting on the Spider-Man pillow he bought Esteban for his birthday last spring. “Behind the Barnes & Noble. Hand job.”

Esteban hums. He’s  sitting at his desk that he’s moved to slot beneath the single small window of his room, curled over his laptop and working on some complex string of numbers. Three weeks into the semester and Esteban is already drowning in assignments – Lance doesn’t envy him.

“He ate my cum,” he continues, picking at a fraying edge of the pillow. When he pulls at the red string it snags on the fabric and then releases, growing longer in Lance’s grip. He should buy Esteban a new one, maybe a whole bedspread to match. The thought occurs that he could buy a matching set, just to sleep on during the nights when he’s too drunk to get back to his own place and crashes in the living room.

Esteban hums again, pushes his glasses further up his nose, keeps clicking away on his laptop so that the number sequence only grows longer. Lance can only catch pieces of it from where he’s lying on the floor, head angled backward to stare up at Esteban as he works. But even the small bit he can see is enough to give him a headache.  

“When I kissed him I tasted it.”

That gets him.

Esteban sighs, leans back in the chair as far as it will go given its anti-tip design – dorm furniture made to prevent kids from hanging themselves from their light fixtures – rubs at the bridge of his nose and then falls back forward with a groan.

“You’re telling me this, why?”

Lance pouts, tips his head further back on the pillow so he can get a better look at Esteban with one arm on the back of his chair, leaning down to stare at him with mild judgement.

“You don’t want to know about the old man sex I had?”

“I can barely tolerate hearing about the normal sex you have.”

Lance laughs. The spider-man plush, also bought by Lance from the birthday trip to Disneyland last spring, rises and falls on his stomach with the movement. Technically, he has homework for his intro to Marketing class, but it’s more fun to laze around on Esteban’s dirty floor, talking about his sex life, than it is to learn about how to make people buy things. Besides, he’s grown up listening to his dad rant about his successes in the industry, so much so that his first word might as well have been entrepreneurship. It shouldn’t be a hard class to pass.

The dorm room is so tiny he almost runs the whole length of it, one foot nearly to the door, his head at the base of Esteban’s chair, one knee propped in the air. One of his arms is spread wide enough that it’s laying underneath Esteban’s bed, fingers toying with the shoelace of a sneaker that’s been kicked off underneath. It’s a familiar sight by this point, Lance taking up space in Esteban’s room, his life, with ease and spreading out enough that he can be found in nearly every corner of it. Esteban always makes room for him, sometimes will join him on the floor when his course load isn’t too much. But junior year is already different from the two prior, kicking off with a speed that is giving Lance whiplash.

He misses Sovi, the freshman dorms that once made him feel caged, but provided infinitely more freedom in that they weren’t tied to the paths that had led them here.

“My normal sex life just involves Pato, you’d rather hear about me fucking Pato?” He asks, smirks, just barely dodges the pencil Esteban flicks down at him.

“I don’t want to hear about you fucking anyone! Get a journal!”

Lance muses, “I guess there was also that one guy a few weeks ago. From that party in Q,” the building a few doors down from Esteban’s. It sat on the shore of the lake and far enough away from the central hub that university police tended to overlook it. Esteban had called Lance four beers deep a week into school and told him to get there quick, didn’t specify where ‘there’ was, so Lance had to use Find My to even locate him. When he’d pulled up the party had been in full swing on the third floor, and he was welcomed into the cramped apartment by Esteban who reeked of alcohol and weed. Lance ended up fucking one of the guys who lived there, riding him hurriedly and enduring the guy keeping a sweaty palm pressed to his mouth so he didn’t make too much noise in the room they’d locked themselves in.

 Esteban squints at him, “You said that guy was shit.”

“He was.” He came first and then didn’t even bother to get Lance off.

“So why the fuck would you want to talk about it again?”

“Because you don’t want to hear about the good old man sex.”  

Esteban’s nose crinkles in disgust, “Well how old was he?”

“I didn’t ask.”

The mechanical engineering is quickly forgotten, Esteban spinning around fully in his chair and staring at Lance with wide eyes. Lance grins up at him innocently, flutters his eyelashes, scoots over on the pillow as a silent invitation for the man to join him on the ugly blue carpeted floor. Esteban doesn’t take it, yet, Lance is still confident he can convince him.

“How old did he look?”

“I don’t know, forties maybe?”

“Forties?! What the fuck, Lance!?”

“What?”

The deadpan stare Esteban gives him isn’t new, it’s pretty standard actually. “You are insane. And stupid.”

Lance, because he likes testing his luck, pushing at the boundaries of his and Esteban’s friendship, seeing where the line is so he can be prepared for when it snaps, keeps going, “I’m seeing him again tonight.”

He wishes he’d been filming, just so he could preserve the way Esteban’s eyes get impossibly wider. Finally, Esteban gets out of the chair, but he doesn’t join Lance on the floor, instead he paces the length of the room, hands held on his head and mumbles a rapid string of words that Lance doesn’t quite get but he thinks are mainly swears.

“You are joking, yes? Tell me you are joking.” Hands on his hips, towering over Lance, he looks like a giant. Tall and lanky with big eyes behind his wire-rimmed frames.

Lance hadn’t been. He’s been texting Fernando since late last night, ignoring calls from his dad in the process. So far the conversation has consisted of little substance, just enough to establish that Lance is a junior, Fernando is retired, and lives in one of the mansions on the other side of the lake that is right outside Esteban’s prison cell-sized window. Mainly they’d talked about Fernando’s cock, how Lance is upset he didn’t get to see it, taste it – how he’d like to return the favor preferably outside of the backseat of a car and somewhere a bit more comfortable.

He wants to be called beautiful again, reverently, spread out on silk sheets and spread open by Fernando’s fingers. He blames the accelerated horniness on the dry summer he’d just had, the time spent at his father’s house with little else to do and no one to hook up with because Lawrence had insisted on spending as much time as he could with Lance. They’d gone to the track to watch a few races, the office where Lance was meant to be shadowing, galas and banquets, and the golf course most mornings so Lawrence could ensure Lance actually had something to show for the tuition he was fronting. Lance knows it was mainly a last ditch effort on his dad’s behalf to maintain their relationship, before Lance slipped off back to Florida and began predictably sending him to voicemail. Which is why he had even bothered enduring it in the first place, when he just as easily could has gone off to the Mykonos with a group of guys from his frat.

He'd refrained from debauchery all summer, was paying the price for his abstinence now. But, like always, the cost was something to which Lance paid very little, until the bill began to raise eyebrows, as Esteban’s now are.

“Lance. Tell me you are joking!”

“Why would I be joking?”

Esteban glares down at him, while Lance sprawls out further across the thin carpet, concrete flooring beneath digging into his shoulder blades, and smiles. It’s wide, lazy, slow to draw across his face. The sort of shit-eating, self-assured, smirk that Esteban hates.

“It was good sex, Este! He did this thing-“

“Stop! No! Stop! I don’t want to know.”

Lance stops, goes quiet, but continues to smirk. In his pocket, he feels his phone vibrate, probably Fernando again. They’re meant to be meeting in a few hours, once the suns gone down enough that being outside doesn’t make him feel like he’s melting. When Fernando can take him to the bar in the shopping plaza nearby and treat him to a beer before he fucks him senseless, as he’s been promising all day.

He doesn’t tell Esteban this, figures he’s maybe traumatized him enough for the day. Instead, he changes the topic to Esteban’s course load, feigns interest in the math still open on his laptop. Esteban is all too willing to explain it to him, to turn his attention away from the phone Lance pulls from his pocket and grins at with cheeks turning red.

Fernando has sent him a photo of his outfit, button of his slacks undone, zipper pulled low,  hand holding the waistband below his hips. He has a tattoo on the inside of his forearm, close to his wrist, something Lance hadn’t noticed in the dark of his car last night, but that he now can’t draw his eyes away from. It’s a cross of some sort, produces the sort of sacrilegious thoughts that he can’t linger on for too long for fear of losing his religion.

‘Wear something nice,’ Fernando’s text says, when he manages to read it.

Lance doesn’t own much that fits the description, other than a suit he saves for formals, but he figures it maybe doesn’t actually matter that much. Fernando promises to rip whatever it is off of him anyway.

Esteban throws another pencil at him when he tries to show him the photo, holds his hand up to block the view and then lands the writing utensil right on Lance’s nose.

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

His dad calls when he’s fresh out of the shower of his own apartment, steam curling in the air around him and his phone vibrating steadily against the granite countertops of his humid bathroom. He answers before it goes to voicemail, figures he owes his dad this because it’s the third time he’s called since that morning, and he doesn’t want to risk pissing the man off too much.

“Hey,” he says as he’s wrapping a towel around his waist, slicking his wet hair back out of his face with his free hand. He leaves the phone on speaker, lets his dad’s voice fill space as he busies with getting ready.  

“I’m going to assume you’ve been ignoring my calls because you are going to class.”

He only has one class on Tuesday’s, and it’s finished by noon. Advanced golf merchandising, a pointless elective where he’s meant to be learning the management of a retail location. He takes notes, enough to retain the important bits, but he already knows management isn’t where he’s going to end up. His dad would secure him some corporate position within his company before that was even an option. Which, he doesn’t want either, can’t stand the thought of being forced to wear a shirt with a collar every day.

“Yeah, I just got back from campus,” he lies, he’s been hiding out at Esteban’s since class ended, it’s seven now. The lie comes too easy, but the truth would only hurt the both of them – that Lance is avoiding his father because their conversations hurt more than they help these days. That Lance is growing, but it’s in a direction away from Lawrence, from the idea of who his dad thought he would be.

His dad wishes Lance were still small, and Lance wishes that too, but only because when he was a child hurting his dad only resulted in a brief scolding. Now it leads to awkward silences that neither of them know how to fill.

“Class is going well?”

“Um, easy so far, yeah.” They’re only three weeks in. “Other than this financial accounting class, it’s brutal.” He’s already had to ask Esteban for help, already knows he’s going to need to visit the library for tutoring.

He wipes steam from his mirror with the palm of his hand, catches a glimpse of his dripping reflection. Somehow, he needs to assemble himself into something relatively attractive within the next ten minutes, only for it to most likely come undone the second he slides his helmet over his hair. There’s a twisted sort of humor in him wondering how best to style himself for Fernando, while he’s on the phone with his father, pretending to care about classes that had stopped being fun once Lance realized they were actually supposed to lead to something.

“You spent all summer looking at the books,” Lawrence says. Which is true, but it had made more sense when things were hands on. Now it’s just a jumble of words and numbers on a whiteboard, a professor who knows the course is meant for weeding out those who are too weak to continue, and who looks at Lance every time he shows up late with a knowing sort of disappointment.

People didn’t used to look at him like that, it’s a growing sentiment the more Lance stumbles.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just- it’s different. All reading and equations and- I don’t know. I’m not a numbers guy, dad, you know this.”

“You got it pretty well while you were here.”

Only because he’d felt his dad’s eyes on him the whole summer, felt the pressure and the weight and need to prove he could do something. His professor doesn’t bother to look at Lance once he’s sat at a desk, which means Lance zones out, doodles designs in the margins of his notes and then wonders why the numbers don’t add up while he’s doing homework later.

“It’s different,” the exasperation in his voice is audible, he pauses where he’d been drying his hair with a towel pulled from under the sink. Closes his eyes. Breathes. “But I’m trying. I’ll- I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you will, Lance. I didn’t say you wouldn’t.”

They’re being careful around each other, the eggshells just beginning to crunch beneath their feet. Neither one of them want a fight and Lance can feel the tension of it through the phone, the tightening of something in his chest that threatens to break every time he speaks to his father now. This is why he lets it go to voicemail.

Fernando texts him, he sees the notification come through as he’s staring at the phone, hands braced on the bathroom sink. Probably asking if he’s on his way. Lance’s hair is still dripping water in cold tendrils down the back of his neck, a puddle forming on the carpet at his feet. He hasn’t even bothered to find an outfit or brush his teeth.

“Look, dad- I- um, I gotta go. I have a, uh, a study thing with Pato-“

“Oh, okay, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Lance closes his eyes again, bows his head, tries not to care about the hurt that’s audible in his father’s voice and finds that it somehow manages to dig between his ribs anyway. He hangs up before there’s the chance for the line to fracture further, and then he busies himself with texting Fernando back.

‘You are still coming?’ Fernando asks.

Lance says he’ll be there soon, and then he focuses on the toothbrush in his hands, getting himself ready, and ignores everything else.

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

“I need a drink!” Lance yells over the music, leaning further into Fernando, who holds him up with ease. “A shot!”

Fernando’s hand on his waist tightens when Lance rocks on his feet. They’re standing in the press of bodies on the dance floor, people on all sides. The crowd makes it easy for Lance to press against Fernando, the flashing lights adding to the disorientation. No one notices the way Fernando’s got one hand gripping Lance’s hipbone, the other on his ass, tucked into the pocket of his jeans and cupping the curve of him.  

They’re the same jeans he’d worn last night, pulled from the crumpled heap on his floor and slid back on because he couldn’t find anything else. If Fernando has noticed he doesn’t say anything, too distracted by the white linen button-up that Lance wear, only half done-up and exposing nearly the full expanse of his chest in the multicolored lights. Lance knows it puts the chain around his neck on full display, makes his collarbones stand out, shows how broad he is, and produces the impressed reaction Fernando had exhibited upon first seeing him.

He’d bought Lance his first drink, and then the first requested tequila shot, leaning on the bar top and staring at the exposed column of his neck as Lance tipped the liquor back and downed it with practiced ease. Lance had seen the way Fernando’s eyes had darkened as his adams apple bobbed, looking from the corner of his eye just to see the response that would be elicited with the movement.  

“What do you want?” Fernando asks now, hand on his hip coming up to pull Lance down to him so his lips just barely brush over Lance’s ear.

