#is still like. sigh. weekly meetings. they’re so organized <3

[theminecraftbee]

the hermits are like yes we have regular meetings to discuss our server. no we don’t actually know anything or have any plans. hope that helps <3

things apparently do get done at the meetings! the longer i watch though the more i appreciate how much this all feels like herding cats though,

#answered #and yet the part of me that came into this fandom from You Know Which Server #is still like. sigh. weekly meetings. they’re so organized <3 #they are not. #anyway I wonder if they discovered logistical issues with the cave somehow

[jihyuncompass]

V Flower Shop AU Headcanons

The second half of this request from @otherlandshark​ ! My goodness I’ve missed my dear Mint man <3. I tried to keep it mostly fluffy, but there’s a little bit of angst in there. Since I can’t help myself. I hope you enjoy this Shark! Love you lots!

Warnings: Mentions of Suicide (Relating to Rika)

Jihyun/V

The first time you saw him had been in early spring. 

The weather was starting to get warmer, flower blossoms starting to grow on the ground and on the trees. 

On that warm spring day the sound of the bell by the door ringing grabbed your attention. 

You’d been working on  your newest flower arrangement. Bunches of flowers scattered around your table. The fragrant scent overwhelming your senses. 

Tearing your gaze from your work your eyes met the Mint eyed stranger in the doorway. 

You shouted out a greeting to him, your usual “Welcome in!” that you told every customer when they came in. 

The man had smiled and greeted you back. His voice was warm and gentle, a voice that just radiated comfort. 

You did return to your work, but your eyes kept wandering towards the man. Watching him as he admired the arrangements you’d put together earlier in the day. 

Keeping your gaze careful you made sure he didn’t notice how you were watching him. 

After looking around for a while he eventually came to the counter with a bouquet in hand. 

“Is this all for you?” You asked. He nodded. “Are these for anyone special?” You asked. 

“Yes.” The man said with a warm smile. “They’re for my fiance. Rika.” 

You finished wrapping the bouquet and taking the money from him. “Well this is a perfect choice for a romantic partner. I’m sure your Rika is a lucky woman.” 

He’d lifted the bouquet to rest in the crook of his arm and thanked you. You’d watched him as he left, the warmth in his voice lingered in your mind. 

You’d returned to your arrangement in progress. Lifting the yellow daffodils to add in for the next one. 

The mint haired man returned again a few weeks later. This time he was followed by someone, a bright eyed blonde woman. 

You tried not to eavesdrop on them. Still, you couldn’t help but look at them, and listen to the way they spoke. 

“What do you think of these, beloved?” The man asked.

“They’re beautiful V.” She said, her voice like the man, V’s, was gentle. “I think they’d look beautiful on the kitchen table.”  

“I agree.” He said. He looked up towards your work table briefly meeting your eyes. You smiled politely and returned to your work. Forcing your eyes to stay attentive to your work. Greeting them both with a smile when they did approach your table to check out. 

He returned many times. Sometimes with his beloved Rika, sometimes alone. At one point he was coming in almost once a week to pick up a new bouquet. 

 You made small talk with him, each time learning a little more about him. His name was V, though that wasn’t his birth name. He was a photographer, he and his fiance had a charity group they ran together. 

He talked passionately about the RFA, Rika’s Fundraising Association. Named for his fiance. He often talked about the members, and their upcoming events. 

His love for the organization was shown when he’d asked if you’d be willing to provide flowers as decorations for their upcoming party. You’d agreed in a heartbeat, spending long nights arranging carefully constructed bouquets. 

The first time you saw V away from the flower shop was at this party. You arrived at the party venue an hour before the event’s start time, wearing your work apron and your car full of flower arrangements. 

You’d were briefly questioned by a brown haired woman with a clipboard and RFA badge. Asking if you were the florist, if you had identification. You explained that V had paid upfront for these, and asked where they should go. 

V was in the main hall, dressed in a tailor made suit, beside him was Rika, wearing a dress clearly designed to match her fiance’s. They were speaking with a tall dark haired man with a serious expression, the serious looking man looked familiar somehow. Maybe you’d seen him somewhere. 

Like you did at the shop, you did your best to not eavesdrop. You were here for a job after all, and one that did pay very well. 

“I didn’t see you come in.” V’s voice pulled you from your mind. He was standing in front of you, his eyes looking right into yours, his eyes moved to the arrangements. “These are wonderful. I knew you would make something perfect.” V said. 

“I’m glad you like them!” You said, your cheeks red from his compliment. “This is quite the event you have here.” 

V’s smile grew. “Yes, we’re hosting many important people tonight. We’re hoping we’ll be able to raise money for a good cause.” 

“What are you raising money for?” You asked out of curiosity. 

“This time we’re raising money for children in orphanages. The money will go to finding good homes, and giving them a brighter future.” He admired the bouquets again. “Your choices of flowers always amaze me. They’re always so perfectly chosen.” 

Your face burned more. “You’re extremely kind V. I always want to make the best arrangements I can. I’m glad you appreciate them.” 

“I do, and I’m sure our party guests will too.”

“Well.” You said clearing your throat. “Next time you host a charity party, I’ll do the arrangements for free.” 

V’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t ask that of you. You deserve to be paid for your work.”

You shook your head. “The work you do is important, I want to do my part.” 

V’s surprised face shifted to a warm one. “Well then. I may take you up on that offer.” You still felt the warmth in your cheeks, still you smiled at him. 

He continued to shop at your store nearly every week. Yet you started to notice some changes over time. 

At first it was small, he looked more tired. Then Rika stopped coming in with him as much, and when they did come in they didn’t look like their normally blissful selves. 

Then you brought flowers to the next party, and as you set the bouquets up you heard the sound of the couple arguing behind a closed door. You didn’t hear their words, still, you heard the harsh tones. 

Then, a few weeks after that party. V stopped coming all together. 

A few days after you realized, you saw an article in the paper. 

RFA founder and Photographer’s Fiance Rika Kim dies of Suicide. 

You stared at the photo of V’s beloved Rika printed in black and white. Apparently she’d thrown herself off a cliff and into the ocean. Reading it your heart ached for V. You wanted to reach out to him, make sure he was okay, but you had no real way to contact him. 

You made a special flower arrangement. And sent it to the funeral home listed to be handling her celebration of life. In it, a note to V expressing your condolences. 

Weeks, months passed without seeing V again. He was like a ghost, one moment he’d been a part of your weekly routine and then he was gone. 

Seasons changed, the trees growing and losing their leaves. All the while, you thought about the gentle mint eyed V. How kind he was, how thoughtfully he chose bouquets. How he always knew every flower's meaning. His love of daffodils. 

A year and a half passed. You struggled to remember V’s face now, his voice only existing in your memory, yet every time you added a daffodil to an arrangement. The memories of him would come rushing back. 

The warmth of the late summer forced you to wipe away sweat from your brow. You made sure your fan was on while you watered the potted plants on one end of the store. You gently poured the water from your watering can, making sure not to overwater the vibrant green plants. 

The ringing of the bell up made you stand up straight. You turned towards the door to greet the customer before your words got caught in your throat. 

V was standing in the doorway. However, now he wore a pair of dark sunglasses and a white cane held in his hand. Still, it was V. The V you had missed so much. 

“V?” You asked. The man’s head turned toward the sound of your voice. “It’s been so long.” You said. 

V looked sheepish. “Yes, it has been a long time.” 

You set down your watering can. “I heard about Rika. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

He sighed. “Yes, I got your bouquet too. It was very beautiful.” 

Your smile was tense. “Thank you.” You looked him up and down, your eyes getting stuck on the cane. “Is there something I can help you find, V?” 

He took a shaky breath in. “Yes actually. I’m looking for an arrangement but-” He sighed. “My eyesight, it’s pretty much entirely gone now. So I wouldn’t know where to start looking.” 

You looked at your work table then back at V. 

“I’ll make you one.” You said. “I’ll make sure it smells good, for you.” You walked towards V, carefully taking the man’s arm. 

V smiled, his ears tinted pink “I’d hate for you to go to so much work for me.”

You smiled. “Never too much. Especially not for my favorite customer.” You led him to the chair by your work table so you could start his arrangement. “Now, would you like daffodils? I know they’re your favorite.”

V pressed his lips together. “Actually, do you have the Lily of the Valley?” 

You smiled. “I do. Why that flower if I may ask?” 

Behind his glasses you saw his glassy eyes close. “I like their significance.” 

“The Return to Happiness” You said quietly. V nodded. “Well, I’ll make sure there’s plenty of them for you.” 

V left the shop holding his bouquet. A small smile still on his face, and a large one on yours. 

He returned the next week, and you had already prepared a new arrangement for him. One where the fragrance of the flowers was most important. 

The two of you continued that, every week. Each week with a new bouquet made only for him. And each time, you added flowers to express your feelings for him. Wishes of happiness, of healing. 

Of friendship. 

Of love. 

V came in at his usual time, while you finished up his order for the week. You called out a greeting to him, making sure he safely made it to the counter. 

“This one has the season’s newest blooms” You said, holding it close so he could smell. “I think the smell is really nice, it’s not too strong but it’s still very present.”

V took the wrapped bouquet. But he seemed quieter than usual, and you noticed the pink tinge in his ears. 

“V?” You asked. “Everything okay?” 

“I don’t want to be too forward but.” V started. 

“Yes?”

“There’s an event being held at the nearby gardens. To celebrate the new season. I was wondering, if you would like to go with me?” 

You smiled and reached out to gently touch his hand. 

“I would love to.” 

#mystic messenger #mysme #v #jihyun kim #kim jihyun #mysme v #v x mc #headcanons #oh BOY i've missed headcanons #very refreshing <3

[eldritchqueerture]

Chapter 7: Threads

Hello! Long time no see! The delay was unplanned and I'm sorry about that. I had an idea in the meantime to add more fluff chapters before shit starts to go down but then I couldn't get to writing them while telling myself that I will write them eventually, and then I had other ideas, and I was writing for Summer in the Archives, and so we are where we are. I decided to just keep posting what I have and if I do feel like adding fluff that would be happening in the meantime then I will just make a separate work in the series. I'm aiming to go back to my weekly schedule (haha), so I hope I can get the next chapter out next Friday. As always, please leave me a comment or come yell at me here on tumblr, it always brightens my day and keeps my motivation up! Enjoy <3

Martin looks at Jon’s sleeping face and thoughts swirl inside his head like tendrils of the mist that has been following him, tendrils that meet in one specific place – his feelings for him. He’s not proud of the fact that this is where his thoughts end up turning every time he thinks about Jon, considering the severity of the situation Sasha explained to him, but he cannot help wondering – despite his better judgement – if Jon doesn’t share them. He replays the worry in his brown eyes, the tight hugs, always ensuring he’s there, safe, and whole… He might be adding meaning to otherwise ordinary actions, of course, but he can allow himself to hope, for when that hope sparks inside him, the fog withdraws.

Jon is wrapped in a blanket on the cot in the storage room, where Martin has laid him. They found him sleeping on the desk in his office, his eyes all red-rimmed and puffed up; they didn’t comment on it. Martin carried him to the storage room and placed his glasses nearby. Tim went to take Sasha home, so she can get some rest, too, and was supposed to come back with lunch; the events of the morning are laying heavy on all of them and have left them quite hungry.

Martin closes the door to the storage room and comes back to his desk. Working seems a bit pointless when you know that your boss is scheming an apocalypse somewhere behind your back and you can’t quit the job, but he finds himself needing a distraction, so he opens up his computer to do some follow up research on Jason North and the alleged ritual site he found in the middle of a Scottish forest. Martin’s never been good with research, not like Sasha, so he soon stumbles upon a dead end. He ends up researching pictures for Scottish forests and cottages, and he daydreams, with his poem notebook by his side. How nice would it be to just move to Scotland, to a cottage like that and forget everything. Grow your own vegetables and herbs, welcome the sun every morning with a cup of tea; go down to the town for some groceries, meet some good cows; and maybe Jon is there with him, and he finally gets through to his head that he shouldn’t make tea in the microwave, and they cuddle on the couch while reading—

“’scuse us,” comes a deep voice and Martin looks up, startled, to find two delivery men standing there, in the Archives, with a big package next to them.

“Looking for the Archivist,” the other man says, but Martin figures that just because the voice is coming from a slightly different direction. They sound exactly the same; he finds they look similar, too. Their clothes are identical; they’re different makes and all but somehow, he can’t tell these two men apart. There’s… something off to them.

“Sorry, are you two meant—” Martin blinks, but one of them interrupts him.

“Won’t take up your time.”

“Just got a delivery.”

Martin opens his mouth, trying to process the fact that they seem to be two parts of the same whole. He wouldn’t be able to explain this thought if asked, but this is what runs through his head.

“Look, you really can’t actually—”

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

He looks and yes, there, on the package, says ‘Jonathan Sims’ in a very ordinary, unassuming writing. He glances over at the door to the storage room and back at the two men.

“Well, he’s not—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Be sure he gets it.”

Martin struggles for words.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—”

“’course. Much obliged.”

“Stay safe.”

“I’ll… try?” He responds with the first thing that goes into his head.

“Your recorder’s on, by the way.”

“Might wanna change that.”

Martin looks at his desk and he notices a tape whirring steadily in the recorder.

“Oh… so it is. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“At all.”

They both turn as one and leave Martin, the recorder, and the package alone. He hums, looking from one to the other and back.

“Well, I know for a fact that I did not turn you on,” Martin speaks to the recorder. “Maybe Tim felt in a mood for a prank. It is April Fool’s after all,” he huffs out a laugh. “Would be his style to do something, even with… all this happening.”

He stops the recording and turns to the package; before he can do anything else, though, the recorder clicks itself back on. Martin gives it a sideways look and his heart picks up the pace. He frowns and clicks stop again. One second. Two. There; it clicks the red button on its own.

Martin stands up and takes a step back.

“What the hell,” he breathes out.

Suddenly he hears a familiar laugh from the top of the stairs and energetic steps running down. Tim emerges from the doorway and gives him a surprised look.

“You okay, Marto?” He asks and places a paper bag on his desk, then points his chin at the package. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Martin collects himself in a second. “Two delivery men just came by. It’s for Jon, apparently.”

Tim places a second paper bag and his coffee cup on his desk and walks around the package.

“No sender. Interesting.” He strokes his chin and looks at Martin with a grin. “We should open it.”

“Tim!”

“Look, boss is asleep, the package came to the Archives and not to his house, how private can it be?” Tim throws his arms up but seems to be watching Martin’s reaction more carefully. He doesn’t look very bothered, Tim assesses; he seems to be equally interested in the contents. He sighs and tosses him a letter opener.

“Fine, but you’re taking the blame,” Martin rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, and Tim’s grin gets wider.

“That’s the spirit!” He cuts the tape at the corners and opens the packaging to reveal an old wooden table; there’s a hole in the centre, Tim reckons about six inches square, and its surface is covered in intricate patterns resembling optical illusions. He frowns at it. “Huh. A table. Why would Jon…” He trails off as his eyes follow the hypnotizing patterns. “Interesting…”

Martin watches as Tim drops the letter knife to the floor, enraptured by the table. He wants to say something, to call out his name, but the fog from the edges of his vision spills out at the sight of the table and it blocks out the world; Martin stops feeling the chair underneath him and finds himself stranded in a sea of grey, thick fog.

“Tim? Tim!” He calls out but there’s no answer. There would be no answer, ever; he’s all alone here.

—

Jon wakes up to a nagging feeling that something is wrong. He blinks, trying to get rid of the sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids and gathers his bearings. He realizes he’s on the cot in the storage room, a blanket thrown to the floor next to him. He still feels too hot, and he takes off his sweater vest. What’s this feeling, gently pricking at the back of his mind?

He gets up, wobbly as he feels, and makes his way to the door. As he opens it, a voice makes its way to his ears.

“…friend mentioned poetry?” Jon squints his eyes, as light reaches him, yet he immediately recognizes the voice.

“…Gerry?” He asks and blinks – yes, he can make out the thin and long figure dressed in black, sitting on top of Tim’s desk. Tim is there too, leaning against Martin’s desk in front of Gerry, and Martin sits in the chair, his cheeks coloured just a little with faint pink. They all turn to him with surprise when he emerges. He can feel tension in the room, and he acknowledges the presence of something that looks like a table covered with a blanket in the middle of the room; the nagging in his mind grows into anxiety. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin jumps up to him with genuine worry and Jon smiles slightly, as he shakes his head.

“No.” He blinks again, to chase away the sleep and looks at Gerry and his inscrutable expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry gets down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

Jon frowns with worry.

“Gerry, I’m serious.”

Something in Gerry’s demeanour changes as he sighs, and his expression clears.

“Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m in,” he says. “Whatever your crazy plan is, if you even have one, I want to hear it or help you make it; you weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to come, pay you a visit.” He glances towards the table and his eyes cloud with a shadow. “And it turns out it’s good that I did.”

“What is this?” Jon walks over to the table and three pairs of hands shoot out to stop him. Gerry’s touch lingers comfortably, because apparently that’s what he does, and Jon isn’t so sure he minds it.

“An old table, with weird, hypnotizing patterns,” Tim says, and Jon detects a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“Did it have a hole in the middle?” He asks urgently and Tim nods.

“We need to get rid of it,” Jon looks in the direction of the stairs. “Put it in the Artifact Storage and make sure it’s covered.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Martin asks and Jon nods.

“Amy Patel case; the one where a person got replaced. Why would they—” Jon’s face falls and he turns to Martin and Tim. “Who delivered it?”

“It was two delivery men, really big, quite intimidating, but—uh, now that I think about it I can’t remember what they looked like…”

“Shit,” Jon sighs and rubs his face. “Okay, we really do need a plan.” He looks over their faces and his eyes stop at Martin’s disgruntled expression. “What is it?”

“What you need is rest,” he crosses his arms. “You pulled an all-nighter with Sasha, and you haven’t even slept for two hours now.”

“You do look like shit,” Gerry offers his insight and Jon fixes him with a glare.

“I can’t protect you when I’m asleep,” he says and looks pointedly at the table. “Clearly. Tell me wha—” He stops when Gerry squeezes his arm sharply. He takes note of the static in the air and clears his throat. “I want to know what happened.”

Tim sighs.

“Alright, it is kinda my fault,” he admits looking away. “I insisted on opening your package to see what’s inside. But in my defence, I thought it would be something funny; at least a bit humiliating for you, and we could laugh it off. The mood’s been horrible lately,” he grimaces. “The lines kind of… hypnotized me. I couldn’t look away and I started getting lost in them. It… It felt like being trapped in a web; the more I struggled to look away, the harder it was. I don’t know how much time had passed before your resident goth intervened. Then I came back to myself and Martin… he was grey again.”

Jon glances worriedly at Martin, who starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“I didn’t think you guys could see that,” he confesses. “It’s… it’s that fog you mentioned,” he says to Jon who nods, his lips pressed together. “It was… stronger this time.”

“He was a step from disappearing,” Gerry says, looking at Jon curiously. “I thought you guys were new here.”

“We are,” Tim says, looking at Jon pointedly. “You said you know why that happens.”

“I did,” Jon sighs and leans against the desk, next to Gerry. “I’m—Martin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Martin looks away and he mutters something along the lines of “don’t worry about it”.

“The fog is… another one of the fears; called The Lonely or The Forsaken,” Jon says, looking somewhere into space. “It’s the fear that you’re all alone, that you can’t connect with anyone. Martin…” He exhales. “I have reasons to believe that your connection to the Lonely might have appeared in this… reality, along with my memories.” He finally looks up at Martin; there are no emotions on his face. “When did the fog first appear?”

“S-Sometime when I got transferred into the Archives,” he nods. “I thought it was just anxiety, but… y-yeah, it makes sense, I suppose.”

“You still don’t remember what you did to end up here?” Gerry asks and Jon shakes his head; Gerry clicks his tongue.

“So, what do we do now?” Tim looks at Jon. “What is Elias’ plan?”

“I…” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I…” He trails off looking at them. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do. Martin, with colour in his eyes and something else there, something Jon doesn’t let himself think about; Tim, whom he hasn’t hurt yet, who still has hope and who isn’t filled with bitter anger and sorrow; and Gerry who’s alive, here with him, offering his help. Jon thinks about Sasha, the real Sasha who’s still there. He can’t protect them all from other Entities and Elias. Even with all of his knowledge, Elias still has more power here than him, and Jon sees that his threats weren’t a bluff. Jon deflates with a sigh. “We need to know if there’s a way to fill the tunnels with CO2 before the Hive attacks; and I need the table sealed shut - it’s not getting anyone this time. Other than that, I think we need to work the statements, like before.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Elias is serving an Eye power and not letting us leave, and I’m supposed to still work for him?”

Jon swallows.

“Elias… He’s dangerous. Even with everything I know, he can still hurt us. I’m not risking an open war with him.”

“What is he gonna do, kill us?” Tim scoffs but he goes quiet when Jon gives him a hard stare. “Fuck off.”

“Murder isn’t usually his style of dealing with things, he generally prefers threats and blackmail, but he can definitely do that, too,” Jon says. “Let’s just say we don’t want to piss him off more than is necessary.”

“You literally punched him in the face today.”

“Yes, I know.” Jon grits his teeth and looks away. Tim narrows his eyes.

“He threatened you, didn’t he?” He asks and takes a step towards Jon. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon says coldly. “We need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no, you’re going back home and getting some sleep,” Martin shakes his head. “Or we refuse to work.”

Jon groans but Gerry places a hand on his shoulder.

“Go, Jon, I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promises and after a second of searching his face, Jon gives in.

“Fine. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Martin says and hands him the paper bag from his desk. “Eat this.”

Jon gives him a grateful smile and, with a last look at them, walks to the stairs and climbs up.

—

Gerry Delano sits comfortably on a park bench with a cup of coffee in his hand and sips on it slowly; he thinks about the things the new Archivist – Jon – said to him this morning. He looked tired; the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the absolutely horrendous smoking habit (at that Gerry just chuckles to himself) and the clean but messy clothes speak for themselves, and Gerry didn’t want to say it, obviously, but it was this entire image of an absolute mess of a confused man that made him believe him. The marks are curious, yes, but Gerry has seen many things which he doesn’t understand, and he’s okay with that. No, this man is clearly in need of support and if he’s really taken over for Gertrude (and, judging by the sheer amount of his energy just screamingBeholding, that was very probable), he is in for one hell of a ride.