He shudders, breath stuttering when Fernando’s fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck and pull just enough that there’s the promise of something better later. He’s been teasing Lance since Lance first arrived, the ghost of a touch, a tongue tracing over the sweaty line of his neck, enough to have him hard in his jeans but never doing anything to solve the problem.

It’s the most public foreplay Lance has ever engaged in, even if everyone is too drunk or too involved in their own games to even notice.

“Vodka?” Lance yells, knowing he probably seems young for only ordering shots, but he’d only just turned twenty-one last October. Most of his experience with alcohol has been bagged wine fountained before entry to a party or the mix of Kool-Aid and whatever liquor could be procured into a giant tub for jungle juice. Shots are simple, uncomplicated, and he knows he can handle them. Plus they hit fast, or at least feel like they do, give him the liquid courage needed to grind against Fernando as Pit Bull blares around them in the crowded bar.

The Keys is a mixed sort of space, half occupied by college kids who were too lazy to drive all the way to Rusty’s and half-filled by the locals who are looking for fun outside of their mansions. It means he and Fernando don’t draw attention, Lance fits in with the group of kids in their backwards caps and low cut shirts, Fernando blends with the guys in their pressed button-ups and black slacks. He just looks hotter than the others, the pants hugging his waist and ass well, clearly tailored. And the peak of a tattoo Lance gets on the back of Fernando’s neck as he follows him back up to the bar, Fernando’s hand around his wrist towing him through the crowd, separates him enough from the older guys smoking cigars outside on the patio. He wants to know what the tattoo is, slide Fernando’s shirt off his shoulders and trace the ink with his tongue.

But that’s for later, for now he lets Fernando guide him, lean him against the bar top, slide a hand back into the pocket of his jeans because the shape of his palm over his ass is becoming familiar. He flags down the bartender, orders two shots of Vodka and then they tip them back together. Lance can feel how flushed his neck is getting, wonders if the red of it is spreading to his chest, his cheeks. His hair that was still slightly damp from the shower is frizzing in the humidity of the packed space, falling over his forehead.

Fernando stares up at him, lips wet with vodka and his own spit when he licks them, Lance follows the movement, starts to lean forward like he intends to taste the lingering alcohol himself. Fernando stops him with a hand on his chest, fingers splayed across bare skin, index finger dipping into the hollow of his clavicle. Lance shudders, Fernando feels it.

“Let’s get out of here, yes?”

“Yes.”

Lance can’t drive his bike, just drunk enough that he knows he couldn’t keep his balance. Instead, he climbs into the passenger seat of Fernando’s Aston Martin, and deposits his own keys in the cupholder, casting a forlorn look back at his gear in the backseat. The same seat he’d come undone in last night, now occupied by his motorcycle helmet with the sticker of a cat waving the Canadian flag – something Pato had found online and ordered because ‘it’s Canada, Lance! You know, you!’. Fernando had asked him about it when he parked earlier, traced the outline of it before Lance had taken his helmet off, lifted Lance’s visor so he could see his eyes more clearly as he did so.

When he looks back at Fernando in the driver’s seat the man is staring at him. Lance knows what it looks like when someone wants him. He knows the way Pato gets all slack jawed and dopey-eyed, eyes flicking to Lance’s lips every two seconds even though he wouldn’t even try to kiss him. But Fernando’s look of want is different, more demanding and all-encompassing. He looks like he’s plotting the best course of stripping Lance out of his clothes before they’ve even reached their destination, like he is thinking of the best way to take him apart.

Maybe it’s because he’s more experienced, or maybe it’s because he’s less. Lance doesn’t know enough about him, anything really, to know if he is the first man Fernando has hooked up with or not. They still haven’t found much time to talk, or maybe just haven’t wanted to make the effort. Lance is okay with that, his idea of foreplay is not long discussions and get-to-know-you’s. He doesn’t have the patience for that, much prefers Fernando’s method of cutting to the quick and easy of it.  Which Fernando does when he leans across the console enough to grab Lance by the chain around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

Lance is still not used to the kissing, just opens his mouth and lets Fernando’s tongue slide into it because he’s not practiced enough. He’s okay with letting Fernando take control, likes how he doesn’t have to think about it, just follow. Fernando tastes like vodka, and Lance swallows the familiar taste of it when their spit mixes and he can no longer tell whose is whose.

When Fernando pulls back Lance tries to chase him, is stopped again by a hand on his chest, firm and unyielding.

“You are still okay with coming to my place?” Fernando asks, and something in the way he says it is slightly sobering. It makes Lance remember his bike two spots over, prepared to be abandoned for the night and hopefully still there come morning.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“I will drive you home, instead. If you want. Up to you.”

“No. No I’m good. Trust me.” He’d prepped himself in the shower and everything, knew what he was getting into before a drop of alcohol ever touched his tongue. “I’ve been thinking about this since last night.”

Fernando eyes him, glances down at his chest where his skin is still red and hot and bare against his hand.

“Okay. God, you are beautiful.”  

The praise shoots straight to Lance’s cock, has a quiet moan escaping him, something he only just barely manages to bite back with the press of his teeth into his bottom lip. Fernando catches it anyway, grins like he’s realized the praise wasn’t just a one-off from the hand job last night, but something Lance actually enjoys.

"Don’t worry, pretty boy,” he promises, “Make you feel better soon.”

[yogurtkags]

❝ IF NOT FOR YOU ❞ — semi eita

— 01. hunnie

"you’re the air in my lungs, the deep inhale of every line or sung that will be sung. you’re the world in empty space and all alone with you sounds like a pretty nice place."

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laying on your stomach, you’re propped up on your elbows and annotating the lyrics you’ve scribbled in your notebook. numerous circles and underlines scattered over the cream pages make them perpetually unreadable by anyone other than you, handwriting a bit more illegible than your usual cursive.

honestly you’re exhausted, sleep hasn’t been coming easy to you in the last couple of nights, tossing and turning in plush ivory sheets while the sun slowly inches its way to the horizon. your last straw was not being able to have a coffee before your 8AM class this morning, energy levels rock bottom.

but there’s nothing quite like the sudden spark of inspiration, crashing into you headfirst like a truck that’s lost control on the freeway. you were stuck on this song for weeks and almost put it on the chopping block after not being able to expound on the initial ideas, casting it to the back of your mind in favour of others. but something just clicked and you’re giddy with excitement, not even fatigue being able to stop you at this moment as you brainstorm melodies and hum quietly to yourself while awaiting eita’s arrival.

speak of the devil, the door to your room flings open haphazardy and bounces off the wall with impact. you’re jolted out of your reverie to see the man of the hour with his hands full, scrambling to get up and help him.

“jesus christ, be more gentle with the door, will you?” you chided, reaching forward to take the drinks out of his hands, placing them on your nightstand. "i'm making you pay for damages if our landlord comes looking for me."

“well i’m sorry, i would’ve been if i didn’t have my hands full.”

turning around, you come face to face with semi eita draping his jacket over your chair and running a hand through his long ashy grey locks with a sigh. even wind-swept and disheveled, he’s still a sight for sore eyes, and you hate that he’s always been the prettiest boy, even since you were kids.

climbing back into bed, you pat the space next to you and he follows, plopping himself down on the soft mattress and reaching for your guitar. "so, show me what you got in that lovely head of yours."

while fiddling with the steel strings, he just listens. to you eagerly talking him through spilled ink on the lined paper of your journal, to you vocalising a melody you came up with, to you opening up your laptop and playing around with some beats on the production software. he just stares and listens, nodding once in a while to affirm that he’s paying attention.

his hands move on autopilot as he plucks a tune, fingertips dancing across frets with the grace of a ballet dancer rehearsing a routine for the umpteenth time as he tries to play what you’re putting down. he makes it look so effortless, and you can’t help but let a smile break out across your face, remembering how he struggled as kid and oh, how far he’s come.

it’s taking everything in him to resist reaching over to caress your cheek and just kiss you already with the way you’re looking at him, like he himself plucked the stars from the sky. it stirs a sense of possessiveness that he never knew was within him, not even wanting to entertain thoughts of you looking at others like that. please, reserve that smile only for me.

the sun seeping through the sheer curtains casts a veil of light on the soft angles of your face, giving the illusion of a glow from within. eita finds you the most beautiful when you’re doing what you love, in your element, even in old sweats and a 90s horror graphic tee with holes from wear and tear, and he can’t tear his eyes away from you.

you have the same look on your face from when he first heard you sing all those years ago. serene, carefree, yet there’s a tinge of darkness that would’ve easily been hidden behind layers of delight and joyous desposition if only he hadn’t known you so well. he can't quite put a pin on it just yet, but he'll ask you about it some other time. something's definitely bothering you, but now's not the time, let's not burst her bubble.

"ei, you good there?" snapping your fingers in front of his face, you shoot him a playful glare with an eyebrow raised, "don't tell me you weren't listening."

with a click of his tongue, eita scoffs, "how dare you accuse me of such treachery." who is he kidding, he was totally caught staring at you like a lovesick puppy.

leaning forward to take the pen resting atop your notebook, he lets his bangs fall to mask his slightly reddening cheeks. his arm rests on your knee, hands and fingers outstretched trying to reach that damned pen and you stifle a laugh at the way his fingers wriggle, as if it’ll help reduce the distance — unlucky enough for him, it does not.

slapping his arm away, you hand the coveted pen to him with a twin set of matching warmed cheeks, silly boy.

“so as i was saying,” he clears his throat sheepishly and trails off without meeting your eyes , adding some of his own personal labels and thoughts onto the pages with care and precision, “i was thinking for this verse, we could do…”

you notice his efforts at changing the subject and decide not to hold it against him for now, not that you were complaining. as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you didn’t hate being in such close proximity to him. you chalk it up to being comfortable with him after all these years of being joined at the hip, but i don’t think i’m supposed to be feeling shy if that’s the case.

bouncing ideas off each other is like second nature, having done this countless times. it’s all fun and games, silly chatter half of the time, but the both of you take this, music, seriously, especially something that you’re creating by hand. it’s like you speak the same language, mind body and soul at the same wavelength and frequency as you pour your heart out into this song.

every song that you write together, every creation, is a love letter to the promise you made to each other, and with each one, more and more of your hearts intertwine.

by the end of it, your bed is scattered with sheets of paper, a mess mirroring the current state of your heart, but one thing is sure — whatever you do, it’ll be good, as long as you do it together.

running through the finalised ensemble of lyrics one more time and taking in every written word, you muse to yourself, this is an ode to you, semi eita.

you are also in deep, deep shit.

ignore timetamps!

— fun facts.

♫ … the gc happened because all four of them took portugese for a compulsory class & formed a study group with shoyo tutoring them (him being allowed to take that class was basically condoned cheating)

♫ … hitoka, shoyo & kenma met first in high school but you fit well into the dynamic and they adopted you into the roomies

♫ … you post short covers & acoustic demos on twt, and kenma helped you gain traction by using them as stream bgm

♫ … eita mostly does guitar & "if this song was pop punk" content, has a decent following because he's good (and hot — is very much in denial about it)

taglist. open (send an ask / comment to be added!) @wyrcan @froyaoya @cheesypuffkins87 @peachyugoose @tetzoro @twiishaa

notes. introducing a bit more of the present day dynamic! still doing a bit of world building ehe. this is all new to me LOL I HOPE I’M DOING OKAY reblogs & interactions are always appreciated !

© yogurtkags. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.

[artaith-21]

Old, but gold?

Done in 2013. Good lord that’s 10 years ago now. Here’s the original blurb that accompanied it:

A deck of cards, a few drinks, and a really bad idea that was obviously 'Vinnie' in origin.

I thought it would be funny to have a strip poker situation where the only female playing is the only one fully dressed, while it's the men who have had their pants ( literally ) beat off of them.

I'm pretty happy with the anatomy in this- Throttle and Vinnie in particular turned out really well ( though they are mostly hidden by Charley, they are on their own seprate layers so they are complete figures ) and for some reason, Modo's pose caused me the most difficulty. And omigod, once again, ALL THE DAMN FEET. I hate drawing feet almost as much as Rob Liefeld, but I force myself to do it and I need the practice on them -_-

Also got some foreshortening in there, like on Throttle's hand and Modo's foot, and I needed practice in those areas too so I'm glad it's getting a little easier as I go.

I would have done more for the background but my laptop overheated and crashed FIVE TIMES while coloring this and by the end of the night I was feeling very much ready to be done due to my frustration ( and my iPhone crashed 4 times as well while. What the hell, was there a gremlin loose in my house somewhere?)

Also, thanks again to the every enduring Shamon Cornell who put up with me consistently texting him progress sketches of naked mouse-men for feedback XD ( anyone else want to sign up for that task? lol )

Anyway, enjoy the eye candy.

( also, I hope this doesn't appear too dark on other people's monitors. I need to calibrate my monitor among other things like tossing this laptop in the trash anyway ).

[surrogate-fawn]

Quartz and Sea Glass

((Drabble/Short story based on the backstory a rp with @mittysins of Fawn's first step into the world of surrogacy.))

{This drabble is a sequel to "The First Goodbye" and is Part Two of a planned series based on the rp between Mitty and I. This drabble will not make sense without the context of Part One.}

TW: Mentioned miscarriage/stillbirth, infertility, family abandonment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don't put me on a pedestal for what I decided to do with my life. I ain't a saint.

I'll fully admit that I became a surrogate for selfish reasons. When I discovered there was a market out there of couples who needed a healthy body to carry their baby, I did not give a single shit about helping them -- all I cared about was the money.

I was twenty years old and homeless, still living off minimum wage. Can 'ya really blame me?

Lord only knows how that little worm of an idea got into my brain. Maybe it was during a mindless re-watch of season four of Friends. Maybe it was seeing something on the news. Or maybe it was during one of those three-in-the-morning anxiety attacks -- the ones that had me scribbling down as many outlandish solutions to my life as could fit on a napkin.