If Gerry would have to describe his perfect life, with his mother and Gertrude gone, he’d probably say he wants to find a normal job and get some peace and quiet; that being said, he did try that as a teenager, running away from his mother and her life. He told himself then that he didn’t belong in the normal world and would always find his way back to his mother. He abandoned that dream for a while, until Gertrude offered to help him get rid of his mother’s ghost. He thought that maybe if he helped Gertrude for a while, burned some Leitners in the meantime, maybe he’d have enough and manage to build a life that didn’t always border on getting killed by something supernatural; and so his life went on and he never really grew to feel at home in the “normal” world. He’d about accepted the fact that he’ll probably die on the job with the old Archivist, and he wasn’t very surprised to find how quickly he accepted it. It seemed fitting; much more so than getting a job at a coffee shop or other, and just living among people who had no idea what’s really out there. Then he got shot in Pittsburgh – a Slaughter case he’d tried to prevent – and he was forced to stay behind in the hospital. In some fleeting moments of consciousness he saw Gertrude holding the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead and he prepared himself to wake up as a ghost any time; instead, he woke up to an empty hospital room and a note in her handwriting – “Build your life here. Stay safe.” He thought if this weren’t his chance to build the life he’d imagined for himself then it would never come; and he was right. He soon discovered that making friends is way too difficult when you’re able to tell which Fear Entity marked them in that supernatural encounter they’re too scared to talk about, and he returned to London, searching for Jurgen Leitner himself. He thought he found him, but he ended up beating up someone who turned out to just be some pathetic old man. And here he is, back in the world his mother dragged him into without his consent. Gerry sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. Maybe the universe simply needs a pyromaniacal, angry goth who did in fact end up in the business of helping strays.

He directs his thoughts back to Jonathan Sims and the Institute. They need to form a plan and Jon said he would fill his assistants in on at least the basics. He takes out his phone and checks the time – 1 PM. He rules that’s enough time to explain the basics of the metaphysical functioning of the Fear Powers in the world.

He finds his last messages and opens the one Jon sent at his request for contact saving purposes – “Here. – Jon Sims”. He’s a creative one, isn’t he? Gerry saves the number as Jon Archivist, then changes it to Jarchivist, and grins; then swipes to call.

No answer. He tries again and it still goes to voicemail.

Gerry shrugs and finishes his coffee. He burned his last Leitner in the alley just before he met Jon, so he doesn’t exactly have any new leads. He thinks he might as well pay the Archives a visit; it’s been a while since he was there last time, with Gertrude.

The street is quiet when he walks up to the building. The aura of Beholding is quite strong here already and he looks at the Latin words above the entrance. “I watch, I listen, I wait.” Tacky.

He comes inside and turns towards the stairs leading down. He’s not surprised when the lady at the reception calls out to him.

“I’m sorry, sir! Can I help you?”

Gerry turns to her. She’s a small Chinese woman with a bob cut and huge glasses; she smiles but Gerry can recognize a customer service smile when he sees one.

“Oh, actually, I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims, the, uh, Head Archivist. Saw him this morning, I promised I’d drop a few notes.”

“Notes?” She glances over at the papers at her desk. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Gerry Delano,” he tries to smile as she checks something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you anywhere as a potential source—”

“Oh, that’s weird. I worked with the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson? Jon had a couple questions about her management style, you know how it is,” he waves his hand. “New job can be stressful.”

She looks over his clothes and tattoos with a frown for a second and then sighs.

“Alright, Jon’s office is right downstairs, through the Archives, Mr. Delano.”

“Thank you very much,” he nods his head and runs down the stairs.

Gerry doesn’t know what he expected to find down in the Archives, to be honest. Probably Jon being interrogated by his assistants, or maybe no one at all; he definitely did not expect to find one tall man staring into swirling patterns of a table that gave him very mixed signals of the Web, and another man in his desk chair, staring into space with a very unnaturally grey stare and his form dissipating into mist.

“Oh, I swear to God,” Gerry curses under his nose and looks around. “Can’t I meet people normally once in a blue moon?”

He picks up a blanket that lays stranded on the ground and covers the table. He then snaps his fingers in front of the tall man’s face and waves his hand.

“Hey, you still there?” He asks and the man draws in a breath, rapidly, and blinks, then looks around in confusion.

“Wh-Wha…” His eyes land on Gerry and he frowns. “Who are you?”

“Someone who just saved your ass from something nasty,” Gerry says, turns to the other man and touches his shoulder. Still there.

“Oh, God, his eyes are grey again.” The tall man grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Martin? Martin!”

“How did he manage to go so deep into the Lonely with you there?” Gerry asks and moves to look inside the Head Archivist’s office. Empty.

“Into the what? Martin!” He shakes him again and Martin blinks and exhales but does not acknowledge him at all. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”

“Where’s Jon?” Gerry looks at the man sternly.

“Jo—who the hell are you?” The man exclaims. “We need to snap him out of it!”

“It’s not that easy.” Gerry rolls his eyes and looks through Martin’s desk. “What does he love?”

“What?” The man looks at him confused and Gerry stifles a groan of frustration.

“Martin. He needs an anchor, something that he loves that will bring him back here.”

The man’s eyes search the desk frantically.

“Come on!” Gerry rushes him and the man groans.

“Can he hear me?”

“Allegedly.”

“What does that mean?!” He looks at him pressingly.

“It means I don’t know!” Gerry grabs one of Martin’s hands. “He might, if he’s not too far gone.”

“Martin,” the man grabs Martin’s other hand. “Martin, think about tea. Poetry. Um, about—” He’s cut off by Gerry’s groan of frustration. “What?!”

“That won’t work,” he shakes his head. “He’s in the fogs of The Lonely; he thinks he’s alone and that it’s never gonna change; that he can’t ever make meaningful connections with other people.”

The man’s eyes move frantically as he puts something together in his brain.

“Martin,” he squeezes his hand again. “I’m here with you, you hear me? You’re not alone and Jon is here too, and Sasha will be here soon, and we will all be with you here because we are your friends, okay? We’re—” His voice catches when Martin’s grey gaze lands on his face. Gerry unknowingly nods for him to continue. “Look, I know you’re convinced that you’re no help here because of that fake resume that everyone pretends not to know about, but you’ve been such an amazing friend through these couple of months and—” he searches for words before continuing. “And I know you have feelings for Jon, and you need to think about him because if you ask me, he’s head over heels for you too, and you’re just too oblivious to realize, both of you,” he laughs and a tear streams down his face. “So you need to think about him because he needs you to be here and stay here, and we need you too, okay, Marto, we—we really do…” He inhales, as Martin squeezes his hand back and blinks. The man sighs deeply with relief and leans his forehead on their joined hands.

“Tim…?” Martin speaks up with a very gentle, detached voice and then his gaze lands on Gerry who has now let go of his hand and stands back up. “Who’s that?”

Tim looks up and wipes away another stray tear, then stands up to face him.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “That’s a good question.”

Gerry smirks and climbs up to sit at one of the desks.

“Seeing how I just might have saved your lives; I’d rather think some thanks are in order.”

“I’m not kidding, who the fuck are you?” Tim crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Gerry notices he stares at his tattoos like he’s trying to remember something.

“Eh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Name’s Gerry Delano, but you may know me as Gerard Keay.”

Recognition flashes in Tim’s eyes.

“We had a statement about you!” He says and immediately frowns. “You killed a man.”

Gerry chuckles.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks and Gerry crosses his legs.

“Waiting for Jon, actually. I thought I may find him here, but it appears I must have found his assistants, am I correct?”

“And you know Jon how?” Martin follows up; his voice gains a bit of depth to it, and he tilts his head, much more present than a second before.

“We met in an alley outside the Institute this morning,” Gerry shrugs. “Or, late night. Morning might be pushing it. He didn’t mention it?”

Tim sighs and rubs his face and Martin shakes his head.

“Eh, that’s fine. You two look like you have enough information to process for the next two months.”

“Something like that,” Tim nods and leans against Martin’s desk. “Jon’s getting some sleep and we’d rather have no one disturb him. It’s been a… hard morning.”

“He did look like he hasn’t slept in a week, I’ll give you that.” Gerry shoots a glance at Martin; his skin is regaining color, but his eyes are still unnaturally grey, and the edges of his form are blurry; the fog still lingers. “Hey, um… Martin?” He asks and Martin looks at him with surprise.

“Yeah…?”

“Just getting your names since you haven’t introduced yourselves. But that’s okay, I’m good at picking up from context.” He smiles and continues before Tim can speak. “So, Martin, what is it that you do here?”

“Uh… excuse me?” He blinks.

“I’m just interested, tell me what your usual day consists of. What do you do for fun? Your friend mentioned poetry?”

He notes the blush on Martin’s face with some satisfaction; the dark green colour returns to his eyes, though, still, his edges remain blurry. Martin can’t answer however; as he takes a breath, he’s interrupted by the door to the storage room opening.

Jon looks, frankly, even worse than he did before; in addition to everything aforementioned, his eyes are now puffed up from sleeping and he has apparently ditched his sweater vest, leaving only a creased, light blue shirt.

“…Gerry?” He frowns at him and takes in the room. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin shoots upright and the edges of his form become solid for a second. Just a second.

“No,” he shakes his head and blinks at Gerry. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry jumps down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

“Gerry, I’m serious.” Jon gives him a look and Gerry sighs, but it’s a sigh of mock exasperation which hides only fondness. From the moment he learned Jon is the Head Archivist, he knew he would be a lot different than Gertrude; even if at first it was “this kid is a proper mess” contrasted with Gertrude’s calculated craft. He can see that what actually makes him different, better, is that he cares. Even though Beholding has him in its grasp far stronger than it ever had Gertrude, he has that spark of human empathy that she deemed an obstacle. He wouldn’t be the kind to sacrifice his own assistants to stop the Apocalypse, which maybe doesn’t give them big chances of success, but makes Gerry trust him. It makes him feel safer and it makes him stand stronger, and maybe that is exactly what is needed. And that one detail, that seriousness in his voice when he asks what happened to his assistants – to his friends – and the worry in his eyes when he checks if they’re okay, that’s what fully convinces Gerry that this man is worth his effort. If they can’t save the world with a strength like that then maybe no one really can.

—

Martin opens the door to Jon’s office to see the man reading something in a book. He looks up at Martin and his lips twitch towards a smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon says and immediately yawns. “God, sorry.”

“I was about to ask you if you’re still working.” Martin takes a look at his desk; there’s two empty mugs pushed to the side, a tape recorder (not recording), and some books and papers. Martin notices Jon’s glasses are still where he left them after he found them near the cot in the storage room. “You’re wearing contacts now?” He asks and Jon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well, I- I noticed you didn’t wear glasses today,” Martin shrugs and points his chin at them. “You forgot them yesterday.”

Jon’s eyes stop at the pair of glasses, and he frowns.

“Huh.” He rubs his chin. “Checks out, I guess.”

“What?” Now Martin frowns and Jon looks up at him, breathing in.

“The, uh—The Eye powers,” he grimaces. “This happened before too. I don’t—I don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh.” Martin shifts. “Well, I just wanted to tell you, you should get some rest. It’s—It’s late.”

Jon smiles fondly, staring into the air. Martin wonders what he's thinking about. Is he going back to memories he doesn't have?

“I really should, shouldn't I?” Jon asks no one in particular and sighs. “Thank you, Martin.”

“F-For what?” Martin laughs a little bit confused, and Jon looks at him for a moment before he shrugs.

“For caring. For being there.”

Martin looks away and shifts awkwardly again. Jon's stare, though gentle, is piercing; overbearing. Martin can't yet decide if it's good or bad, but it is certainly a lot.

“I should—”

“Could you—”

They start at the same time and look at each other. Jon shakes his head and gestures with his hand.

“Please, go first.���

Martin takes a deep breath.