Not a lot of good ideas came about that way.

However it got there, one day I found myself seated at a library computer searching up as much information as I could find about surrogacy. As soon as I saw the rates some of these couples were willing to pay, I was sold. Fifty to sixty grand -- paid over the span of months. That sure as hell beat $7.25 an hour! The fact I could be eligible for certain state benefits on top of that money didn't hurt, either.

Best part? The one obstacle that could've been in my way had been crashed down a year ago: at least one healthy and successful prior pregnancy.

This was it. This was my way out!

But I hesitated.

As I sat there, staring at the Google search results that led me down the rabbit hole, I wondered if I was really capable of going through it all again. Not so much the physical symptoms, those all passed as soon as the pregnancy was over.

I was wondering if I could handle saying goodbye again.

My son's first birthday had just passed. I'd put a candle in a cupcake and blown it out for him the day of, alone in my room and still in my UDF uniform after work. I'd wished I'd known what name they gave him. The "Happy Birthday" song is a 'lil hard to sing without a name. I'd just called him "my baby" in the song. At least it fit. He would always be my baby, wherever he was and whatever he was called.

I blinked at the blue-tinted monitor. The screen was getting fuzzy and my eyes were stinging. I force-closed the dozens of tabs I had open, shut the computer off, and began my walk back to the women's shelter.

No, I couldn't. Money or no money, I couldn't go through it again. I never...never wanted to go through it again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, I made another trip to the library to borrow some time at the computer. I couldn't afford a laptop or smartphone, so it was a trip I usually made every other day; but work had been leaving me too tired to swing by.

I found an email waiting for me in my inbox, from a surrogate agency site I remembered looking up. In my mad scrolling, I must have signed up for their mailing list without thinking about it. It was from the highest-rated site I'd found, so at least I didn't have to worry about it being a phishing scam or tied to some baby black market or whatever.

I almost deleted it out of reflex, but the subject line read: "The Basics of Surrogacy, Free Information Guide". A brochure? Not an ad pressuring me to join so they could start taking a cut of my pay? Sure, I'd take a brochure.

So, that was the moment I made the best decision of my life: I opened that email.

I'll spare you the business side of things, but once I got in touch with the agency it all started falling into place. The whole process was much more voluntary than I realized. I spoke with several surrogate mothers who had been matched with clients through the site, and they all stood firm that nothing was done unless both the surrogate and the parents agreed to it. I would have a say in who I matched with. I would have a say in how much I was to be paid. I would even have a say in what the birthing experience would be like!

What finally sealed the deal for me, though, was the fact this company only dealt with what I learned were called "gestational surrogacies" -- meaning none of their surrogates were the biological parents of the babies they carried. I'd have someone else's egg inside me -- I would essentially be a walking incubator. That sounds kinda weird when you think about it, but it solved the biggest issue I had with tapping into this gold mine.

Not my baby? Not my DNA? Fine by me. I decided I'd gladly get paid fifty grand to sit around and grow someone else's kid. Sounded like the easiest job in the world.

I sent my application in two days later.

Two months, a psychiatric assessment, and dozens of medical tests later, I was in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Tariqs weren't the first couple who asked to meet with me. There were two other couples I had a first meeting with, but neither of them clicked with me the way Ray and Tess did.

We met for the first time at a park situated alongside the Tennessee River, bundled in jackets to keep out the early-autumn chill. There just so happened to be a food truck parked by the entrance we agreed to meet at, and Tess declared we should get to know each other over lunch. Seeing as I had skipped breakfast to make it to work on time, I didn't mind the idea.

I was standing off to the side while the Tariqs ordered from the truck, counting out the amount of cash I had on me, when suddenly I heard Tess call me over.

"Which one 'ya want, shug?" she asked, pointing to the menu plastered on the truck's side.

They bought me a chicken panini and a hot hazelnut macchiato, insisting it was their treat. If it were up to me, I wouldn't have needed the rest of that interview -- I had already chosen to be their surrogate in my head.

Buying me food is a fantastic way to get to get me to like you.

We sat at a picnic table beneath the golden oak trees and got to talking. Raymond (or Ray, as he preferred to be called) was a second-generation Indian immigrant and Tess, his wife, was a born-and-bred Knoxville gal. They lived on the rural side of Knoxville, just barely inside the city limits, in a 1960's farmhouse they'd refurbished themselves. Both were in their mid-thirties by the time they sought out surrogacy; up until that point, they'd been though quite a battle with infertility:

They'd been trying throughout their four years of marriage, but Tess could never carry to term. The few times her pregnancy tests would come up positive, she'd bleed a few weeks later. Although they weren't opposed to modern medicine, they'd preferred to try more "natural" methods to solve their fertility issue before going to a doctor. Such methods included the Kama Sutra, meditation, crystals, herbal blends and -- of course -- prayer.

Just the year prior, it seemed their home remedies had worked when Tess finally made it into the second trimester with a baby boy.

They'd lost him in a stillbirth days before the third trimester milestone.

Piled onto that tragedy, the hospital discovered Tess had a defective uterus -- it was physically impossible for her to carry to term. So, that's where I came in.

As I told them about myself, they were delighted to know I came from a household that had rather New Age ideas about life. I didn't mention that I no longer lived by those ideas -- it would've opened too many questions.

However, I certainly understood the good home remedies could do! I was more than happy to trade my recipes for salves for Ray's tips on where to buy the best beeswax in Knoxville. So happy, in fact, that I got carried away.

"My mom makes beeswax candles," I said, hurrying to swallow the bite of panini I had in my mouth. "She used to scent 'em with oils from her flowers, but the oil would seep right outta the wax once it got warm." I chuckled, feeling my nose crinkle in the embarrassing way it does when I laugh. "Sometimes, at dinner, we'd light one of her candles at the table. We'd blink and suddenly there'd be a puddle of rose oil dripping onto the beans and cornbread!"

"Maybe I can help her out with that," Ray said with a grin. He took a quick sip of his coffee. "My grandparents keep bees over in India. My family has a lot of tips on how to melt and mix the wax."

I almost choked on my food when I realized I'd brought up my family. Shit...now I had to be careful.

"Maybe," I said with a causal shrug. "She's back home in West Viginia with everyone else. It's a little hard to make time to see 'em."

"Oh, I'm sure," Tess nodded. "It's the same with my daddy's side of the family. We're just so far apart we forget 'ta check up on each other as often as we should." She finished off the last of her bagel. "And with you, Fawn, you work full time with a little 'un at home. I'm sure 'ya family understands."

I didn't blink for a while. I just stared at the river until the cold breeze dried my eyes out. "Oh, well..." I cleared my throat, "I don't have a little one at home."

Tess looked confused. Ray looked mortified.

"But it says on 'ya file you were pregnant last year?" Tess half-asked, half-stated. I could tell from her tone that there was no malice in her. She'd clearly read my profile and made assumptions.

I smiled, maybe showing a little too much teeth. "Yeah, I was. Very healthy pregnancy, very healthy baby boy, but I don't have a little one at home."

Ray put his hand over his wife's wrist, his sea glass bracelet quietly clattering on the wooden table. Tess went pale and her look of confusion faded into a silent scream.

"Oh. I'm...I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean 'ta-."

"No, no! I don't mind bringing him up!" I said, a nervous laugh jittering my lungs. "I never get the chance to talk about my son, but I think about him all the time!"

I surprised myself when the expected sorrow didn't come. Instead, excitement filled its place -- an odd sense of relief that I could let out some of the thoughts that had been haunting me.

I proceeded to word-vomit about how wonderful it was to be pregnant with my son, and how angelic his parents were to me, and how I knew he would be okay -- even if I missed him -- and so forth and so on. I honestly don't think I stopped for breath.

I saw Ray and Tess glance at each other from the corners of their eyes as I rambled, a pair of knowing grins on their faces.

I'm no mind reader, but I think that's when the Tariqs made their final decision.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tess was with me for the embryo transfer, her ring-laden hand resting on my arm as everything was prepped. I was bloated as a water balloon from the multiple fertility drugs I'd been plunging into my veins -- every day, might I add -- for the past month. I sure was hoping those suckers worked, because being in a permanent state of PMS was ass. Total ass.

I reclined on the exam table, legs up in those familiar stirrups and my hips covered by a thin sheet of paper. I inhaled through my nose as the doctor inserted a long, thin tube of plastic through the ring of my cervix -- the end of which was attached to a syringe full of clear fluid. Somewhere in that syringe, three little embryos floated around -- and one of them was hopefully about to nestle into its new home.

I watched the fuzzy grey blurs on the ultrasound screen as the doctor angled the wand to see what he was doing. As I watched each of the three tiny balls leave the tube...I just hoped those fertility drugs didn't work too well.

Tess grinned down at me once it was over, her blonde braid falling over her shoulder. "We got three good un's in there," she said. I noticed she was clutching the quartz pendant around her neck like a string of prayer beads. "I'm sure one of 'em will like 'ya enough 'ta stick around."

I think she was just as worried as I was. Tess's egg retrieval, the test tube fertilization, the freezing, and my daily injections all combined into almost three months of prep work just for this ten-minute procedure.

And if it failed, we'd have to do it all over again. And if that failed, we'd do it again. And again.

"Yeah," I sighed, lowering my legs from the stirrups, "I hope you're right, Tess. 'Cause if not, I swear to God I'm gonna have-."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"A girl!" Tess screeched to the high heavens, throwing herself against Ray in an attack hug. She jumped for joy while hanging from his neck, almost pulling the poor man to the floor. "It's a girl, Ray! We're havin' a girl!"

Ray laughed, backing up from the table so his wife didn't mule kick the ultrasound technician. "I don't know, Fawn," he said, looking my way with a huge smile and a raised eyebrow. "Do you think it's a girl?"

"Not sure," I said, my nose crinkling in a snicker, "but I think Tess said something about it being a girl."

"Shuddup you two," Tess giggled, sniffling as tears began falling down her cheeks.

Ray held his wife's face in his hands and gave her a kiss deep enough to explore the sea floor. The technician and I decided to focus on the ultrasound images to give the couple some privacy.

I craned my neck to look up at the screen. What had been a microscopic ball four months ago was now an apple-sized baby girl with wiggling arms and legs, and -- thank God -- there was only her in there. The other two embryos had never taken, but this rowdy little girl had held tight. I smiled as I watched the rapid flutter of her heart beating, amazed at the sight. I remembered being just as amazed by my son's heartbeat, what few times I'd gotten to see it.

"Look how active she is!" the technician said, pointing to the baby's constant wiggling. "You should be feeling those little dance moves of hers very soon."

Ray and Tess returned to admire the fuzzy images on the screen. Tess was drying her eyes on her sleeves, and Ray's smile may as well have been glowing. He had his arm around Tess's shoulders as they watched the miniature dance party going on inside me. The sea glass bracelet rattled as his hand came to rest over his heart.

"That's our daughter, Tess," he said. His voice broke a bit as he repeated: "That's our daughter."

"Yep," Tess sniffled, hugging her husband's torso and resting her head on his shoulder, "that's her."

I watched them hold each other like that until the technician turned off the wand and wiped the gel from my slightly rounded belly.

The Tariqs had already begun the steady payment plan we'd agreed to. Even after the agency took its cut each month, it was still more than I'd ever made in my life. That had been why I'd agreed to do this for them, after all.

That ultrasound appointment is what changed my outlook on what I was doing.

These two people. These two amazing people, so overcome with joy because I was carrying the baby that they could not.

I wasn't an incubator anymore. I felt more like a nanny, protecting their baby for them until she was strong enough to come out. They'd wanted this baby for so, so long -- and I was the one making that dream of theirs come true.

I knew what it was like to desperately want to hold a baby you were unable to have. I may not have been able to heal my own hurt, but here I was...healing theirs.

I wasn't doing it for the money after that.

I never did it for the money again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Five days after my twenty-first birthday, I woke up to a rather nasty surprise at one in the morning. I'd gotten kicked in the bladder, and my bedsheets and pajama bottoms were damp and sticking to my skin in the humid July air. Fantastic. Not again.

With a groan, I rolled out of bed and started shuffling my way to my door. I held the weight of my belly in my arms as I made my way to the upstairs communal bathroom, hoping to take the pressure off my hips.

I blinked against the harsh florescent light as it sputtered to life over the toilet. With a gruff sigh, I shut and locked the door.

"Suri, you gotta stop doing this," I slurred, my mouth too tired to move. "I'm letting you use my uterus as a bed and breakfast. The least you could do is not try to pop my bladder every night."

Surinder. Her name was Surinder, but we'd been calling her Suri for short. Ray picked it out. He liked it because it was based on the name of a Hindu god and also sounded like the word 'surrender' in English. Tess had fallen in love with the name. Me? I would've just stuck with 'Suri'. I knew exactly what kind of teasing she was in for at school with a name like 'Surinder'.

You can't exactly walk into public school with a name like 'Fawn' and not get laughed into oblivion.

At least the nickname gave her an extra name to fall back on. If that didn't work, she also had her middle name to use: Elora. I would've done the same back in high school -- I did have three to pick from -- but 'Aspen', 'Coriander', and 'Medulla' wouldn't have made the teasing any better.

I'd gone in at age eighteen and erased two of those names. It was just "Fawn Coriander Sequioa" now. Still not a normal name by any means. I often thought about going back into the records and legally changing my last name, just like my parents had done when they'd joined the commune before I was born.

I didn't need my last name. My family didn't want me anymore.

Alexander may have opened up a whole new world for me, but he made sure I burned every bridge behind me as I crossed it. I was already beginning to question my parents' worldview by the time I started dating him, but he took that little spark of doubt -- a spark that, if left alone, would've grown into a steady burn-away of my old ideals -- and fanned those embers into an uncontrollable hatred.

"They're a cult, babe," he'd told me. "Why can't you see that? I can take you away from that bullshit that says you gotta fuck other guys to be happy. I only want what's best for you, and for us."

After months of letting my teenaged angst and frustration boil over, it happened. An argument started between Mom and I over something asinine, and the geyser fucking exploded.

I parroted everything Alexander had been telling me. I told my parents they were nothing but sexual perverts who wanted me to be a whore all my life. I told them how their "woo-woo" medicine got kids killed all over the country, and that blood was on their hands. I told them how much they'd fucked up in raising me.

I told them I hated them.

I told Dad I hoped the next woman who sucked his dick bit it off.

I told Mom that if it was her, I hoped she died choking on it.

The last time I saw Dad, he was throwing everything I owned out of my bedroom window until I was on the sidewalk surrounded by broken furniture and muddy clothes.

The last time I saw Mom, she was sobbing face-down on the couch and refusing to look at me.

Even now, I would be willing sell my soul -- to lay down and die -- just to undo what I did that day.

I didn't give a shit at the time, though. I picked up what I could carry off the front lawn and walked to the nearest payphone to call Alex. I had to tell him I was finally free.

Free.

Right.

What a fucking joke.

I splashed some cold water on my face to wash off the nighttime sweat. Suri rolled one of her feet against the top of my belly, causing a little moving bump that I playfully poked with my finger.

"I'm going to bill you for all those crazy dance parties you're having in there, missy," I said with a grin, a lot less frustrated with her than I was a second ago.

I grabbed a washcloth to start cleaning myself off, but the realization dawned on me and I stopped cold. That was her foot. Her foot was at the top of my belly...which meant her head was angled down...which meant there was no way she'd kicked my bladder.

As I stood at the sink trying to solve that puzzle, I found the missing piece. My belly clamped down hard enough to pitch me forward. I grabbed onto the sides of the sink with a small gasp, feeling the muscles of my torso all tighten and shrink in the direction of my uterus. As it did, a little more dampness spread across my pajama pants.

Oh fuck.

Oh, holy fuck!

I left the bathroom in as much of a jog as I could manage, rushing back into my room and to the brand-new cell phone charging by the window. I had no idea how to save numbers on that thing, so I manually dialed Ray's number. His was the only one I could remember.

The other side of the call rang for a solid thirty seconds before Ray's sleep-drunk voice picked up:

"Hello?" he grumbled. "Who is this?"

Oh, right. He probably didn't have my new number saved, either.

"Ray, it's Fawn," I said, noticing too late that my voice was trembling. "You and Tess need to come pick me up...like right now!"

I heard a rustle on the other end, and suddenly Ray sounded very much awake. "Fawn? Fawn, what's wrong?!" I thought I heard Tess say something nearby, probably on the other side of their bed. "Why do you need us to get you?! Suri isn't due for another two weeks!"

"She...she had other plans," I said, taking a deep breath to steel my nerves. "My water just broke."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray's face was illuminated by the highway streetlights as he glanced back at Tess and I in the backseat of the car. "How's it going back there?" he asked, flicking his gaze between us and the road.

"Aughh!" I groaned in response as a contraction stole my ability to speak. I tried to lift my hips off the leather seat as more fluid leaked from me, but the seatbelt held me down. I was already sitting in a small puddle of it, and I was worried I was ruining their upholstery. I was still dressed in my pajamas, but I considered them a lost cause.

"We're doin' fine," Tess said, slipping her hand into mine so I could squeeze it -- which I did. "Focus on the road, Ray."

Tess had buckled herself into the middle seat of the minivan, giving her enough room to tend to me while I was strapped in the window seat. I sat with my legs as far apart as the seatbelt would allow. I could already feel the baby pressing through my cervix, and I recognized the pounding pressure that came with it.

The contraction lasted about forty seconds, and it left me reeling and panting. I had no idea when to expect the next one. "Why is this happening so fast?!" I asked, my voice shrill with anxiety. "I was in labor for over a day last time!"

"It's probably not happenin' as fast as 'ya think, doll," Tess assured me, giving my hand a pat. "You could'a slept through most of early labor. Second baby always comes faster than the first, 'ya know."

No. No, I did not know!

"Tessie, how close did the doula say she was?" Ray asked, obeying his wife and not taking his eyes off the road that time.

Tess's face was bathed in white light as she quickly checked her phone. "Ten minutes," she said. "She'll be waiting outside the house when we get there."

Just before she put her phone away, I saw her clutching the quartz pendant again.

Just as promised, the doula was parked outside the Tariqs' farmhouse when we got there. She climbed out of her car as soon as our headlights lit up the gravel driveway. Ray parked the minivan with a lurch and jumped out to start helping her carry things into the house.

Tess helped me out of the car, letting me use her as a crutch as we hobbled up the front steps.

"You ready 'ta do this, Fawn?" she asked.

"Are you ready to do this?" I rebutted.

Tess paused for a second, and then rubbed my lower back as we reached the porch. "Not really," she said, "but no one ever is."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Turns out, I wasn't as deep into active labor as I thought I was. In fact, I'd barely started it. The doula told me I was six centimeters dilated, and that I'd likely been in labor for close to twelve hours at that point.

"No, that's not possible," I protested from my reclined position on the sofa. "I wasn't having contractions until now."

"Trust me, you were," the doula grinned from her place between my knees. She slipped off her blue latex gloves and tossed them in the trash as she stood up. "I'm willing to bet they were just really mild up until you started leaking."

It was a relief to know my water breaking didn't mean I was going to deliver right there and then; but it also sucked knowing I was still in for a long ride.

I spent the rest of that night laboring around the farmhouse. It was so nice to not be stuck in a hospital room that time. I was free to do as I pleased, which Ray and Tess were sure to make clear.

Ray opened a few of the windows to let the sounds of crickets and frogs in, as well as the sweet-smelling breeze of the countryside. Meanwhile, Tess made it her life's mission to make me as cozy as possible -- no matter where I ended up. Thanks to her, pillows followed me from the sofa to the floor, from the floor to the recliner, and then back to the sofa.

Eventually, I got too restless to sit still and I needed to be upright. I was on my feet for the rest of active labor, hanging from the edges of furniture or leaning on either Tess or Ray for support during the contractions. Neither of them minded a bit.

It didn't hurt any less than the first time I went into labor. At times, I was so overcome by the increasing horrible sensations that I began screaming. Each time that happened, either Tess or Ray (whichever I was currently clinging to) would wrap their arms around me and the other would redirect my focus.

"Look at me, doll," Tess said, taking my face in her hands while Ray held me upright.

I was hyperventilating and sobbing my way through a nasty contraction and had forgotten how to use my legs.

"Look at me," she repeated gently. "Focus on my face. See my eyes? My nose? My mouth?" she pointed to each feature as she listed them. "Just think about what'cha see. Think about every detail 'ya can."

It was a technique that sounded stupid on paper, but in practice it was very effective at keeping me grounded. If I counted each of Tess's eyelashes or tried to trace the shape of her mouth in my mind's eye, then I didn't focus on the pain.

I could do it. I knew I could. I'd done this whole song and dance before without painkillers. I could do it again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At ten in the morning, eight hours after arriving at the house, I finally felt the shift that told me I was almost done with this.

I was kneeling on the hardwood floor of the living room, my thighs supported by the shallow birthing stool the doula had brought. Beneath me was an absorbent blue pad. Based on the design of the packaging it was pulled it from, it was supposed to be for potty training puppies. Weird...but if it worked, it worked -- and it was certainly needed. The head was descending quicky, and a few bloody strands of cervical mucus were dripping from me as the last of it gave way.

I'd shed the damp pajamas I came in, but the sweat rolling down my back made me shiver each time an outdoor breeze came through. Tess draped a thin blanket over my shoulders and stayed at my back, her hands never leaving my upper arms as I bowed my head and wailed through a transition contraction.

Ray knelt a few feet in front of me, the doula at his side. He looked a strange mixture of nauseous and excited -- we had decided he would be the one to catch the baby, and the doula was talking him through the process ahead of time. I noticed he was holding a hand to his heart as he listened to her, the sea glass bracelet hanging from his wrist.

We all knew it was about to happen.

When the head finally lodged itself into my birth canal, I said nothing. I just acted. I gripped the front edges of the foot-tall birthing stool and let out a feral growl as I started to push. A chorus of encouragement came from the people around me:

"That's it, doll! C'mon!"

"Go with the urge, Fawn. You've got this!"

"Very good, that's what we like to see."

Having gravity on my side this time made pushing feel much less like a chore. I could feel Suri working her way down each push I gave, and she usually stayed where she was once I let up. Kneeling on the stool seemed to be easing her down exactly where she needed to go.

I let out a yelp -- of surprise more than pain -- as I suddenly felt her head pressing against the skin of my perineum. The pressure opened my lips up like a flower, and the doula shined a flashlight underneath me to confirm her head was visible just inside the bulge of my lips, sitting there ready to crown with the next push.

And holy fuck, did she crown! The burn started the second her scalp met the outside air.

"Oww! God-fucking-damn it!" I white-knuckled the wooden stool, a strangled scream leaving my throat as I felt the head bulge out further, peeling my vagina apart like some demented fruit.

Ray scooted closer, rubbing alcohol up and down his arms in preparation to catch. With the doula watching over his shoulder and aiming a flashlight down so he could see, Ray slipped his hands beneath me. I felt his fingers prodding the skin around the head.

"Just like that, yes," the doula told him. "Help her open, this baby seems to be eager."

"No shit!" I roared, my arms trembling as another push sent the head rushing downward. "Fuck!"

I felt Ray's fingers trace the circumference of his daughter's head as more of it emerged, heard the quiet squelching of the afterbirth coating his fingers. When I no longer had the contraction to help me, I let up. Ray kept trying to massage my vagina open, even as I was trying to rest.

"Stop!" I snapped, and he withdrew.

Tess was hiding behind me, her hands on my shoulders the only reminder she was there. She peeked over my shoulder at her husband during the brief lull in my screaming.

"How far is she out?" she asked, unable to see for herself.

The doula craned her neck. "Almost fully crowned."

"She has so much hair," Ray said with a breathy laugh.

"She does," the doula agreed with a grin. "Her daddy's hair, too. Very dark."

I tilted my head to the side, panting heavily but morbidly curious. "Can...can I feel?" I asked.

The doula took my hand and lead it below my belly. I gasped in awe when I touched the hot, gooey ball of hair sticking out from my body.

"Woah..." I muttered, not sure what to else to say.

My fingertips wandered between my legs for a few seconds, and it was both fascinating and horrifying how my anatomy felt nothing like my own body. Everything was stretched and moved around, and it didn't feel like I was touching anything resembling a human body part -- save for the head sitting where a head shouldn't be. Frightened, I pulled my hand back just in time to bear down against a new contraction.

"Hands out, Ray," the doula gently encouraged. "Here she comes."

I felt Tess press her forehead into my upper back. I think she was feeling faint.

"Ah!" A sharp cry, almost a bark, shot from me as the head reached a full crown for a few terrible seconds. Then, with a wet slip, her whole head came free.

"Holy Mother Gaia..." Ray marveled in a half-whisper. His hands cupped the head hanging under me with the most attentive care in the world.

He didn't have much time to admire the view, I wasn't done pushing. I screamed through closed lips as I felt the ring of flesh just behind my skin get stretched wider than it had ever been. I knew something was wrong as soon as that stabbing, tearing burn began. Suri was two weeks early, but she suddenly felt bigger than my son had been.

"Pull her out!" I begged, remembering what the doctor had done. "Just pull her out!"

"Can't," the doula said. "Her hands are up by her ears, there's nowhere for us to grab."

"Take it slow, Fawn," Ray offered. "I've got her, there's no reason to rush."

I took a few quick pants and rested, hoping the stabbing burn would lessen if I let myself stretch out. It's no wonder it hurt so bad delivering her shoulders, she was making this part more difficult than it needed to be.

Tess's hands lightly squeezed my arms and I felt her hiding her face in the blanket draped over my back. Yeah, she was definitely on the verge of passing out.

Gravity was pulling on Suri even as I was trying to let myself stretch, and the shifting pressure triggered me to push without the aid of a contraction.

"Aughh, Suri come on!" I begged, pushing so hard my vision was going double.

Maybe saying her name was intimidating enough to get her to move, because with that push I felt her arms pop free. Ray gasped, and I felt his hands shift to support her upper body as the rest of her slipped out of me. I heard fluid splash and splatter onto the puppy pad, and just a second later, Ray lifted a small blue baby up from under me.

"Get her breathing," the doula urgently instructed. "Turn her over and rub her back. Support her head."

Ray obeyed, gently flipping Suri over on his lap and rubbing his large hand over her back. Her head hung disturbingly limp on her neck as he jostled her around, but I knew that's what it was supposed to be like. It still looked scary.

Suri splayed her arms out, as if she's been surprised, and let out a gurgling wail as her first breath.

"There she is," Ray sighed with releif, turning her back over to hold her in his arms. The doula whipped out a small towel and draped it over her body to keep her warm.

Tess came back to life and rushed to be beside her husband the instant she heard the baby cry. The moment she saw Suri in her daddy's hands, she dropped to her knees and covered her mouth. Her eyes spilled over, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"Oh, Ray!" she cried, her voice shaky and breaking. She reached out and pet her daughter's wet mop of black hair. "Ray, she's beautiful!"

Ray couldn't answer, he was too choked on tears of his own. Both parents held their daughter between their bodies, too joyful for words to express. Their tears and shared kisses told the story, though.

As for me, I wasn't too sure what to make of the situation. She was out, she was healthy, and her parents would be taking it from here. My job was done; but it did feel a bit...abrupt.

"Fawn," Tess turned to me, uselessly trying to dry her eyes, "do you want to hold her?"

I didn't think, I just spoke: "Yes. I've never held a baby before."

Ray and Tess lifted Suri up to me. Ray adjusted my hold so I could support the places that needed it, and Tess made sure the bloodied towel was in place so Suri wouldn't get cold. Within seconds, there I was with a minute-old baby in my arms, sitting against my bare chest.