“Could you tell me what—what it is that you want me to remember?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it. His forehead ripples.

“I...” he begins and sighs, looking at his desk. “I don't think it was you. I mean—I think that... that it was a different version of you. In my past.” He looks up and his brown eyes are sad. “So it makes sense you can't remember because it never actually happened for you.”

Martin deflates with a little “oh” and looks down. The hole in his mind is settling nicely in the fog and he doesn't question it. Why would he? It was always there. He’s only lived this life, not anything else – if anybody would know it would be Jon. And obviously, it was a different Martin that Jon fell— That Jon cared for.

“Were we…” Martin stops, the word “together" left hanging in the air, and Jon looks at him for a second before something flashes in his eyes.

“We don't—I mean, I can't really— It's, it wasn't you so...”

‘I can’t really expect you to have the same feelings now’ is what Jon does not say, but Martin, of course, has no way of knowing that.

“Right,” Martin nods, and he can see Jon's cheeks blush, much the same as his own must right now. Martin swallows the awkwardness and nods again. “Alright, I'll, uh... I'll leave you to it. Then. Get—uh, get some rest.”

He closes the door and exhales deeply. Well, that was disastrous; he thinks, as he walks towards the document storage. There’s something heavy weighing down on his chest but he chooses not to dwell on it; it wouldn’t provide him with any insights he didn’t already know.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma oftm #jonmartin #niki.writes #new posting format because i have not heard of consistency in my life #we're back at it!! #also i promised myself that i would finish this #i Will Not abandon this #we are powering through #and we can Do this

[somerandomwriter1234]

Riley and Maya: Complicated Parenthood - Chapter 2 (A Person With Purpose)

Summary: In the ultimate twist of irony, former student rebel: Maya now finds herself as a teacher of sorts and has to plan her first field trip for her students. But will the field trip be a good one, and more importantly: what important life lesson will the students learn at the end of the trip?

Scene 1:

-In a classroom, Grace sat amongst many other students while they all did a writing assignment. As Grace attempted to write, she saw sitting just two seats away from her was a young boy named Connor sitting in a wheelchair whose head was tilted to the side and was very slowly using his right hand to move a pencil across the paper. Suddenly Connor dropped his pencil on the ground. Connor who could barely move his waist or shoulders, moved a hand up as he made a loud sound.

Connor: Paaaah! Paaah!

-A female teacher named Miss Amy walked over to Connor and picked up the pencil.

Miss Amy: Calm down Connor. I'll get your pencil.

Connor: Paaaah!

-An annoyed looking Grace glanced over at Connor and then Grace put one finger near her lips.

Grace: Shhh!

Miss Amy: Sorry. He's sorry. I'm sorry. Here's your pencil Connor.

-Connor made a smile as he was handed his pencil. Grace rolled her eyes away from Connor's direction as she went back to her writing assignment.

Scene 2:

-In the before/after care auditorium, many children were working on various activities and games as Maya and Farkle stood in a corner of the room talking to one another.

Maya: Farkle, I'm not an expert at setting up field trips.

Farkle: Well become one. Look. The other staff and I have other part time jobs we do during the day and we both already pull our weight around here quite a bit. Since this is your only job and I've kept your responsibilities rather minimal up until now, it only seems fair that you set up the next half day field trip we take the students on.

Maya: What about Smackle? Can't she set up this next field trip?

-Suddenly the two's thoughts were interrupted by Smackle's voice on the other side of the room being very loud. Farkle and Maya both turned their heads in Smackle's direction as she spoke.

Smackle: Gather around me now children! And I shall present to you all my conclusive evidence as to how the great Jedi Master: Yoda's ancestor was indeed Kermit the Frog!

-Farkle then turned his head to look right at a shocked looking Maya.

Maya: What the heck has happened to Smackle!?

Farkle: This job has… changed her. Trust me. It's better if we just let her do what she does. But look. If it'll make you feel any better: we'll all be present with you on the day of the field trip and will carry out the majority of things that need to be done. But I need you to choose the location we travel to, what we'll be doing there, and basically anything that needs to be done before the day of the trip. I know you won't let me down Maya.

-Farkle then walked away as Maya walked over to a table and sat down. Maya sighed and then turned her head to see Grace was right near her.

Maya: Oh. Hey there Grace.

Grace: Hey Miss Maya.

Maya: So… how's school been?

Grace: Okay. Although during writing time today, this one boy: Connor kept making a lot of noise because he kept dropping his pencil over and over.

Maya: How does dropping a pencil cause someone to make a lot of noise?

Grace: Because Connor can't move his body well and he doesn't really say any words. He has to sit in a wheelchair all day and have a teacher do most of his stuff for him.

Maya: Oh. I see.

Grace: Seriously. Why does he even come to our school anyway? He doesn't do any real reading, writing, math, or even talking. What good is he even gonna do for the world as he gets older? Having him around school is just a waste of time.

Maya: Grace, I… I… I think I just came up with an idea for our next field trip. If you excuse me, I have to go talk to Mr. Farkle about something important.

Scene 3:

-In a small theater like room, many children sat in chairs as they watched a group of teenagers and young adults finishing up a bit of singing. Some of the teenagers and young adults were sitting in wheelchairs, while others had hands and arms stuck in certain positions. When the singing ended, the children clapped. Some of the teenagers and young adults gave a bow and then left the stage they were on. Farkle then stood up and began to speak to all of the children.

Farkle: Thank you to all of my young friends that sat so well behaved through the show. Thank you to my actor friends who put on a great play. And of course thank you to Miss Maya for suggesting we bring everyone from after care to see what I do at my other job. I never would've thought to bring you all here to see the kind of work I do with individuals with disabilities until she suggested it. Plus, she put in a lot of work to arrange for our transportation on such short notice. So let's also give a quick clap for Miss Maya.

-Many of the children clapped as Maya sat behind all of the students and gave a quick wave. Once the clapping ended, Farkle spoke again.

Farkle: And of course the play couldn't have been done without the help from my amazing assistant director and friend: Leena Robins. Come on out Leena!

-From nearby, an adult female whose mouth was stuck in a partial smile came out and stood near Farkle.

Leena: Hiiiiiiiiiii everyone!

Farkle: Leena, thanks for taking care of all of the work backstage. I always appreciate it. I'll see you later tonight. Okay?

Leena: Okay. Biiiiiiiiiiiye.

-Leena walked away as Farkle looked at the children again.

Farkle: As you all know, everyone you saw performing and working on the stage crew today has some form of disability. From the kinds that are physical to ones in the mind. But from what I've learned as I've gotten to know Leena and everyone else here over the years is that God makes everyone with a purpose. We all were put on this Earth for a reason. And I've found that you start to really see the beauty in all people when you try to discover what reasons those around you are on this Earth for. And trust me when I say: even though there are many things the individuals that come here can't do, the few things they can do will really amaze you. Speaking of which, we even teach individuals here how to cook. And wait'll you all see the special meal they've prepared for you all in the dining room. Which is where we'll be headed next.

Scene 4:

-In a large dining room, many children sat at tables eating food. At one table sitting together were Maya, Farkle, and Grace.

Farkle: Mmm. Alvin must have prepared these biscuits. They are amazing! I'm gonna go get some seconds.

-Farkle then got up leaving Maya and Grace alone. As they sat together, Grace looked at Maya and spoke.

Grace: Miss Maya…

Maya: Yeah?

Grace: Why do so many people have to have disabilities?

Maya: Well… I don't know. But… if you really think about it… we all have disabilities in a way. Or maybe another word is disadvantages. We all have things we wish we had in our lives. Things that we know having around would make everything better. But sometimes… we just don't get to have or get to keep what we wanted.

Farkle: Well said.

-Maya and Grace turned their heads as they saw Farkle sit back down next to them.

Farkle: I never thought about it like that but Maya makes a good point Grace. Almost anyone could make the argument that they're deprived of something important. But even if you don't have that thing you wish you had or that ability you wish you had; that doesn't make you any less of a person. And that doesn't mean there isn't some kind of way you can contribute back to society.

Grace: Hmm.

-From nearby Leena walked over to the three and sat down with them.

Leena: Hiiiiii.

Farkle: And here she is. The girl that can never stop smiling. Grace, would you like to ask anything or say anything to Leena.

Grace: Uh…. hi Leena. Um… you do a good job following your teacher Mr. Farkle's directions.

Farkle: Oh, I'm not her teacher Grace. Like I said in the auditorium, Leena is an assistant. Not just in stage plays, but in everything that happens here. Leena's full time job is working in this building.

Grace: What? Really?

Leena: I work at desk. I clean up. I smiiiiiiiile at people. They feel better.

Farkle: Leena doesn't do phone calls or lead meetings. But she's actually an expert at keeping our paperwork and computer records organized. Plus she does great work cleaning up at night, and being a greeter when people come in during the day. When we use this building for our weekly blood drive, she's actually always the first person people see when they come in.

Grace: Wow. That's… interesting.

Leena: I hiiiiide cookies. You want one?

Grace: Uh, sure. Can I really?

Farkle: Yeah. They're the ones we give out at the blood drive. Go ahead. They're right near that table over there. But you only get one bag.

-Grace and Leena then got up and walked away together. Farkle made a small smile and then looked at Maya.

Farkle: I know that wasn't easy Maya.

Maya: Huh?

Farkle: When you said to Grace: we all have things we wish we had in our lives. Things that we know having around would make everything better.

Maya: Well… it's true.

Farkle: Yeah. So… listen… I know it still hurts inside considering everything that…

Maya: Yeah. It does.

Farkle: But… I'm glad that despite whatever you're feeling… that you've made time for these kids every day. I appreciate it. You've really made their lives a little better with each passing day.

-Maya then turned her head as she watched Grace and Leena getting a bag of cookies from the other side of the room.

Maya: Yeah… maybe.

Scene 5:

-In a school cafeteria, Grace walked into the room with a lunch tray looking for a place to sit. She saw most tables were taken. However there was a great deal of space at a table where Connor was at. Connor was sitting in his wheelchair holding a large pencil as the teacher: Miss Amy was sitting next to him. Grace then walked over to Connor and sat near him.

Grace: Hi. You mind if I sit here?

Miss Amy: Go ahead. Connor already finished eating earlier though. So he's just gonna draw near you if that's okay. Is it okay if she sits here Connor?

Connor: Aaaooooooo.

-Grace moved her head a bit to look at the paper in front of Connor. Suddenly Grace realized the picture was of a landscape with many brightly colored green trees and animals around them. Grace's face became very surprised.

Grace: Did Connor draw this?

Miss Amy: Yes he did. Most people are surprised when they see his work. But they forget: just because someone can't talk or get up, doesn't mean they can't do some amazing things with their hands.

Grace: I think I recognize this style. Are some of those pictures I saw hanging in the library his too?

Miss Amy: Yes they are. Connor is quite the busy artist. If he had never come to this school, people would've missed out on the opportunity to be touched and inspired by his amazing work.

Grace: Yeah. I guess so… Um… hey Connor. I draw too. You wanna see some of my work?

Connor: Aha! Aha!

Miss Amy: That usually means yes.

Grace: Okay. Well… let me you show you what I have.

-Grace then got out of her backpack several drawings. She then began to hold them out for Connor to see as the lunch period continued.