I stared down silently at the tiny person who had been living inside me the last nine months. She was screaming her head off, but her lungs were sounding clearer each time her mouth opened. Her pink, toothless gums reminded me of a fish's mouth.

"Hey, Suri," I said, my voice sounding far away. "Must feel better out here, huh?" Suri wailed again, unhappily flailing her arms and legs around. "Or not."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I rested on the sofa, extra puppy pads beneath me, as the doula and the parents did the 'lotus ceremony' on the other side of the room. I'd had to sit on that stool for an extra twenty minutes until the placenta passed -- Ray and Tess wanted to have a lotus birth, where the cord was burned through only after the afterbirth was delivered.

I didn't want to know what they planned to do with the placenta itself.

Ray had offered to drive back to the women's shelter later that day to grab my duffel bag for me. In my panic, I'd completely forgotten the overnight bag I'd packed. So, for the time being, I was naked and covered only by the thin blanket Tess had given me.

The lotus ceremony finished up, and Ray and Tess pulled up some chairs to sit beside me. Tess had gone topless and had laid a sleeping Suri carefully across her chest, doing skin-to-skin so they could establish the proper mother-baby bond. Her eyes were red and raw, and fresh tears were falling from them.

"Fawn," she began, "you'll never know how much this means 'ta us."

"You're welcome," I said, offering the couple a tired smile. "She was a rowdy tenant, but I'd gladly do it again to give you guys the family you want. You'll be an amazing mom, Tess."

Tess let out a small sob that turned into a chuckle. "Thank 'ya."

Ray rubbed his wife's back, his own fresh tears falling. "We have something very special to give you, Fawn. It's...the closest thing we have to fully repaying you."

Tess nodded. "Money ain't enough. It would never be enough."

In sync, both couples removed the pieces of jewelry I'd never seen them without: Tess, her quartz pendant; Ray, his sea glass bracelet. Without a word, both new parents bestowed the items on me as if it were a coronation. Tess slipped the pendant around my neck and flipped my hair out from under the chain it hung on. Ray carefully slid the band of clattering sea-green beads over my hand until it came to rest softly on my wrist.

I looked at the new gifts with a grateful smile. "Something to remember you guys by?"

The couple gave each other one of their classic knowing grins.

"No," Tess said. "We chose these items months ago. They were always intended for who our surrogate would be."

I tilted my head to the side like a confused dog -- I guess the puppy pads were appropriate after all. "What?"

"From the day we met you, we've been praying over them," Ray explained, repeating the hand-over-heart motion I'd frequently seen him do with the hand that had worn the bracelet. "Each milestone we reached, we made sure our joy in the moment was stored in the crystals."

"Quartz is best to channel the energy of a mother, for Mother Gaia," Tess explained. "Glass shaped by the sea is best for a father's energy, for all life was fathered by the sea."

We were silent for a while, just staring at each other. The only sound was the soft cooing Surinder made in her sleep.

"We want you 'ta be a part of this family, Fawn," Tess said. "We've put a part of our essence into these crystals. Our joy, our love, our gratitude. So, whenever 'ya wear 'em, we'll be with 'ya."

Now I was crying. I opened my jaw to say something, but nothing came.

"We've talked about it, and..." Ray said with a smile. "...if you would like to, we'd be more than happy to have you stay here with us until you get back on your feet."

"Livin' out here has been much less of a headache than in the city," Tess continued. "We could help you find a nice 'lil place of your own sometime soon, a home where you can make a life for 'yaself."

There was another pause. I let tears fall silently down my bewildered face.

"You don't talk much about 'ya family," Tess said. "You don't owe us no explanation, but...Ray and I figured...you might need someone in 'ya corner."

That was it. That was the killing blow.

I jumped forward and threw my arms over Ray, collapsing into sobs I hadn't experienced in months. I would've grabbed both of them, but Tess had the baby. I didn't actually say anything to them, but I think they got the message.

Maybe there was something to those New Age ideas of theirs. As I sat there sobbing, I swear I could feel the warmth of Tess and Ray's love seeping into my skin through those minerals.

It seeped through my blood and sinew, and even though bone. It settled into the bleeding wound in my soul that refused to heal, the one that had been torn open the first time I called my family after the fallout:

My own mother, the one who promised to love me no matter what life threw, plunged the knife in and twisted it. The last words she ever spoke to me...were a threat to kill me if I ever tried to come back home.

The warmth of Ray and Tess's gift poured into that wound like warm honey -- not healing it, but soothing it for the first time in three years.

Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe the heat in the jewelry was just from their body heat.

But I was sure about one thing:

I wasn't alone anymore.

~ END ~

[winderlylandchime]

Hello and happy new year, i hope you’re doing good and that you had a good NYE.

Here are just some highlights from what you’ve missed in the latest episodes of ‘My brother is an idiot’.

In case you wondered how we spent NYE, let me tell you that originally we were gonna go to a bar with our neighbor and socialize but she got sick, so my brother changed plans and made her watch 3x08. That’s right, he calculated when to watch the episode so that Britin reunion happened exactly at midnight. We entered 2024 with Lover’s spit, ngl it was both amazing and impressive. And the clock went midnight right as the song started/their iconic reunion happened and we all yelled ‘AYYYEEEE HAPPY NEW YEAAAAR’ He also showed her 3x14 and not to anyone’s surprise, the ending still makes him cry.

Also a very important update: THE CAST IS OFF!! He walked out of the office and literally put a fist into the air like a dumbass and then looked at THE ENTIRE WAITING ROOM, pointed to his fist and went ‘I’m back, baby!!’ And then to me ‘I almost put that Proud song on to play it so I could walk out all dramatic and put my fist in the air like in that movie.. But I’m too fucking traumatized by that song cause of the finale so just imagine it for the experience okay?’

Btw our dad is coming in on Wednesday so that he can spend some time with us and then go home with my brother. So naturally my brother has spent the last day and a half going through episodes to decide which ones to show him. I fear my dad might strangle him when he realizes he’s being tricked into watching qaf. But i am curious what his reaction is going to be and which episodes he picks.

And the most important thing that I actually thought will be avoided: about 2 days ago, I left him at 10.30 pm to go to sleep. He was reading fan fiction and at the same time watching fan videos of Gale and Randy which…okay, go off. Please try and guess what the fuck happened next because i can guarantee you, you’re gonna be wrong.

He came into my room and woke me up out of nowhere and i asked what’s up, thinking it’s some emergency. And i can see on my clock that it’s like 4.45 am and he’s crouching next to me, holding the laptop, turns it towards me to show me some random site while almost blinding me and then whisper yells at me ‘this Hal dude is or was a fucking prick! What the fuck did Gale and Randy ever do to him? And why the fuck did those two old dudes hate Randy?!’ And then he just got up and walked out (leaving the door open because of course) and just says to himself or me ‘they did nothing and he’s acting shadier than a fucking palm tree!’ I woke up the next day, genuinely sure that I dreamt that and I come to the living room and he’s in the same position as I left him in and he goes ‘oh this dude is lowkey annoying, i just read this post from a convention and he doesn’t know how to let other people talk, why did he answer a question about gays and his gay friends when Randy was asked as a gay man? And I didnt know those writers sucked so much, they looked like they got along at that gay panel but apparently they hated each other? By the way do they still do these conventions?’ All this was said to me in one long ass breath, right as i woke up. Felt like a fever dream ngl. He was practically bouncing off the walls because of how much coffee he drank because he stayed up all night reading up on Gale and Randy and anything qaf related he found. He even found old Gale interviews from The Advocate and later found out Gale was also in a motorcycle crash and he texted that to our mom saying that clearly that means they’re soulmates of some kind and she just replied ‘or that you’re both stupid <3’

He said that after he finished his fics, he started watching videos and then he went to check bts videos and interviews and he looked all that up and got war flashbacks because they just asked whatever they wanted in the old 00’s tabloid era. And that somehow lead to him finding a link to a fan forum or something and then he just spiraled. He said that when he saw Hal being shady, it was either wake me up and tell me OR wake up our parents..

oh and during this all nighter he also put together a playlist that he named ‘Bri Bri in a nut (ha) shell’ and it’s songs from the show that he thinks fit Brian best. So now he goes back and forth between the playlists depending on his mood and how much he misses Brian. I created a monster and you all helped me. Thank you very much

Dear sweet anon!

I am so sorry for the delay in responding. I haven't been on tumblr because the new stuff at my job is cutting into ALL MY PRECIOUS SCROLLING TIME.

(And fic writing, so sorry everyone!)

NGL I am high key impressed that he figured out how to time the episode so that Lover's Spit was playing when the clock struck midnight. That is some dedication. What time does one need to start the episode for that to happen?

Congratulation to your brother on getting the cast off! I'm so glad he can return to making the ally fist.

But oh nooooo, he has fallen down the rabbit hole of the bts and what has been shared and pieced together and what can be observed. But couldn't he have sent you a voice memo rather than waking you up?

I'm curious if he has any fic recommendations for the fandom? And, also, what is in his Bri Bri playlist?

I like your mom's response to your brother's belief that both him and Gale being in motorcycle accidents makes them soulmates. Maybe they could be soulmates for another reason. Your brother could kiss Randy, for instance.

I hope your 2024 is lovely so far! I can't wait to hear your dad's reaction to being ambushed with QAF.

[supernaturalfic]

Baby’s Day at the Beach

I created this blog account for 1 reason only: posting a Supernatural fic I wrote two years ago. I only just found it again on my laptop. I don't want to post it on main, I have never posted a fanfic before.

This is a oneshot featuring a female protagonist, Dean, Sam and a little bit of Castiel. Oh, and Baby of course.

Trigger warnings: err... light swearing, partial nudity... That's it, I think.

It's fluffy, written in a you-POV, and it's about a female hunter who lives with Sam and Dean in the bunker. Almost 3K words.

I hope I didn't leave any essential information out. I'm 35 (which is really old in Tumblr-years) and not familiar with fanfiction etiquette, sorry.

Anyway, enjoy!

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

You softly sighed as the wind blew through your hair. It would get tangled and almost impossible to comb out, but right now, you didn’t care. The first weeks of Summer had been unbearably hot, so you simply enjoyed the feeling of the cool ocean breeze on your skin as you sped along the coast highway with hardrock music blasting through Baby’s radio. 

You weren’t exactly a fan of Van Halen, but there wasn’t much choice in Dean’s car. Most of the cassette tapes didn’t even have anything written on them, so who knows what would come out. You were already incredibly happy that by some miracle, Dean had accepted to lend you his car to spend the day at the beach. That man was too attached to his car, and you had often heard him compare her to a beautiful woman. Weirdo.

You smiled as you recalled how he had given Baby a pat on the motor cap whilst looking at you menacingly. ‘Crash her, and you’ll live to regret it’, he had growled. 

You switched the lever of the right turn signal and deserted the highway. The sun already felt very warm on your skin and it was only 10 AM. You were very much looking forward to spending a day at the beach. Lazing in the sun, reading a book, swimming in the ocean, maybe even eating an icecream or two. As a monster hunter, days like these didn’t come along very often. This day was all about relaxing and having some well-deserved you-time. 

You turned left and reached the big parking lot by the beach. You slowed down and let out a curse. ‘Darn it’, you muttered under your breath. It seemed like everyone had had the same idea. Cars everywhere. You circled around for fifteen minutes, but there wasn’t a single parking space left. With a sigh, you left the parking lot and drove to the nearest coastal village. It was more than a mile away, so you’d have to walk quite a bit to reach the beach, but so be it. You were determined not to let this minor inconvenience ruin your day off.

*****

You took off your sunglasses to admire the magnificent sunset. The beach was almost deserted now, most people had gone home an hour ago, probably to avoid traffic, but this had ironically caused a major traffic jam on the highway. You didn’t mind driving in the dark, so you had stayed a little longer. The day had been an utter success. You hadn’t felt this calm and relaxed since… Actually, you didn’t think you had ever felt this calm and relaxed. 

As you watched the sun’s last fading light dim and slowly disappear behind the horizon, you stood up from your beach blanket, shook it out, and started gathering your stuff. You had even bought gifts for the boys as a thank-you for letting you borrow their car: cherry pie for Dean, and a funny English-to-French dictionary with only curse words and rude words for Sam, that you had found in a quaint little bookshop. You picked up your bag and started walking the long way back to the parking area you had found in the nearby village. 

About halfway, you suddenly realized you were still only clad in your bikini. Even at this late hour, it was so warm that you hadn’t even noticed. You opened your bag and rummaged through it, trying to find the T-shirt and shorts you had worn over your bikini this morning. You couldn’t find them. You quickly understood that you must have left them on the beach. If you had come in your own car (not that you had one), you wouldn’t have bothered. But with Baby… you didn’t want to get any residual sand or seawater from your bikini on Dean’s precious seats.

You turned around and walked all the way back. Shoot, your feet started to hurt. You shouldn’t have left your sneakers in the car this morning, those beach slippers were not meant for long walks. 

Back at the beach, you searched around for a while, but your clothes were nowhere to be seen. Great. Someone must have taken them by accident, or maybe even by design. You scanned the coastline to see if any beach shops were still open. Not a chance, there were no more lights to be seen. You shrugged and started to walk back to the village. If Baby’s seats got stained, you would personally pay for the dry cleaner’s and Dean would just have to deal with it. 

After what seemed like an eternity (you were tired after all), you finally reached the village and the parking spot. Which was empty. 

You looked around, confused. Wasn’t this where you had parked Baby? There were no other cars to be seen. Were you at the wrong parking lot? You checked Google Maps on your phone. Nope, this was the right place, you had saved the coordinates on your app. Sweat broke out on your forehead. If this was the right spot, then where the heck was Baby?