END OF CHAPTER 2

Upcoming Chapters For the Series:

-Chapter 3: Amazing Talents (Coming 4/27)

-Chapter 4: The Field Trip (Coming 4/30)

-Chapter 5: Shining Your Way (Coming 5/3)

*Note - To read the entire series in one convenient location, click here - https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13266909/

#girl meets world #girl meets world fanfiction #gmw fanfic #riley and maya #riley x maya #rilaya #rilaya married

[padfootagain]

Pens And Spoons  (I)

Part 1 : A New Story To Write

This is the first part for a new series that I'm writing in collaboration with @ghost-with-spaghetti-arms for Poe!

Get prepared for an AU where Poe is... a cook! That was the idea of my wonderful co-writer, and I'm so happy she trusted me to write this down with her!

So, I'm the one to start by writing the first chapter, here we go!

We hope you all like it :)

The aesthetic for this series was made by the wonderful Kira aka @that-bwitch! Thank you again!

Word Count :3524

It was a rather normal day in the rather normal life of Agatha Esquivel. Nothing new, everything old, just habits forcing her through a monotone day.

Get up, grab a cup of coffee and a piece of bread, get dressed, head to work, take the bus, cross the street, get into the tall building that was the siege of the journal she worked for, grab a newspaper as she walked through the hall, hurry to the elevator before the automatic doors would close, wait until it reached the sixth floor, walk down the corridor and turn on her right to her tiny office that she shared with her best friend and photographer.

But her day didn't follow such a normal rhythm after that part. Before her friend could arrive, Paige, the editor's secretary opened the door wide, her red glasses falling down her long nose and her lips pressed together and reduced to a mere thin line.

"Mrs. Lance wants to see you right away," she said with her usual frozen tone.

To this statement - that could even be called an order, actually - Agatha frowned. It was Monday morning, she had tons of things to do to make her weekly article that appeared in the magazine she worked for. She had not even decided what kind of recipe she would choose for this week...

"Now," Paige repeated, and Agatha nodded.

"I'm coming," she said, heaving a sigh as she stood up once more.

She followed Paige across the building, biting down on her lip at the annoying sound of the woman's high heels loudly hitting the wooden floor.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...

That sound was driving her crazy.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...

She was relieved to finally reach Mrs. Lance's office, although a familiar feeling of anxiety suddenly invaded her whole being.

Her boss was no exactly gentle with her journalists. She was far from impartial, and not always just. And Agatha had seen her angry enough times before to know that it was better to avoid her wrath.

She took a deep breath, her brown eyes fixed on the door, before raising her hand to knock on the wooden surface.

"Come in."

The words were short and dry.

Bad sign...

Agatha gathered her courage in another long intake of breath, before finally opening the door and walking inside the room.

Lance was there, sitting behind her large desk made of glass, her back to the impressive view of Manhattan that could be seen through the large windows that covered the whole wall. Her green eyes looked up at her employee, a toothy grin on her face.

"Ha, Agatha. I was waiting for you, come and sit down."

The journalist walked through the room to sit down as instructed, studying the expression on her boss's face. There was no anger...

"I reckon that you have been wanting to write a major article for our magazine for a while now, haven't you?" Lance asked, crossing her hands upon her laps.

"Of course, Mrs. Lance. I would love to," Agatha answered cautiously.

"What about an article for our 'Restaurant of the month' section?"

Agatha's eyes grew very wide. That was the major article. The longest article and the most read of the entire magazine. Every month, a journalist was sent to a restaurant to study their menus, their organization, their history, everything. The whole tale was then published in this particular column. Why was it so popular amongst their readers compared to all the other recommendations that could be found on the internet? Because the strategy of the article was to put into words not only the quality of a meal, but the soul of an establishment. A good article in this column could turn a little restaurant into the place everyone in town wanted to go to. A bad article, on the other hand, could condemn a restaurant to failure.

"Sally was supposed to take care of a restaurant downtown for us, but as you know, her pregnancy will soon end, and she will give birth before this month ends. Which means that she won't be able to finish the article. So I thought that I could give younger journalists an opportunity to prove their talent..."

A smile formed on Agatha's face, and she struggled to stop it from turning into a grin.

"Mrs. Lance, if you give me this opportunity, I give you my word, you will not be disappointed."

"Oh, I know. I hope so, at least. I tend not to keep around me people that disappoint me, you see?"

Agatha struggled to swallow. She could either win or lose everything, no in-betweens... but it was worth it.

"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Lance."

"But you're ready to do it?"

"Yes, I am."

A smile crossed the elder woman's features, but it had something devilish that Agatha didn't like at all.

"Perfect then! You're going to write an article about the Millenium Falcon. It's a rather good restaurant downtown, and the owner has finally granted us the access to their kitchens. You're to meet her and her chef this afternoon, at 3 pm."

Agatha merely nodded.

"Don't disappoint me," Lance added, before nodding towards the door. "You should bring your friend the photographer with you, this girl has talent. And close the door behind you, would you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lance."

Agatha stood up again, heading towards the door once more, but she froze as Lance's voice echoed through the room before she could reach for the doorknob.

"You have precisely one month to write your article. I'll be waiting for it on my desk on the sixth of June."

"Understood," Agatha nodded.

She finally exited the room, not waiting for her boss to get a chance to talk again. She was so scared that Lance could change her mind at the last second, and this opportunity was too great to be wasted away.

She strode through the building , hurrying back to her office, and it's only when she closed the door behind her, resting her back against the wooden surface, in that safe space, that she released the breath she didn't even know she was holding.

"Hey! You're late today! Sleepy? Hangover? I'll be disappointed to learn that you've been drinking your worries away without me."

Agatha finally turned towards her best friend.

"Lance wanted to see me," she told Rose.

"Really? Are we fired?"

You smiled at her, shaking your head reassuringly. After all, Rose worked mostly with you as a professional photographer. If you lost your job, she would probably lose hers too.

"No, actually, it was to announce a good news!"

But Rose snorted.

"Lance never announces good news," she replied, sipping her Starbuck coffee.

You sat down on the edge of her desk, a bright grin on your face.

"Well, Miss Tico. Get ready. We have lots of work to do. We're writing the 'Restaurant of the month' section. And we can't mess it up. This is our chance..."

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

 "We are doing what?!"

He knew he shouldn't raise his voice. After all, it was his boss who was standing before him. But he couldn't find a way to care about that fact. All this was too overwhelming and too much... crazy.

"A journalist from the magazine 'New Yorker's Spoons' is coming here this afternoon," Leia Organa repeated. "And you're going to show her all your recipes and she's going to watch us work for a few weeks."

"I thought you didn't care about those things," the chef replied, his voice still angry, a large frown crossing his brow. "I thought you said it was just cheap publicity!"

"Poe, calm down now."

The chef bit his tongue, his jaw and fists clenched.

"We need this publicity," Leia told him earnestly. "We need it. And I am counting on you to make sure that everything is going smoothly."

Poe's frown only increased.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice worried now more than angry. "Is there a problem with the restaurant?"

Leia heaved a sigh.

"You know that there is... rivalry with this other restaurant across the street," Leia said. "The Kylo Ren's works well. And if we are not cautious..."

"They could steal our customers," Poe finished for her.

"I wouldn't have put it so harshly but... basically, yes. We now have two good restaurants in the street, we need to bring more people to our restaurant than before. Which means that we need publicity."

Poe heaved a frustrated sigh.

"I'm not good at those kind of things. And I don't agree with this whole idea. We're better than the Kylo Ren's, we don't need this circus around!"

"I have taken my decision, and it will remain unchanged."

"It's stupid. And what if the journalist they send don't like us, for some reason. What if he doesn't like our food..."

"She."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's 'she', Poe," Leia repeated. "They're sending a young journalist, Agatha Esquivel."

"Doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman, it's still a bad idea. I've read some of their articles, and frankly, I wonder if the journalists who wrote them know anything about cooking."

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does matter! You're putting our fate in the hands of a perfect stranger, who maybe doesn't even know anything about cooking! If she writes something bad about this restaurant, no one will want to come anymore!"

"But as you said, Poe, we are good at what we do. We are making good meals, and we have nothing to hide. There is no reason for this month to happen in a bad way, as long as you do everything that you can to let her see that we are a restaurant in which we put our hearts in all the plates that leave our kitchen."

"Anyway, I guess it's an order, right?" Poe sighed.

"It is. So get to work, Poe. She'll be here at 3 pm this afternoon. She will want to read our menu and will ask questions about our dishes."

"I'm the one who cooks them, I can answer any question she may have about that."

"I'll have to leave quite soon after she arrives, but I trust you to make her visit the whole restaurant, the kitchens... everything she asks to see, you show her."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Don't give me that look," the elder woman warned Poe, waving her finger at him. "That annoyed expression you often have when you're about to disobey me when I give you an order. Don't forget something, Poe, you're still my employee."

"I know that, Ma'am."

"Good."

"Are you really going to threaten me that you're going to try to find another chef if I don't behave properly?"

"No. But you might have to find another person to work for if this whole thing goes wrong. You know that, right?"

Poe clenched his jaw again, but not out of anger this time. He nodded his head, letting Leia walk away from the kitchen.

He heaved a sigh, leaning against the closest sink. This whole thing was a bad idea, he could feel it deep inside of him. His instinct was shouting at him not to do this, that this was going to backfire and play a nasty trick against them. But Leia had been clear, and he didn't have a choice in the end.

He heaved another sigh.

"You learned the news then, right?"

He turned towards his fellow cook.

"You knew?" he asked the two cooks standing next to him.

"Of course. We were waiting for Leia to tell you in person though," Jessika Pava nodded.

"And I guess we were right to do so," Temmin Wexley smiled. "You look pissed."

"Snap, that's not the moment," Poe groaned, running a hand through his dark curls in frustration.

"What is it not the moment for?" Karé blurted out, walking into the kitchen, closely followed by the other waiter and also barman, L'Ulo.

"For joking," Poe answered.

"Wow, you? Not joking?" Karé teased.

But Poe crossed his arms before his chest, and his worried expression brought all around him to remain quiet.

"You think it's a bad idea, right?" Jess asked him.

"Yeah... I've got a bad feeling about this."

"You don't even know her yet, perhaps she's really cool!"

"Yeah... well... we'll see about that."

He heaved one more sigh and tightened the knot around his stomach that held his apron around his waist, before picking up a knife, and walking towards the fridge.

"Come on, we have to get prepared for tonight, no matter if the journalist comes this afternoon or not. We still have to get this restaurant going."

"Yes, chef!" Jessika cried dramatically.

And for the first time that day, she managed to bring a smile to his face.

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

 Saying that Agatha was nervous was an understatement. Usually, she built her articles in her own kitchen, choosing a recipe and performing it, giving tips for her readers to conquer it without any struggle. And Rose was always by her side to steal a few ingredients and eat them while making her laugh.

But this time, Rose was not there, and she had to meet up with the owner and the chef of a respected restaurant.

She walked up the street of Manhattan, determine and yet on the verge of crying, and she took a deep breath to calm her rushing heart.

She walked before a large bakery, a bookshop, and... a restaurant. She frowned at the sight of the dark façade, reading the letters gracefully painted in red : Kylo Ren's.

She wondered what kind of food she would find in this establishment, that was undoubtedly quite new, judging by its style : modern, quite cold.

She turned towards the busy street again and she merely had to cross the street and walk up the lane for a few more meters to reach her destination. The contrast between the two restaurants was obvious, just by looking at the front of the building. Instead of the cold black and red, the front was made of large windows and wooden walls. The name was written in a warm and yet elegant font right above the door made of wood : The Millenium Falcon.

Agatha took one more deep breath, before pushing the door open, not surprised when the sound of a little bell ringing caught her ears.

She took in her surroundings while the door behind her closed. And the restaurant gave this same feeling than the façade : warm, welcoming, safe... it felt like you were home. Wooden tables and elegant chairs were placed all around the large room, broad windows shedding light everywhere and white walls increasing this impression of luminosity. On the walls, pictures in black and white were hanged, showing people laughing, old sights of the district... It was the kind of place that brought a smile to the face of whoever might walk in. And Agatha was no exception, forgetting about her nervous mind for a moment.

Until she was met by a smiling woman with grey hair. And although she was welcoming, Agatha could feel something oozing from her entire frame, some respect that she inspired to all around her, no matter if they knew her or not. And once again, Agatha was no exception, and she immediately felt quite intimidated by the elder woman standing before her.

"Hi, you must be Miss Esquivel, I presume. I'm Leia Organa," she introduced herself, offering the journalist her open palm.

"I am indeed," Agatha nodded. "It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Organa."

"Oh, Leia will do just fine."

"And Agatha will do just fine too."

The two women exchanged a smile, and Leia invited her guest to sit down at a table, asking Karé to call for Poe.

"How did you find your chef?" she asked Leia.

"Oh, well... a coincidence actually. He was working for another restaurant, but just as a cook, not as the head of the kitchen. But he cooked my meal, and I found it so good, that I asked to see who had prepared this delicious dish. And that's how I found him. I offered him the job right away. And one thing is for sure, I do not regret that decision."

"How would you describe him?" Agatha asked, picking up some pens and paper.

"Already interviewing, I see!" Leia laughed, but answered the question anyway. "He's stubborn. And reckless. And he doesn't always listen to what people tell him and advise him to do. But he's a brilliant chef, and he has a kind heart. He's a good man."

Agatha smiled, nodding and writing the words down on her little notebook. When she looked up again, a man was standing next to Leia.

For a moment, Agatha studied his features. He was handsome, to say the less, with intense brown eyes that seemed almost black under the light of the restaurant, messy dark curls that seemed to call for Agatha's fingers, a tanned skin and his lips seemed to be permanently curving into a soft smile.

"Agatha, this is our chef, Poe Dameron. Poe, this is Agatha Esquivel, the journalist I was talking about this morning."

"Nice to meet you," he offered Agatha his hand, although she could see that his smile was forced.

She was not sure that he was very happy to be there.

"It's nice to meet you too," she answered, her smile earnest.

"Sit down with us for a minute," Leia told Poe, who complied without a word. "We need to discuss how this is going to happen. What had you in mind, Agatha?"

"Well... I have an entire month to write my article, so I thought about watching you work and... well... Ask you and the people who work here a few questions. And I would have to taste your dishes as well."

"You're not going to give away our recipes, right?" Poe asked warily.

"No, of course not," Agatha laughed. "But I'm supposed to write in my article if your food is good or not, so..."

"We have four full weeks so I guess that you Poe could prepare all our dishes for you when he has a moment," Leia nodded.

"That would be great."

But Poe didn't seem convinced. Actually, Agatha could tell that he would have rather avoided the encounter. He probably didn't agree with the whole thing.

The chef was studying her cautiously, his intense stare travelling across her graceful features : her brown eyes filled with softness, her long dark hair, her lips curved into a shy smile. He pushed away the first thought that had crossed his mind when he had seen her. Under other circumstances, he would have bought her a drink. But now, he considered her like some kind of spy. He couldn't trust her. He didn't know clearly the motives behind her coming here, about Leia's approval to this whole show. He trusted Leia enough to know that she had a plan, but he was not the kind of man who enjoyed being kept in the dark. And for now, all the pieces were not fitting clearly before him, and he hated this feeling of losing control over what could happen to this place that he loved more than reason should offer.

"You should show her the kitchens," Leia told Poe.

He nodded, standing up and inviting Agatha to follow him...

... but she froze at the sound of high-pitched barks echoing through the room. And a second later, a little puppy was running towards Poe.

"Aw... he's so cute!" Agatha exclaimed.

The baby Australian Shepherd set his front paws upon Poe's leg, looking up at him while waving his little tail.

"Beebee..." Poe sighed, before bending down and picking him up.

"It is yours?" Agatha asked him.

"Yeah... but he's too little to stay home all day long," Poe explained while he guided her towards the kitchen. "He's obviously not allowed in the kitchen though, if it can reassure you."

"He's cute," she smiled.

"And leaving orange hair everywhere he passes," Poe sighed, petting the pup.

"Yeah... better not find some in your dishes..."

"That's why he's not allowed in the kitchen," Poe repeated.

"Where do you leave him during the service then?"

"Home, with a friend. Sometimes in Leia's office when she's around."

"Why did you call him Beebee?"

"Long story," he answered elusively.

She nodded, unwilling to push him too far for now. After all, an interview would happen sooner or later. She would have her answers then.

"I'll just take care of him for a sec," Poe said, opening the door of the kitchens for her. "You can take a look around."

"Thank you."

Poe left her alone to take care of the puppy, and Agatha immediately took a deep breath. For now, she was doing fine... just fine...

As she walked through the kitchen, watching the perfectly clean space, studying the pans and other utensils, she couldn't help but wonder how Poe would react when she would ask to watch him work tonight...

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

Tag List : @that-bwitch, @wearetalkingtoyou, @mxrihollxnd

#poe dameron #poe #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron x oc #oc #star wars #star wars imagine #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #writing #fanfic #imagine

[ittybittypbandj]

The Internship - Chapter 2

A multi-chapter Bittyparse fic with fluff and angst! Woot! 5 chapters, weekly updates. Also on ao3. <3

Summary:

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

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

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

“Lordy, Bun, he winked. Winked! What on earth was I thinking, stayin’ late like I could just make myself at home?”

Señor Bun listened patiently, all floppy ears and non-judgmental beaded eyes. Bitty turned away from the desk, where he’d just finished organizing video clips on his laptop for work the next day, and pulled back the covers to climb into bed. He settled Señor Bun into the crook of his arm and tugged the quilt up around his chin.

“You’re the best listener, Bun.” Bitty nuzzled the worn rabbit and closed his eyes. He hadn’t talked to Señor Bun when he lived with Jack – it seemed too juvenile for his serious-NHL-star boyfriend’s bedroom – but he always felt better after spilling his feelings to his rabbit, and today’s events definitely needed Señor Bun’s comforting touch.

The thing was, Bitty had liked Kent’s wink. Really, really liked it. He’d enjoyed the whole day, in fact. Kent was surprisingly warm and welcoming. He’d been a great host, offering them drinks, chatting with the crew, picking up lunch from the Cantonese restaurant on 10th Ave.

He was also easy to look at, and Bitty wasn’t blind – built like a daydream with his blonde waves and solid muscles. He was only a few inches taller than Bitty, but Bitty would bet he had thirty pounds on him, all pecs and abs and quads, mercy.

But he shouldn’t be thinking about all that. It was too soon after his and Jack’s breakup to be thinking about someone else, and Kent Parson of all people. What on god’s green earth was he doing?

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in the dark. Sometime last month, he’d stopped counting the number of days since the breakup. One day it just didn’t make sense anymore. It was like he’d looked down at himself and found a millstone in his hands he never realized he’d been carrying, and once he realized its weight, he could finally drop it.

He still had sad days, and little things sometimes knocked him off-balance like a gust of wind. Jack had been his first boyfriend, first real love. Bitty missed a lot of things about their old life. He’d hear a person speaking Quebecois on the subway, or see ducks in a neighborhood park, or smell maple syrup as he walked past a café, and memories would wash over him.

Bitty hugged Señor Bun tighter and sighed, feeling guilty for the little part of him that desired Kent Parson and his muscles. It was disloyal. Kent was the Bad Guy. Wasn’t he?

“We’ll get through this, Bun, just you wait and see. We’ll be courteous and professional. It’s a business relationship, that’s all.”

As reassurances went, it felt a little hollow, but Señor Bun didn’t comment and Bitty let the conversation drop. He closed his eyes, burrowed a little lower under the covers, and focused on his breath until he drifted off to sleep.

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

Kent: [image07194421.jpg]

Jack: Is Kit wearing a Rangers jersey?

Kent: dude

Kent: read better

Kent: it says Purrson 90 on the back

Jack: Hah, you got her a personalized cat jersey. You’re ridiculous.

Kent: you’re just jelly cuz she could own ur ass at hockey

Kent: her FO% is .52

Jack: I repeat, you’re ridiculous. How’s your day?

Kent: her slapshot tops 90mph

Jack: Did you run today?

Kent: yeah but it was muggy as balls

Kent: u?

Jack: 6 miles, 39:50, light hills

Kent: slacker

Jack: What was your time?

Kent: a gentleman wouldn’t ask

Jack: C’mon, Kenny…

Jack: Please?

Kent: haha

Kent: oh man I forgot I ordered delivery. gotta go, food’s here [sushi emoji] [grinning cat emoji]

Jack: OK weirdo.

Kent dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ugh, why did all of his texting turn into piles of steaming shit?

He was texting Jack to build their friendship. Back when Kent was seeing his therapist regularly, they’d talked about what Kent would do if Jack started communicating with him again. They’d written down a list of strategies that Kent could use to help rebuild their friendship as adults, without the tangle of hormones, stress, and unresolved mental health issues that led to their first fiery downfall.

This – texting Jack pictures of Kit – was part of Kent’s Being-Friends-With-Zimms List. So far Jack had initiated most of their text conversations, sending Kent his workout stats and asking him for Netflix recommendations. Kent figured it was his turn, and Kit looked hella cute in her Purrson jersey. He wasn’t about to offer Jack his morning run time; he was always faster than Zimms and it wasn’t polite to brag.

He wanted to eventually get around to asking about Eric, since he was pretty sure adults asked each other if it was OK to be friends with their exes. But, like, one step at a time.

And then Jack had called him Kenny in his text. It was the first time since that party at Samwell years ago. Kent called Jack ‘Zimms’ all the time, and Jack called him ‘Parse’. Those were hockey nicknames, Parse-and-Zimms, Zimms-and-Parse.

Kent’s stomach felt twisted in knots. ‘Kenny’ wasn’t a hockey nickname. It was intimate, and a decade ago it would have been followed by desperate, whispered Quebecois. Kent had convinced himself ages ago that Jack didn’t think of him as ‘Kenny’ anymore.

So, Kent totally freaked and aborted the conversation with made-up sushi. Fuck his life.

He sighed and flipped his phone over. This friendship plan was therapist-approved, damn it. He wouldn’t waste his best chance at being friends with Jack on one stupid texting freakout.

Kent: sorry Zimms, the delivery guy was downstairs

Jack: It’s no problem.

Kent: so, tell me about ur run. get passed by any little old ladies?

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

Bitty and Kent emailed frequently in the two weeks leading up to launch. There were a surprising number of details to iron out. They exchanged photos. Bitty sent a list of proposed posts for Kit’s Instagram and Twitter. Kent replied with changes (Kit always wrote in first person, #NYClife was better curated than #NYC, etc.). Bitty appreciated Kent’s thoughtfulness.

He didn’t appreciate sorting through a deluge of emails from Kent, though, and he wished they could do some things over text. Kent had a habit of sending an email half-written, then replying four or five times with additions and random thoughts. Was it weird to give a professional contact his personal number? It wasn’t, right? He had Meesha’s number. But with all the weird history between him and Kent, what if it was a bad idea?