You looked around some more, even went into the neighboring streets, searching for the Impala ’67. ‘No no no’, you started to whisper, panic taking over. You were worried before about Dean’s reaction if you stained his car. How would he react if you had lost it?

You walked around some more, wrung your hands, tried to breathe evenly, looked for Baby everywhere… But you couldn’t deny it any longer. Baby was gone. Someone had stolen Dean’s precious car. And it had happened under your watch, and now you had to tell Dean.

Ten minutes later, you had finally gathered enough courage to call the Winchester boys. Your fellow hunters. You lived together in the bunker, you hunted together, you were the best of friends. Surely… surely Dean wouldn’t be too mad? Just at the last moment, you chickened out and decided not to call Dean, but to call Sam instead. You dialed his number. 

‘Hey, what’s up?’, Sam asked with that ever-friendly tone of his.

You swallowed. ‘Hi Sam, it’s me. I have bad news. I err… I sort of lost Baby’. Silence. ‘Sam?’, you tried again. ‘Yes, I’m here’, Sam said. ‘Did you just say you lost Baby?’

Suddenly, in the background, you heard Dean’s voice. 

‘WHAT?!’

‘Listen’, you continued, ‘I didn’t do it on purpose, okay? I had to park her really far away because the beach was crowded, and now she’s gone. I think someone must have stolen her. I mean, an Impala ’67 isn’t exactly a discreet car, and…’

Your nervous rambling got interrupted by a beep on your phone. You took it away from your ear and looked at the screen. 

‘Shoot, Sam, I have to go. I’m running out of battery, and I still need to call a taxi to get home’, you said urgently. 

‘Wait…’, you heard Sam say, but your phone beeped again so you quickly hung up with a shuddering breath.

*****

You looked out the window of your taxi cab into the dark night. You were almost home. Luckily your battery hadn’t run out before you were able to call a taxi. You weren’t sure if Sam and Dean would have called one for you if you hadn’t shown up. You were pretty sure Dean wished you dead right now. Or at least cold and alone. You hoped he would go easy on you when he saw you had to take a taxi in nothing but a bikini. You’d had your share of embarrassment today.

The car stopped about a mile from the bunker, since you never wanted anyone to come too close to its hidden place. You thanked the driver, paid him, and saw him leave, a big grin on his face as he eyed you over one last time. At least it would make a great story for him to tell to his friends. I once picked up a chick at midnight wearing nothing but a red bikini and flip-flops…

You started to walk the last mile home, your feet weary, but your heart even wearier as you thought about your impending doom aka Dean loves-his-car-more-than-humans Winchester. 

After a few minutes, you suddenly saw a tall figure looming in the dark. You quickly put your hand in your bag, searching for the demon knife you always carried with you. But you relaxed as the figure called out your name and you recognized the voice. ‘Sam?’, you yelled back. 

Sam came running toward you. 

‘Hey, are you alright?’, he asked. You smiled despite your foul mood. He was always so considerate.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Tired and very scared about what Dean’ll do to me’, but fine’, you replied. ‘How did you know I would be here at this exact time?’

‘I didn’t’, Sam said. ‘It was guesswork. I figured out which beach you had probably gone to, how long it would take a taxi to get there, and how long it would take to drive you back. I’ve been waiting here for fifteen minutes. I didn’t like the thought of you walking through these woods by yourself, in the dark.’ 

He suddenly stopped, finally taking you in. If it hadn’t been too dark to see, you could’ve sworn he blushed a little.

‘Umm… are you wearing a bikini?’, he asked. 

You were too tired to explain. ‘Yes’, you simply said. ‘I lost my clothes too.’

Sam seemed to struggle between hilarity and pity. ‘Come on’, he said while putting an arm around your shoulder, ‘let’s get you safe inside.’

*****

As soon as you set foot in the bunker, Dean jumped out of his seat at the wooden table and came running towards you. 

‘Please tell me that you drove back in Baby’, he said, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘Please tell me you found her.’

You simply shook your head.

Dean’s hand flew up and he ran it over his face. ‘This can’t be happening’, he said. 

He let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a grunt. He bent over, putting his head between his knees. His breathing became shallower, labored. ‘This can’t be happening’, he repeated. 

He was full-on hyperventilating now. Sam shot into action, took his brother by the arm and gently pushed him backwards. Dean staggered a little but let himself be guided onto the nearest chair. 

‘Dean, calm down’, Sam said with a frown.

‘Calm down?’ Dean’s head shot up. ‘CALM DOWN?! SAMMY, SHE LOST BABY!!’

Your own breathing became shallow. Oh boy, here it comes, you thought. Dean turned his head towards you, his eyes almost as red as Crowley’s on a bad day. 

‘HOW COULD YOU HAVE LET THIS HAPPEN?’, he shouted at you. You could only stand there and look down at your feet. ‘We’ve had her all our lives. I lend her to you once, and you lose her. Didn’t you lock her?’

‘Of course I locked her, Dean’, you said, anger now rising in your stomach. ‘Someone probably just broke the window to steal her! She’s such an old car, she doesn’t even have an alarm system.’

‘SOMEBODY BROKE THE WINDOW OF MY BABY??’, Dean shouted.

‘I SAID PROBABLY’, you shouted back. 

Sam held up both his hands. ‘Okay, guys, time-out. Take a breath’, he said in his soothing voice. This instantly calmed you down, but didn’t seem to have the same effect on Dean. 

‘BABYYYY’, he sobbed, placing his arms on the table and dramatically lowering his head between them.

Right at that moment, Castiel appeared out of nowhere in the bunker. When he saw Dean sobbing on the table, he cocked an eyebrow. 

‘Dean?’, he questioned. 

Dean lifted his head and looked at Castiel through teary eyes. ‘My Baby’s gone’, he managed to croak before letting his head fall down again.

The angel looked utterly confused. 

‘I didn’t know you had a baby’, he said in his deep voice. 

‘No, Cas, he’s talking about the car’, Sam chuckled. 

‘Oh.’ 

Castiel looked a little lost. You were suddenly hit by the absurdity of the situation. There you were, clad in a bikini, standing next to an angel in a trench coat and a flannel-wearing hunter even though it was at least 82 degrees, while Dean was going through the 4th stage of grief. 

Before you could stop yourself, a small laugh escaped your lips. 

Three heads immediately turned your way. Oops.

‘You think this is funny?’, Dean said hoarsely. ‘You see, Missy, this may just be a car to you’, he said, pointing a finger at you, ‘but to me, she’s everything. And if you…’ He suddenly stopped and looked her over. ‘Are you wearing a bikini?’

Sam cleared his throat, and Castiel fixed his eyes on you. You felt very self-aware. 

Dean’s eyes shone with a familiar glint, despite himself. He was obviously still mad at you, and incredibly depressed, but this was an incorrigible ladies’ man. For a second, his instincts took over as he let his green eyes slide over you and his upper lip curled upwards almost imperceptibly in an appreciative smirk. But just as soon as it had come, the moment was over, and he narrowed his eyes again. 

You tentatively took a step in his direction. 

‘Dean, I’m really, really sorry’, you said. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen, and I swear that I was careful. It was just bad luck. I will do anything to make it up to you.’

Dean lowered his shoulders and relaxed a little. Suddenly, the little smirk was back. ‘Anything?’, he teased.

You could almost hear Sam roll his eyes next to you. ‘There he is’, Sam sighed. ‘Welcome back, Dean. Glad you’ve finally calmed down.’ ‘Hey, Sammy, I will never calm down about this’, Dean said heatedly. ‘But I do know that it’s not your fault’, he added with a gesture towards you. 

You sighed in relief. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that Castiel was still staring at what you were wearing. You shifted a little uneasily. ‘I’m err… going to change’, you said, and you quickly hurried to your room, leaving the three amigos behind.

*****

The next morning, you happily sipped your tea in the kitchen, laughing at Sam’s jokes. You were in a far better mood today. Sam was flipping through the pages of the silly dictionary you bought him, trying to pronounce various French insults. And you were just having breakfast at the kitchen table. You could hardly wait for Dean to wake up and tell him the good news!

As if summoned, Dean stumbled into the kitchen, wearing the black T-shirt he wore last night and nothing but boxers underneath. You tried not to stare. He touched his forehead with his hand and groaned. 

‘Urrrr, I should never have drunk that last couple of beers last night’, he complained. 

‘Yeah, I never saw you drink that much before’, Sam scoffed. 

‘Hey, I was grieving, all right?’, Dean replied. Then, he groaned even louder when he remembered the reason he had been grieving. ‘I’ll never forget you, Baby’, he declared theatrically while placing a hand over his heart and looking up at the sky.

‘Why are you looking up?’, Sam asked. ‘Baby has been stolen, she’s not in some sort of car heaven!’

‘Shut up’, Dean said gruffly. He walked over to the kitchen counter and started pouring some juice into a glass. 

He suddenly put down the glass with a bang. ‘Is that pie?’ he asked hopefully. 

You laughed. ‘Yes, and it’s all for you. I bought it yesterday at the beach.’

Dean dug in without another word and moaned blissfully. ‘You’re a doll’, he told you, his mouth full of pie. 

You smirked. Now was the perfect time to tell him, you decided. 

‘By the way, Dean, the County called. Baby’s in the Tow Park over at the beach. We can go and get her this afternoon.’

Dean choked on his pie, wheezed and started coughing his lungs out. Sam looked at you with big, bright eyes. Some pie blew out of Dean’s nose and onto the floor. You laughed uncontrollably.

‘For real?’ Dean shouted when he finally stopped coughing. 

You nodded with a big smile on your face. ‘Yeah. It turns out Baby wasn’t stolen. I parked her in a spot that was reserved for local residents only’, you added with a feeling of shame. ‘I hadn’t noticed. They had her towed. The fee to get her back is 109 dollars. Which I will entirely pay out of my own pocket, of course. It’s my fault. I’m very sorry.’

Dean just beamed at you, forgetting all about his hangover, his beautiful smile as big as a child’s at Christmas. 

He took three steps, lowered himself behind your chair and gave you a big, warm hug from behind. He planted a kiss on your cheek and said: ‘It’s okay, all’s forgiven.’

Sam laughed and you patted Dean’s arm. 

Dean stood up again, all smiles and with a glint in his eyes. 

‘I’m never lending you my car again, though’, he added with a grin. ‘So, who wants to go to the beach today?’

THE END.

[lueddegen]

I feel extra bad repurposing my old laptop I technically replaced five years ago for GC data analysis because every time it needs to integrate a peak that’s not entirely perfectly even it has to work so hard it almost crashes the programs running, but instead of loudly complaining and running the fans like crazy like my current laptop it just quietly suffers through it until it gets the job done.

[marz-writes-shit]

2 — The Shield

A weekend can be spent doing anything and everything, from complaining about the vendors blocking the driveway to feeding the stray dogs and cats under the shade of rusty awning. For Amory, it was writing a critique for a film their professor made the class watch, while for their little brother Danilo, it was horsing around at the plaza with his friends. As for their parents? They were out for groceries, so Amory had the compound to themself. Before resuming their work, they made sure every possible entrance was shut and locked, of course.

Now, the critique paper their professor wanted was for a corny movie that was released approximately a hundred years ago, during the forsaken era of anthrax and plane crashes. The topic itself was still relevant, but the direction made them cringe and want to just... turn away from the ideals. Still, they persevered, hoping the professor would see just how crappy the delivery was while complying with the rubric.

Their fingers clacked away at the keyboard. Sometimes they'd go back a sentence or two to make sure nothing seemed redundant. They just had to cram every idea they had into the paper, so their fingers practically galloped across the keys. They occasionally paused to check the cadence or drink water, and then they'd resume typing. It was a steady rhythm that helped them many times before.

Once they had written about forty percent of their piece, they ate lunch. Rice and some vegetable stew, washed down with water. Then they went back to working, faster and more diligently, until they had already written three pages' worth of analysis. After they checked the old clock on the wall to find it was one PM, they sat back to take a breather.

Their phone chirped with Messenger notifications. Amory glared at it like it owed them money. It was a message from Yasmine, one of their contacts at the theater club, asking if she could come over, since she needed help revising a script for the theater club. They told her no, sorry, they were too busy trying not to get an aneurysm from how stupid their assignment was. How about an audio call? And she replied with a thumbs up. And as expected, the special ringtone grated against their ears not three seconds later. They swore and hit Answer.

"Hello?"

"What's up, heathen," they drawled, pulling up the laptop again to continue typing.

"I'm stuck," Yasmine whined, "This scene is so dumb! And why do my lines have to sound so... cliché?"

"Theater *is* cliché, face it. There's no drama in nuance." Amory squinted at a very uncompelling sentence and deleted it. "Who're you supposed to play?"

"Liz. She has a crush on this guy and they've been dating for ages. Story goes something along the lines of 'She's beautiful. He's charming. They're perfect for each other, but the world said nuh-uh.' But the opening scene..."

"What about it?"

"A cringe meet-cute. With books and papers flying everywhere and stuff."

They audibly snorted, almost doing a keysmash. "Oh, that sucks. And they didn't let you change it?"

"No," she whimpered. "I'm doomed. What should I do?"

"Hmm." Typing. They were 70% done with the paper. They glanced at the sixth paragraph, wondering whether it would make their professor fume or not. "Don't fulfill expectations. Make them angry at each other after the meet-cute. 'You ruined my favorite dress!' and 'You're not supposed to run in heels!' type-a thing. It'll be funny."

Yasmine laughed. "Oh, brilliant. Thanks, Amory. Seriously."

They rolled their eyes. "'Course. Anything to help the deteriorating drama ensemble of the renowned Pearlcrest International..."

"Hey!"

"Suck it up, Yassy, it's the truth."

"Whatever, nerd." She laughed once more. "Thanks again."

"Sure. Buh-bye."

They ended the call, set their phone aside and resumed working with a newfound vigor, probably from the fact that they just derailed the plans of the horrible, horrible director of the theater club. They typed furiously, and when it finally struck three PM, they were done. They saved the file, sent it to the class Google Drive, then stretched their arms.