The night before launch, after sifting through another forty emails from Kent, Bitty finally bit the bullet and emailed Kent his cell number.

Tomorrow’s the big day!!!, he wrote. The advertising placements go live at 3am, social media at 9am. We’ll monitor the comments and retweets from the office. You and Kit are going to do great.

Here’s my cell if you need anything. Shoot me a text if you want help replying to Kit’s comments, or if you need me to use the admin functions to block a troll (not that Kit will have any trolls, she’s the sweetest li’l thing and the internet loves her).

Talk to you tomorrow!

Eric

An hour later, Bitty’s phone dinged with an incoming message.

[Unknown Sender]: hey this is Kent

[Unknown Sender]: texting so you have my number for tomorrow

Bitty: Hi Kent! How y’all doing tonight?

Kent: good, watching minority report and drinking wine. Kit’s practicing her autograph

Bitty: She’s such a sweetie [grinning emoji]

Kent: u?

Bitty: I’m waiting for a batch of mini-pies to finish baking, then I’m off to bed. You & Kit should get some sleep too, big day tomorrow

Kent: pie??? [pie emoji] [heart-eyes cat emoji]

Bitty: I’m a bit of a baker. It helps when I’m nervous [blushing emoji]

Bitty: Someday I’ll bring you some, how’s that sound? My blueberry cream cheese pie was first runner-up at the Georgia state fair

Kent: you are my hero

Bitty: Lol talk to you tomorrow Kent

Kent: night Eric

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

“Can I get something started for you, sir?”

Kent stepped forward and smiled at the barista. He ordered a latte and a morning bun. She rang him up and efficiently prepared his order, handing him a to-go mug and a pastry the size of Kit’s head. He squeezed into a booth with rustic benches and a bud vase of daisies, and waited for Eric.

This was Kent and Eric’s first Post-Launch Monthly Touchbase, or whatever businessy name Eric had called it in his email.

The day was gorgeous – cool and dry, which was unheard of in New York in August – and Kent didn’t want to waste it by meeting in an office. He’d asked if they could meet somewhere else, and Eric had recommended this sunny café near Washington Square Park. It was eclectic and cute, and Kent was going to chirp Eric to hell and back over the hipster croissant/bagel hybrid – cragels? bagants? – the café was supposedly famous for.

After ten minutes, Kent spotted Eric through the window approaching the café, tugging earbuds out of his ears and looping them around his thin fingers. He wore a pale yellow sweater over a light blue button-down and navy khakis that hugged his thighs, and Kent silently, sternly reminded his dick that this was a business meeting.

Eric ordered and made his way to the table. He set down a small pastry between them and looked at Kent with his warm, inviting brown eyes.

“Have you tried the cragels? They’re just lovely. I got us one to share, they always sell out.”

Kent groaned.

The business part of the meeting was efficient and smooth, like all of his and Eric’s interactions so far. In the two weeks since launch, they’d texted regularly and kept up with the marketing plan, so really all they needed to do was confirm the advertising placements for September.

Kent enjoyed working with Eric. He was capable and self-assured. Although Kent was starting to discover he was something of procrastinator, if the number of emails Eric sent after midnight was any indication.

Bitty tapped lightly on his phone screen. “Let’s see now, you’re in training camp starting September third…any dates we need to work around before then?”

Kent tore off a strip of morning bun. “Well, we’re already back to training every day, with morning workouts and ice time most afternoons. I don’t think there’s any conflicts though,” he took a large bite and paused as he chewed, “I’ll text you if something comes up.”

Bitty looked up and his lips quirked into a smile. “Lord, I forgot y’all’d be in daily practices already. I can’t believe how quickly I’ve forgotten the hockey schedule. This meeting wasn’t at a bad time, was it?”

Was Eric making a reference to Jack’s schedule or his own college days? Kent wasn’t sure, so he politely ignored it.

“Nah, you’re golden. I started early and did upper body work before coming here.”

“Bulking up for the season?”

“You hadn’t noticed?” Kent asked, fake-sweetly. He flexed comically and Eric laughed.

“Well you keep workin’ on that morning bun, hon. I’m sure that helps.”

Kent gawped. Eric was chirping him. He grinned. It was on.

They joked and talked as customers filed in and out around them. Kent’s cheeks hurt from smiling. Eric’s short hair had gone a little fluffy where he kept unconsciously running his fingers through it. Kent had an irrational desire to grab Eric’s wrist and gently kiss each of his fingertips. He squashed the impulse and rearranged their empty plates in the center of the table.

Somehow the conversation turned to Vegas. It was less weird than Kent expected, although he knew they were both dancing around some of the particulars.

“Why did you move to New York? The Aces wouldn’t have traded you, right? Not right after the Stanley Cup win. I expected them to give you the C or something.”

Kent nodded. “They wanted to. They were ready to re-up my contract, add a no-move clause, the whole nine yards. I just, I never really settled in Vegas, I guess. I’d made a few friends, some guys on the team I’m still close with, but it was hard being all the way across the country. When the Rangers put out feelers – Smith was retiring as Captain, they were looking for something long-term…” He shrugged. “I was interested.”

Eric made a supportive noise. “I reckon it’s nice being closer to family. I know I’d love to have my mama closer than a plane ride away.”

Kent shrugged again. “I’m not really close with my mom and stepdad. It’s cool to be near my sister, though.” He couldn’t hide a grin as he bragged a little. “She’s a senior at NYU, majoring in Biomolecular Science. A total whiz kid. I have no idea where she gets it.”

Eric smiled at him and something warm fluttered in Kent’s belly.

“What about you? How are you liking New York?”

Eric tensed subtly, a tightness in his shoulders and jaw, before he relaxed and leaned forward.

“It’s great. I mean, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, y’know? I always wanted to see the world outside Georgia, and this is my chance.” His smile faltered and he picked at the napkin in front of him. He appeared to be thinking.

“I never really thought New York was where I’d end up, but it’s been a good change. When–”

Eric stopped. Kent held his breath as Eric exhaled and squared his shoulders.

“When Jack and I broke up, I was worried I wasn’t gonna find anything up north and I’d have to move home with my parents. I felt like such a failure. When Shitty – he’s a friend of mine from college – when Shitty helped me land this internship, I was nervous as all get out. New York City, lord. But if this was my chance to stay and make something of myself, I wasn’t going to waste it.”

Kent nodded and watched Eric’s face. This was the most personal conversation he and Eric had ever had – shit, it was the first time either of them had mentioned Jack – and he watched Eric’s eyes for any sign of regret.

Eric glanced up and caught Kent’s eyes, then returned his gaze to his napkin and huffed a little laugh.

“Listen to me, ramblin’ on. You’ve probably got all sorts of important things to do today and here I am, monopolizing your time with my life story.”

Kent wanted so badly to reach out and press his fingers against Eric’s face, smooth the frown from his cheekbones. He squeezed his fingernails into his palms under the table.

“I like your life story,” he offered.

Eric looked up, questioning.

Kent smiled in a way he was sure looked dopey, but whatever. “I mean, I like talking to you. Although your choice in cafes is abhorrent. I’m totally choosing the next location. Us New Yorkers gotta educate you newbies.”

His chirp had exactly the desired effect. Eric’s eyes lit up and he straightened in mock indignation.

“Abhorrent? Mister Parson, this café is adorable. Where would you have us meet, a hot dog cart?”

“Somewhere that respects the sanctity of the bagel, for starters.”

Eric laughed, full and rich. He shook his head as he began to bus their dishes. “Well, you just let me know what New York institution you think I need to try first, and we can meet there for next month’s meeting.”

Kent smiled and grabbed their things. He wants to do this again, his sentimental brain thought stupidly.

When they got outside, Eric turned to walk toward the subway at the same time as Kent started walking the other way. They both stopped and turned quickly to face each other, and Eric nearly collided with Kent’s chest. Kent grabbed Eric’s upper arm instinctively, steadying him as he laughed.

Eric’s cheeks flushed at the contact, and at that moment Kent wanted Eric so, so badly. Eric was handsome and bright. He lit up Kent's day like a ray of sunshine through clouds.

And okay, Kent realized that was a corny metaphor. And the whole 'cloudy day' thing wasn't totally accurate – Kent loved his life in New York. He was at the peak of his NHL career, leading the league in assists and taking his team to the playoffs for three consecutive years. He liked the guys he played with, he’d made friends, and he kept in touch with Troy and Scraps.

Hell, he’d even dated a little, something he couldn’t have imagined as a rookie in Vegas. Neither of his recent ex-boyfriends had been endgame material, but he was proud of himself for the serious therapy that finally helped him feel stable enough for a relationship.

In short, he hadn’t expected a small Southern blonde to burst into his life and turn everything on its head. But right now, he felt like there was an Eric-sized hole in his world, and here was Eric, right in front of him.

Eric’s laugh faded and he looked up at Kent with wide, vulnerable eyes. Kent stared at his eyelashes, flitting open and closed as he blinked.

Oh god, Kent suddenly realized he’d been staring for way too long. Had Eric noticed? He dropped the hand on Eric’s arm.

“I, um–” he started, stopped.

Eric jumped in, “I, uh, I’ll email you about the advertising placements.”

“Yeah, the advertising placements,” Kent echoed.

They watched each other in silence. Eric licked his lips, and Kent’s mouth went dry.

“I have to get to the office,” Eric said finally. He waved a hand in the general direction of midtown, but kept his eyes glued to Kent's.

Kent nodded. “I should get home, feed Kit before she gets hungry and starts hunting the neighbors.”

Eric laughed, and just like that the moment passed.

“Take care now, Kent. I’ll be talkin’ to you soon.”

Kent returned the smile. “You too, Eric.”

He watched as Eric walked away. He lifted his left hand and lightly traced his lips with his fingers. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine the feeling was Eric's lips brushing his.

Fucking hell, he was such a sap. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, when Eric’s blonde head finally disappeared down the subway stairs, he turned and walked toward home.

#bittyparse #eric bittle #kent parson #kit purrson #omgcp #omgcp fanfic #omgcp fic #kent plays for the rangers #new york in summer #hope you like it! #parsepositive

[the-revisionist]

Well, reading those was already a journey... hm, but how bout 1 or 19. Or, you know, BOTH.

Okay then, BOTH! And also harkening back to @ylizam‘s request for 19 as well. (For reference, list of prompts here.)

LTiH, Gillian/Caroline, post series 4-ish.

Note: the film that Gillian describes at length is acomplete fabrication; Night of the Lepus,I’m afraid, is the real deal.

the most important three seconds in the imaginary history of cinema 

Not unlike a great musician merging with an instrument, thetelly remote has, to Caroline’s strangely aroused dismay, become a mightyextension of Gillian’s hand. She points it with thrilling command, like D’Artagnanfacing Cardinal Richelieu in a battle for the soul of France; then throttles itviolently while cursing her son and his infernal Xbox, which she believes to bethe rightful cause of the nonfunctioning black screen that mocks them.

“That b-bloody stupid pillock, always messing about with thesetup—” Gillian snarls and gives the remote another useless shake, demonstratingthe same impatient, childlike rage at insensate objects that Caroline haswitnessed in her granddaughter, who delights in twisting and slamming arounddolls with unrepentant, rugby-player-on-steroids glee.