Five minutes later they heard the front door opening. They froze and squinted, hand hovering over their bulky mouse in case they had to fend off an intruder, before a kicking of worn sneakers announced Danilo's arrival.

"Heya!"

"Good afternoon, loser," they deadpanned, observing as their little brother performed a weird dance and punched the air in between shuffles. Looks like he had a better time than Amory did. "Mind telling why you're so gleeful in spite of the Hour of Skin Cancer?"

He shrugged. "Not my fault you're drowning in homework. I just talked to the prettiest girl in my grade! We went to the plaza together! Oh, and I took it upon myself to get the fro-yo flavor she wanted. Ya should've seen her smile!" His grin widened.

Amory stared at him. This was news, but whatever. They had more important things on their mind. "Well, congratulations, bachelor. You can now bring home a wife to force your DNA inside until her health fails you. Now wash your shoes."

"Why are you being such a killjoy today?" he groaned.

"Because I watched the most repulsive piece of media on orders of my language professor and I'm spiting him with my output. Can you wash your shoes now?"

"Ugh." He stomped into the kitchen to do it. "You're just jealous because you don't have anyone crushing on you or vice versa," he called over the rush of tap water and scrubbing.

"And I'm perfectly fine with that. My life doesn't revolve around other people's view of my bodily appeal and recreating iconic romance novel scenes, unlike you..." they muttered, reaching for their phone.

"What did you say?"

"I said you suck at flirting!"

There was a startling clang as their mother's favorite pot tumbled and screeched across the floor from the kitchen, narrowly missing Amory's ear. They got up — oh great a neighbor heard and screamed — and picked it up. "Dan," they began as they marched into the source, "do NOT throw a tantrum. You're fourteen. Four years until you can get arrested."

He grunted in response. At least he cleaned his shoes, Amory noted with a small nod, sliding the pot into the cupboard where it came from.

For the rest of the hours until their parents came home, Amory ignored their brother and shut themself in their room. Facebook provided a temporary distraction from the indifferent world beyond the walls of the house;

it was all they really needed nowadays. They swiped through fun and games, candid shots and unpermitted textcaps, and a couple of oily pore selfies (of which their classmates were pretty proud). There was a nagging feeling of inadequacy that Amory refused to pay mind to as they looked at each and every one of the posts. Amory sighed, shaking their head to dispel the intrusive thoughts. They refused to succumb to the comparison trap. Their life might not be picture-perfect, but it was better than risking sunburn and jail.

Closing Facebook, they turned their attention to something else. Novels! Fiction! A well-worn book from their shelf would serve them well, one they probably memorized by heart already. The familiarity was comfort, transporting them to worlds far away from the woes of reality.

The main character was about to die when Amory heard the door squeak open.

[deanwritings]

Guess whose back

Can you believe it’s been FIVE whole years since I was last active on this blog?

I wasn’t totally gone, coming back from the shadows every few months to check out Tumblr, but now I’m officially back for who knows ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The last five years have been a ride. I’ve had some once-in-a-lifetime work opportunities, I’m officially doing the “adult” thing and I’m am married with a house and a dog, and feeling much better mentally after a few tough years with COVID, personal loses, and anxiety. 

What inspired me to come back, was not the downfall of Twitter (though I’m throughly enjoying watching Musk crash and burn something that isn’t a Tesla), but my computer almost dying on me and me realizing I have a lot of writings saved on it that could have been lost. Thankfully my laptop is good now, but going through my old work made me realize how much I’ve missed writing. I really haven’t done any non-work writing since I stopped writing for this blog, and it’s like a part of me is missing. 

So, I’m dusting off the keyboard, revisiting my drafts, and going to get back to work again! I’m definitely going to be rusty, but hey, it’s like riding a bike (I hope). 

My biggest goal is to finally end Night Falls for y’all. I did y’all dirty not finishing it five years ago. On a personal note, I’m actually going to start working on it again and see if it’s something worth publishing when I’m done. 

On a SPN note, I also fell out of watching the show around season 12 or so. To be honest, the writing just felt lazy and I felt like they were using the same plot lines over and over and had really dumbed down all of the characters and using them for cheap laughs except for the final big episodes of each season. I did however push through the rest of the series after it ended, just to know what happened. And definitely wasn’t happy they way they did our Dean. 

But, that’s what the fanfic world is for, and I’m looking forward to contributing to it again. 

Very excited to be back and can’t wait to start posting again! I already have one fic ready to launch so keep an eye out for it! 

[lost-girl-2021]

🤗

What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?

I actually really wanted someone to ask this question. I'll answer from two different POVs, a reader and a writer.

As a reader, something that turns me away from fics is punctuation/spacing. Something I learned in school was that every paragraph should be around 5-7 sentences. Obviously, with fiction writing, it's a little looser but try to steer clear from page-long paragraphs. They can be hard to keep up with, sometimes.

Usually, as long as it's nothing crazy, I look past spelling errors and stuff, but I personally use Grammarly (the free version) and just have it enabled on my laptop (it's also great for school papers if you're still in school, FYI). I honestly don't look over my writing more than once most of the time, but the big stuff is marked in red and I can usually catch it before posting.

Also, if you don't feel comfortable/don't want to swear in your work, just don't. I've seen some other people say similar things (and I don't see it nearly as often anymore) but when people use "#%@*(" instead of swearing it pulls me out of the fic. There's non-swears you can use as alternatives and they flow better in my opinion.

As a writer, I'd say don't force yourself to write things sequentially. A lot of the time when I get the initial idea for something, I write a scene and work my way around it. For Days Into Decades, I wrote my beginning, then wrote some nonsensical scene that'll end up as my ending, and did some big scenes scattered throughout as my middle. Now, I go back through my doc and reread what I've written to pick and choose what I want/don't want to use.

Also, don't write on social media when you're creating a post. What I mean, is use something like Google Docs, which saves automatically, in case your device crashes or lags and deletes everything. The amount of times I've flat-out rage quitted something because I've lost like 2k of thoughts is uncountable.

I really like Google Docs and work pretty much exclusively on there when working on my drafts. I'm bad at labeling my docs, but trying to work on it more given the sheer amount of 'untilted documents' I have to search through when I'm looking for a specific old project. It also just works well with what I'm using, because I have a Chromebook (mostly because it's the closest I could get to a Nokia-level of durability).

At the end of the day, what really helps is keeping with it. I cringe at the thought of this, but my OG fanfic was a PJO x Avengers Tower AU with my own OC named "Paxton, but everyone calls me Pax". It had clipart and I used Pic Collage and I had a linked Instagram filled with Batman memes. No part of it made sense and because I wrote on my (barely functioning) 2015 Samsung (in 2017) it was riddled with spelling errors and every other sentence was an Author's Note filled with random emoji's.

My writing compared to then, even compared to a year ago, has completely changed. I've probably written at least five pages a week since I was thirteen. Now, almost twenty, I feel really confident about my writing style and the things I publish. I also usually ask for comments so I can get feedback on what I've written (and because I really like talking).

If anyone has any specific questions or wants me to check out their work (doesn't have to even be fanfiction, or it can be for a fandom I've never even heard of) feel free to DM me. I'd be happy to check it out when I'm free.

[octoberobserver]

(I've Got You) Under My Skin

"I've got you under my skin. I've got you deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart, that you're really a part of me. I've got you under my skin…”

“Yo, Frankie, what time is it?” 

Eddie Kaspbrak broke out of his reverie of half-singing-half-mumbling while he typed, halting immediately at the familiar, yet hoarse voice calling from across the room. His eyes leapt up towards the hallway and was met with the sight of a very rumpled Richie Tozier, clad in oversized sweatpants and an old, stained AC/DC T-shirt, staring at him through bleary eyes, his hair sticking up in every direction imaginable and sans his signature specs. 

“Whoa, Rich, you look like crap.” 

“Wow, thanks Eds. You say that to all the girls or am I just special?” 

Eddie stared at Richie, really letting himself look, drinking in everything from the blood-shot eyes, to the ghostly-pale skin, to the shaky hands and everything in between. 

Something was...wrong.

“What’s up with you? You sick?” 

Richie blinked before giving a half-shrug, almost like he couldn’t be bothered to attempt a full one.

“I’m fine.” 

And yeah, if Eddie wasn’t sure of something being amiss before, he was 100% certain now. Short answers were never Trashmouth Tozier’s thing and that had not changed in the last thirty years, Eddie re-learned fast since moving in with him five months ago.

He watched as his roommate shuffled across the room, his whole body slumped, as if he were a lackluster marionette with strings too long and a puppetmaster too apathetic. There was a weight to him, like he wore a boulder as a backpack, pushing down on the expanse of his shoulders.

Eddie shook his head before he could dwell on Richie’s shoulders. Now was not the time.

“You uh...you want some tea? The kettle just—”

“We got any coffee left?” Richie cut across him, his tone sharper than Eddie was used to hearing outside the hysteria of dealing with a killer clown. 

“Uh, yeah, think so. A bit. You want me to—”

“No, I got it.”  

Eddie bit his bottom lip, a pang of something flaring painfully in his chest.

He’s not Myra. Don’t compare him to—he’s not her. He’s just having a bad day. Don’t be so fucking sensit—

A loud crash interrupted his spiralling thoughts.

“FUCK!”

Eddie threw his laptop onto the cushion and leapt up and around the couch, heart in his throat as he skidded into the kitchen.

“What the hell was—”

The words died in his throat as he was met with the sight of Richie, kneeling on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken glass and coffee-grounds, his head in his hands and hung so low that Eddie couldn’t see his face.

“...Richie?”    

He tensed, his whole body as still as a statue, almost as if he thought if he didn’t move a muscle, Eddie somehow wouldn’t see him.

Richie Tozier, a man of constant movement, energy flowing from him in waves, had never been so stagnant. 

It looked... wrong.

Eddie was padding over to him and kneeling down before he could think.

“Whoa, fuck, Eds!” Richie exclaimed, hands flying from his face as he tried to shoo him away, “Watch the glass! You could hurt—”

“It’s fine, Richie. I’m fine. But... you’re not ,” he murmured, aching to reach out and touch him, but holding himself back.

Richie didn’t even try to argue with him, staying silent, refusing to meet his eye, which spoke volumes, really.

“I’ll...get the dustpan. Don’t move. There could be tiny shards—just, don’t move a fucking muscle until I say so, okay?” 

“Yessir!”

His mock-salute was half-hearted and his tone lacked its usual ‘charming’ sarcasm, muttered instead to the floor. 

Eddie's stomach lurched with worry. 

But he powered through, making quick work of sweeping up the coffee granules and whatever glass he could see. When he was done, he halted in front of Richie, who was still kneeling, having done what he was told and not moved an inch.

“Come on,” he murmured, gesturing with his hands, “let’s get you up.” 

Richie tilted his head ever so slightly, not quite meeting his eye. 

“You know how bad I wanna make a boner joke, right?” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, just about stopping himself from pointing out that he wasn’t the one kneeling crotch-level in front of another man. 

Not the fucking time, Kaspbrak.

“I know. But you can make it from the couch. Come on,” he urged, holding out his hand, “careful. I know you can’t see shit right now, and there might be some pieces I missed.” 

Richie stared at Eddie’s hand like his fingers had morphed into live snakes. 

He tried (and failed) to shove down his offense at that. 

“Take my fuckin’ hand, dude. Don’t make me challenge you to arm-wrestling again.” 

Richie snorted, sounding a little more like himself (even if he didn’t rise to the obvious bait) as his hand enveloped Eddie’s. 

Eddie swallowed, his heart skipping a beat as he was reminded, yet again, just how fucking giant Richie’s hands were. 

Gently, he tugged his friend up to a standing position, eyes scanning the floor for any wayward glass. When he didn’t find any, he began walking backwards, leading them out of the room, towards the couch. 

He could have dropped Richie’s hand as soon as his feet touched the hardwood floor of their living room. But he didn’t. Instead, he held on, probably tighter than necessary as he navigated around the couch and took a seat, pulling Richie down to sit beside him. 

Their hands stayed clasped, Richie squeezing back ever so slightly. 

“Rich,” Eddie mumbled after a beat of silence, leaning forward to catch his eye, “what’s...what’s going on, man? You’ve been in your room all day. Is it...are you upset about your date the other night? ‘Cause it’s like I said, dude, fuck that guy. There’s plenty of people who would—”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck about Dylan Lemass and his hard on for Instagram likes, Eds,” Richie interjected with a sigh, wiping his free palm down his face, rubbing his eyes. 

Eddie waited, worry gnawing at his insides as dozens of possibilities flashed through his brain at what could be the matter. 

Is he dying? Sick? Looking for a way to tell me he wants me to move out so he can have his bachelor pad bac—

“I just...I haven’t been sleeping well and it's...fucking with me, I guess.” 

It sounded like a different confession altogether. 

Something like, “I’m kept awake by haunting deadlights I can’t escape,” or “every time I’m alone in the dark, I hear that fucking clown taunting me,” or “I’m afraid if I close my eyes, I’ll see you die all over again.” 

Maybe it was all three. And more. Eddie knew he had felt similarly the first few months after...everything. 

And they were coming up to the one year mark now. It made sense if Richie was finding it difficult to get any sleep. 

Eddie swept his thumb over the back of Richie’s hand before he could second-guess himself.

“It’ll be a year next week...have you thought any more about going to therapy? It’s helped me.” 

Was what he wanted to say. 

What he probably should have said. 

Would definitely say another day. 

Now though, as he thought back to the last time he saw Richie sleep peacefully, he just squeezed his hand and murmured, “Come with me.” 

Richie blinked, a line forming in between his eyebrows as Eddie began tugging him again, up from the couch, across the living room and down the hallway. 

He faltered only minutely outside Richie’s bedroom before squaring his shoulders and pushing the door open wide. 

“Eds, what…” words seemed to fail Richie, his hand that was still clasped in Eddie’s, tensing. 

“Lie down, Tozier,” Eddie ordered, finally letting his hand drop as he moved to close the drapes, blocking out the vestiges of late evening light, the room engulfed in a semi-darkness. 

He could just about make out the bewildered form of his best friend as he fought down the myriad off Kill Bill sirens whirring in his head, too taken with his lightbulb idea to really heed any potential warnings from his over-anxious brain. 

“Buy a girl dinner first, Edward. I’m not that kinda lady.” 

It was a stalling tactic, it didn’t take a genius to see that. 

Eddie reached out and laid his hand lightly on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Just...trust me, Rich. Lie down.”

He paused. 

“I promise I’ll be gentle.”

That got a surprised laugh to bubble from Richie’s throat. 

Eddie practically preened, forcing himself to step away lest he be caught out. 

“And Eddie gets off a good one!” Richie exclaimed as he shuffled over to the left side of the bed, sounding so much like his thirteen-year-old-self that it made Eddie’s heart ache. 

He bit his lip as he watched him, his heart racing at the sight of Richie standing at the bed, lowering himself down to sit back against the headboard, hands folded in his lap, head tilted at Eddie, as if awaiting instruction. 

And fuck, didn’t that do things to his insides. 

Not. The. Time. Kaspbrak. 

Taking a deep breath, Eddie tried to work up his nerve for his dumbass plan. 

Richie blinked. 

“So, uh, what’s—”

“I've got you under my skin ,” Eddie began to sing lowly, eyes focussing on a spot over Richie’s head as he tried not to dwell on the truth of the words falling from his lips, “ I've got you deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me. I've got you under my skin… ”

Eddie paused, blushing furiously under the dark, widened gaze of his best friend. Even without his glasses, it still felt that as if he was a human X-ray machine seeing right through Eddie, right into, well, the heart of him. 

Could you be anymore obvious, dipshit?

“You uh...you slept pretty good the other night when we were watching that Chris Hansen exposé," he tried to explain his flawed logic, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought...I thought maybe, some soft sounds might uh...might like lull you to sleep, or whatever.”

So fucking stupid. He has a fucking TV in here, genius. Why would he need a live performance from a mediocre—

A small smile spread across Richie’s face, his eyes almost unbearably soft. 

“You’re saying I get a private Eddie Kaspbrak concert?” He asked as he pulled the covers up over himself, shifting further down to lie in the bed, “Sign me up, dude. Know any lullabies?” 

“I’m not singing you a lullaby, Richie.”

“Aw, but Eds! Rock-A-Bye Baby is a class—”

“I’m leaving,” Eddie rolled his eyes, face burning at the fact he actually implemented his idiotic idea as he turned in his heel, “this was such a dumb—”

“No, wait, Eddie!” Richie half-yelled, sounding more animated than he had the entire evening, “I’m sorry, I'll be good. Sing whatever you want man, I...I like your voice.” 

Eddie turned slowly, frantic heartbeat pulsing in his ears, wishing he could see Richie’s face, but not able to now that he was lying down. 

“Fine. One song. Two, tops. Then I start charging and I’m not cheap.” 

“So many jokes, so little time,” Richie replied, smile audible in his tone as he spoke to the ceiling, “deal. But uh...could you like, sit down or something? I’m not super psyched about trying to sleep when someone's standing at the foot of my bed like a psycho killer peeping on sexy coEds in a slasher flick.”

Eddie rolled his eyes again before scanning the room. 

“Sit where, Rich? You don’t have any—“

“The uh...the bed’s fine. You know if you...shove a pillow behind your head?"

Eddie's heart leapt into his throat as he eyed the space on the right side, perfectly Eddie Kaspbrak-sized.

Richie must have heard his hesitancy.

"C'mon Eddie, you know the drill. We did it all the time as kids." 

"We were like eleven, Richie." 

“And we're 41 now. Age is just a number, man. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have offered to sing me a lullaby like two minutes ago.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, forcing his feet to move, his heart hammering a crescendo in his chest.

“I specifically said I’m not singing you a lullaby, asshole.”  

He watched as Richie shifted in the bed, turning ever so slightly to blink up at him. 

Eddie’s stomach did a somersault as he stood at the side of the bed, their eyes locking. 

“Okay, Eds,” Richie breathed, voice barely above a whisper as he slowly reached out and pulled back the covers, his large hand ashen and still a little shaky. 

“Singer’s choice.” 

Eddie’s eyes flickered from his face, to his hand and back again before gently easing himself down into the bed, his back coming to rest against a large, fluffy pillow as Richie pulled the blanket up over his thighs and letting it drop at his waist.  

He could hardly breathe, let alone sing. 

Suddenly, he was eleven years old again. Complete with sweaty palms and racing heartbeat. Not much had changed in the last thirty years.  

Sharing a bed with Richie Tozier still felt salacious. Forbidden. Exhilarating. And everything he has ever wanted. 

A silence fell over them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was...reflective. As if all those sleepovers were suddenly being recalled all at once. The knobbly knees knocking together under covers, the sugar-induced giggles stifled into pillows, the flashlight under sheets as they shared the latest issue of X-Men. 

Secrets whispered into the dark, their noses inches apart. 

Each memory silently passed between them as they stared at one another, Richie’s head propped up next to Eddie’s hip, his eyes heavy-lidded but alert. 

Along with his brain melting out his ears, Eddie was also hyper aware that Richie’s hand had fallen barely an inch from his, resting on top of the blanket. He couldn’t stop looking at it, the broad arch of his knuckles, the length and width of his fingers, the dusting of light hair that travelled up his wrist. 

He should’ve drank a glass of water before attempting this. 

Or a bourbon. Or three. 

Feeling Richie’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, Eddie kept his eyes locked on that hand as he opened his mouth and sang quietly into the room. 

“I'd sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near.  In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night, and repeats, repeats in my ear, don’t you know little fool, you never can win? Use your mentality, wake up to reality. But each time that I do, just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin. 'Cause I've got you, under…”

************************

(Can be read as a one-shot OR Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 4)

(More Reddie Fics)

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Decided today that I have spent too much time lately seeing and hearing Tim Minchin play bit parts in other people’s shows, while I watch old comedy festival clips on YouTube and listen to Mark Watson’s radio shows and things like that, and not enough time on his own stuff. It’s probably been 3 or 4 years since I last had a night of just clicking through Tim Minchin videos and watching them. I used to do that every six months or so.

I’ve spent this morning fixing that, and it’s a great way to spend a morning. I start, as always, with the first Tim Minchin video I ever saw, and work outward from there. I remember it well, one day in 2014 when my friend from New Zealand was crashing on my couch for a couple of weeks. He was training for the Commonwealth Games, so he basically had a month of incredibly hard exercise and eating almost nothing (weight cutting: it’s bad for you and you shouldn’t do it, kids, I do not endorse it, but sometimes if you do it really well they let you fly to Glasgow and get beaten up by people from India, so that’s pretty cool), and was sore and exhausted all the time, so we’d get back from practice together and just lie down on the living room carpet and talk about nothing as a distraction from being sore and tired.

One night, we’d gone from discussing our shared left-wing political views to our shared views on what women in our sport were most attractive, and then started questioning whether the second discussion might sort of clash with the first. And he said, “I have to show you something,” and opened his laptop. We’d already bonded over shared love of Flight of the Conchords, so he was confident that our comedy tastes overlapped enough for this to not be wasted on me. And it wasn’t. I watched that one and immediately demanded to see more of this strange red-haired man. This red-haired man gets it.

Here are a couple of my other favourites, discovered since then:

The time he raised money to help survivors of the Catholic Church’s sex crimes to fly to Rome and hear evidence about it, by writing a song in which he called a Cardinal accused of covering it up a God damn coward:

I just listened to this one for the first time in several years, and I can’t believe I never realized before that the Chocolate Milk Gang has a theme song:

It occurred to me today that I haven’t seen much of him recently, and thought I’d look up what he’s done in the last few years. And good news! This isn’t a case of one of those people used to be awesome but then you find out they went in some terrible direction or other. These days, as far as I can tell, the biggest difference is that he’s moved away from the comedy-about-serious-subjects and toward more serious songs, which are beautiful and seem to be mainly about how much he loves his wife and kids. He’s grown his hair even longer and looks a bit like Bill Bailey now. So that’s pretty much the ideal answer when you think “I wonder what that guy who was great ten years ago is doing now”. Much better than the answer you’d get if you’d been a fan of, say, Russell Brand in his stand-up days.

I could show you what he looks like now by sharing one of those beautiful serious songs, which everyone should definitely look up, but I’m instead going to show you his current look (or at least, only a couple of years old) via this video he did at the 2020 BAFTAs, because “I know our job is to hold the mirror up to society, but I’ve been avoiding mirrors of late because it’s got so God Damn ugly” is a really good line. Tumblr won’t let me embed more than five videos in a post, but click on this link to see Tim Minchin looking a bit like Bill Bailey.

Also, it turns out that Rock ‘n’ Roll Nerd has a follow-up now, and it’s really fucking good. So good. Most musical comedians are comedians who can also play music; Tim Minchin is clearly leagues ahead of that. Amazingly talented musician.

[subtle-carrot]

A Harsh Winter for Video Making

Hey there, human-people.

Here’s a “little” post about what I’m going to do with my YouTube channel next year. We’ll go over exciting stuff like the electricity situation in Finland, how that affects my video making in the coming year, how I’m going to actually plan what I’m going to do, and what other creative things you will probably start hearing about.

So let’s start with how shit would be hitting the fan in Finland, if that shit wasn’t frozen solid and the fan had power to spin.

Running Out of Electricity

Long story short, Finland is running out of electricity and electricity prices are spiking. Just in time for my cheap electricity contract to end as well. So, I could go on a long, broad strokes analysis of why this is happening, but lets condense: Russia, winter, and that goddamn nuclear reactor that was supposed to be finished 13 years ago and now that it is, its spinny things are broken and it will be fixed right after the coldest, electricity neediest part of the year. Super. And it’s so bad that semi-random parts of the national grid might be shut down for a few hours during the coldest periods, just so that the rest of the country can actually function.

The situation should start to get better March onward, but until then, yeah, thing’s in the shitter, innit? And that means that I might have to pause my video making for a while. And I know, I’ve been pretty uneven with making videos anyhow, but this would mean that I couldn’t work on videos almost at all. This is because currently, the things that consume the most electricity in my apartment are my desktop, that I use to edit, warm water for showers, and making food. Showers I’ve already cut down on and I kinda have to keep on making food, which leaves my dear old desktop.

So, the plan is this: I will continue working on my next bigger video until day temperatures fall under -10 C (14 F). At that point, electricity will be so expensive and the national grid will be under so much stress that I won’t turn on my desktop if I don’t absolutely have to.

But worry ye not, because I have other stuff I’ll be doing.

A Writing Hiatus

When the weather gets too expensive for my liking, I’ll move to working purely on my laptop. It can’t really edit videos (if I have not even that many PDFs open, it will start to crash), but what I can do is write.

I’ve gotten back to writing in the past few months. Years ago I used to write a lot of stuff - short stories, novellas, novel attempts. A lot of them were left unfinished but isn’t that always the case. And for years before that, it was basically part of my identity that I was a writer of some kind. Not published but I just enjoyed the doingness* of it. So what happened? Basically, my studies and my slow descent into exhaustion and burnout.

But I’m back at it again, and this time I’m writing short film and game scripts as well, most of which will most certainly never see the light of day. And I really want to talk about it more, write more about the things I’m doing, be it video or writing related. I’m especially in developing and talking about one scifi setting I’ve created, centred around a particular space station, filled with queerness and all the good things. Basically, I want to share things about my creative efforts a bit more with whoever follows this blog.

Which also means...

Rethinking my Patreon

So, up until now, I’ve mainly updated my channel and video progress on my Patreon as a tier reward. And you might already be going: “Hey, hold on there, comrade. You have a bit over 40 followers, why the heckiebeckie do you have a Patreon?” Well, originally this was so that my sister could support me when I moved away from Twitch when my last job started and I couldn’t realistically stream anymore. And so, I figured I might as well advertise it to other people as well, even though I knew no-one would probably give that kind of support yet. Which is very much okay, because it warms my heart a lot more to hear someone liked my videos rather than get a bit of money from them.

But now, this publishing of updates on Patreon has a slight problem to it: I never have the energy to update outside of it. It’s surprising how big of a drain updating to Patreon is sometimes, especially because I really want to just share everything with everyone. I don’t want to have to think what I can reveal outside of Patreon so that it can still be a special reward as well. I want to tell about the things I’m doing, talk to other people about these things and feel more connected to people who make cool things as well.

What I’m thinking of doing is a choice between a couple of ideas: a) I could just close my Patreon, open it again in the far off future; or b) I could just stop advertising it in my videos and video descriptions, and take off the update reward from the listings, and begin advertising it in the future again. I haven’t quite decided which way I’ll go but I’ll probably update you on that as well.

In any case, you can look forward to more talk about what I’m writing and doing creatively.

Back in the Spring

So, once it gets back to more manageable, cheap weather, I’ll be back to making videos. In the meanwhile, I’ll start writing more things here and on my own. I’ll probably do posts about new series and films I’d normally do videos about and keep writing scripts for longer videos so that I can schedule them for later in the year and get to making them when the spring comes. I also want to get back to making funny fake commercials I made a couple of at some point and maybe some small short films with friends.

I might also start doing more things on Instagram as well, but... Tumblr’s my home. It might not be the greatest place to advertise my kind of content, but the neighbourhood is just so pleasant.

But right now, I’ll keep working on my next longer video as long as the weather permits and you can look forward to a post about the scifi setting I mentioned earlier.

But in any case, I’ll see you in the next post.

---

*Almost wrote “craft” but let’s not be quite that pretentious