As Caroline waits for the temper tantrum to subside,questions as to her romantic suitability with this exquisite maniac once againarise. She notes for perhaps the thousandth time that there is no such thing asthe perfect partner and her expectations have always been loftily, unrealisticallyhigh whilst at the same time acknowledging that shagging one’s stepsister onthe side is perhaps not a personal best and more suited to a troubled but minorheadline in Woman’s Weekly. So she hasopted not to think of Gillian as Gillian per se, but rather My Nice-SmellingIllicit Secret Girlfriend Who Can Change the Oil in my Jeep But if My MotherFinds Out She Will Kill Us Both and Have a Stroke Maybe at the Same Time. Itmakes for unexpected headaches, complicated secrecy, and increased whiskeyconsumption, each aspect of the conundrum feeding off of and prompting theother.    

Courtesy of family members who have actual lives, who goplaces and do things and aren’t grumpily absorbed into demanding,time-consuming jobs, they are alone for an entire weekend. It’s Saturdayevening and the day has passed in a happy hedonistic blur of shagging, eating,drinking, and going for a long walk. Over dinner Gillian proposed watching afilm afterward and Caroline agreed, thinking that after Round 2 (or 3, shewasn’t certain how to classify those ten minutes in the barn except to acknowledgeher culpability in startling a lamb), she was more than sexually sated for thetime being and she could endure whatever third-rate monster movie or Tarantinoretrospective thrown her way. But while cleaning up Gillian bent over toretrieve a napkin that had fallen on the floor and as far as Caroline’s criticalfaculties could discern those three seconds of glorious, blue-jeaned ass were acinematic masterpiece rivaling the complete oeuvre of Hitchcock and Kurosawaand Truffaut and any other pretentious fucker with a fancy name and Carolinedecided then and there she really didn’t need to see another movie perhaps fora long time but most certainly, definitely not tonight because with renewedvigor she was now chomping at the erotic bit for Round 3 (or 4).

Alas she finds herself in a tangled sprawl with Gillian onthe sofa as a prelude to movie-watching, her chin forlornly propped against Gillian’supper arm while the latter growls “fuckity fuck fuck fuck” at the remote, andthen Caroline arrives at the momentous decision that intervention—in the formof a long, deep, heated kiss—is required. The first time they kissed like that,Gillian dropped trou faster than the closing curtain at the last performance ofa Carrie musical revival. So sheseizes a handful of plaid shirt, pulling the startled Gillian closer, andkisses her just so. While Gillian makes the same girlish whimpering noise nowthat she did then, she does not merrily surrender all clothing as her passportto ecstasy and instead breaks off the kiss to glower again at the unresponsivetelevision.

Caroline has never been so deeply disheartened at a displayof focused willpower in her entire life.

“I know I DVR’edthis,” Gillian says, arm ramrod straight as she once again thrusts the clickerat the dead screen while furiously jabbing random buttons with her thumb.

Caroline waits for a light saber to come shooting out of theremote. When it doesn’t, she tugs at Gillian’s shirt again, engaging them inanother wet, lingering kiss. “What’s it again?” she mutters around theconfluence of the kiss.

“It’s a—psychological—suspense—thriller,” Gillian breathesinto her mouth.

“So—” Caroline initiates another kiss. “—total—shit—horror—movie.”

“No,” Gillian replies with a kiss of her own. “It’s.”Another kiss. “Not.” This time with an added nip. “It’s more than that.” Thistime longer, gentler, sweeter. “I want you to see it. It’s really good.”

Caroline shifts tactics and goes for the vulnerableerogenous zone of the ear while slipping a hand under Gillian’s shirt. “What’sit about?”

“About t-this guy, he, he gets stranded in Hungary—”

Caroline puts her moves on hold. “What kind of knobhead getsstranded in Hungary?” Quietly she curses her natural curiosity and advocacy of rational,well-planned behavior, even in fictitious characters from all parts of theworld, including Hungary. “There are maps, trains, buses—”  

“People get stranded in Hungary, where is it written thatpeople don’t get stranded in Hungary and I know what you’re up to, stop trying to undo my bra.”

Defeated, Caroline withdraws her hand. “Kissing still allright?”

Gillian pauses before uttering “proceed” in her bestJean-Luc Picard tone.

“Okay,” Caroline mumbles into Gillian’s neck as shebrilliantly conducts kissing, nibbling, and licking with the exactitude of aMozart string quartet, but then thinks maybe it’s not brilliant because she’snot getting any reaction—until she notices Gillian’s breathing has gottenawfully shallow. “So. Idiot stranded in Hungary—“

“H-he meets this mysterious family who live in a castle—”

“Vampires,” Caroline supplies confidently.

“No, not vampires. Don’t be so clichéd.”

“Werewolves.”

“Cliché.”

“Writers for the DailyMail?”

“Fuck sakes, Caz.”

“All right, sorry—so what—?”

“Satanists.”

Abruptly Caroline rears back. “That’s not clichéd?”

“They’re like a cult,” Gillian says haughtily, as if highlyorganized secretive Satanists somehow merited originality and legitimaterespect rather than the garden-variety kind of devil worshippers one mightencounter after midnight at Tesco buying candles and snacks and bottles of hotsauce for phony pentagram and animal sacrifice rituals to alarm their elderlyand easily freaked-out neighbors. “See, the whole setup, it’s kind of a modernHungarian version of The Masque of theRed Death except without dwarves or black plague or Vincent Price.”  

“Well I simply cannot commit to a film without dwarves orblack plague or Vincent Price, so perhaps we should give this a pass.”

“There’s also a psychedelic mini-musical when the countessmarries Satan. They sing ‘Kiss Them for Me’ by Siouxsie and the Banshees,messing with the lyrics—‘it’s all for me/at Satan’s gift registry.’ Wonder theydidn’t get sued. Actually, maybe they did. I should google—” Gillian lookslongingly at her mobile, which is far away on the coffee table.

Caroline sighs. “You do realize that by tomorrow morning ourentire families are going to converge on this house and we probably won’t haveanother opportunity to be completely alone until Flora and Calamity go touniversity.”

“Aw bless, I love how optimistic you are. ’Cause you knowCalam is going to be a druglord. That’s how she’s going to support me in mydotage.”

“Great, so you’ll have plenty of time in your ‘dotage’ towatch bad horror films.” She tries to pry the remote from Gillian’s hand, anexercise in futility, she knows, recalling a time she tried to reclaim analmost-empty bottle of really excellent cabernet sauvignon from Gillian anddiscovered that the woman has the iron grip of an Olympic weightlifter. Thenthe mask of her own stubborn idiocy falls away when she sees a flash of realdisappointment on Gillian’s face. “You really want to see this, don’t you?”

“More like—“ Gillian shrugs self-consciously. “I, well, justwanted to share it. Wanted you to see it.”

Caroline’s guilty conscience finally asserts itself. Shegives the remote a gentle tug. “May I?”

Curious, Gillian hands it over. Caroline sits up, pops openthe back of the remote, pulls batteries out of her pants pocket, quicklyinserts them into the empty chamber from whence they came, snaps the cover backinto place, and guiltily awaits judgment.  

Gillian’s reaction is, of course, better than any movie,including the imaginary Warholian masterpiece of three seconds of denim-coveredass: Her face encompasses a rollercoaster of reactions beginning with unbridledshock and fury, detouring through astonished admiration and reluctantamusement, and back again to hostile, narrow-eyed territory. “You. Fucking.Evil. Bitch.”

“I’m sorry. Really, I am. Really, really sorry. I was goingto make a go of watching a movie, honest, but after dinner you bent over andyou know I’m weak—”

“You sex fiend.” Gillian enunciates it with the same puritanprecision that Celia employs in saying lesbian.

“Oh, I’m a sexfiend, Great Slapper of Halifax?”

“Shut up, I so rarely get a chance to be judgmental likethis and I’d like to bloody well enjoy it.”

“It reflects very well on you, though. Or on your ass, atthe very least.”

“Piss off.” Resolute, Gillian folds her arms; glaring defiantlyat the telly screen, she sulks for an agonizingly long minute. “Despite your f-flatteryand, and okay, your evilness is weirdlyturning me on, we are watching this fucking movie. All right?”

“All right,” Caroline agrees dreamily as she watches Gillianget up and stomp to the kitchen. The things we do for—love? Lust? The perfectass, the secret girlfriend? At the present moment it’s more than she’s willingto contemplate and so she sets it aside; not out of denial, but rather sherealizes that what exists between them should remain safe, thriving until itcan withstand the glare and scrutiny of the world at large. At last, and forreasons unknown to her at the moment, she finally sees potential in what theyare.

“I might make you watch Nightof the Lepus as well,” Gillian threatens from the kitchen.  

“Surely there are more pleasurable ways of punishing me?”

This salacious salvo is ignored. “Shut up, I’m makingpopcorn.”

Caroline slumps deeper into the sofa, looks at the remote.With a few button presses she’s in the DVR menu and, cheeks burning withpleasure, smiles at what she sees listed there. “Oh ho ho. Somebody has DVR’ed University Challenge for me.”

Gillian slams a pan on the stove. “Who says it’s for you?”

“Who else in this household would watch it?”

“Raff.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Don’t read anything into it.”

“I’m totally reading everything into it,” Caroline trillstriumphantly—even though it’s completely wrong to gloat after so much badbehavior on her part. “You are smitten.”

“You are delusional.”

“Mad about me.”

“You’re mad, period.”

“You absolutely adore me.”

The tell-tale silence ends with Gillian’s softly gruntedadmission: “Maybe.”

Caroline grins.

“But you’re still a bitch.”

[rebeccaheyman]

reading + listening 10.20.20

My review is a day late because I allocated some of my weekly reading time to binge-watching ENOLA HOLMES on Netflix (based on a book, so had to check it out). What a charming, beautifully constructed, well-acted show! The closer we get to Election Day, the more easily-consumable content I need, which basically means non-stop Bake Off and/or novel adaptations from here to November 3rd. 

Without further ado, my reviews:

All Stirred Up (Brianne Moore), aBook (narr. by Mary Jane Wells). I actually ended up receiving an ARC of this audiobook last week, despite the fact that the release was earlier this month. Not sure exactly how that happened but here we are all the same! My 3-star review from NetGalley:

I confess I chose this title based almost entirely on the fact that it's narrated by Mary Jane Wells, one of my favorite narrators of all time. MJW could narrate the phone book and I'd probably give it a fair listen, but luckily her material in Brianne Moore's ALL STIRRED UP is considerably more dynamic--not to mention a perfect canvas for MJW to flex her range, accents, and humor.

ALL STIRRED UP is pitched as _inspired by_ Austen's Persuasion; it is NOT pitched as a Persuasion retelling, which seems to have escaped several other reviewers. The trendiness of Austen comps has made me wary of contemporary titles that lay claim to a comparison, especially since many of them are so atrocious. I would much rather see Alcove and Dreamscape market this title around more realistic comps: SCHITT'S CREEK meets DON'T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME, with a helping of GREAT BRITISH BAKING SHOW heaped on for good measure. Like Mhairi McFarlane's work, ALL STIRRED UP features a slow-burn, second-chance romance, and two protagonists who have a number of personal demons to excise before they can get to the business of loving one another. The plot largely relies on external, non-romantic conflict to move forward, but Susan's family drama touched on compelling (if at times heartbreaking) issues that brought the Napier clan to life in brilliant detail.

Make no mistake, the romance itself is not the central conflict here; marketing should stress that this is contemporary fiction and/or women's fiction. While the history between Susan and Chris gives rise to emotional tension throughout the book, their relationship is NOT the central conflict -- and therefore this is not a category romance. I stress this because a good number of reviews seem to dock stars for the fact, but the book delivers on its promises if you actually read the blurb. Again, marketing might have considered a cover that doesn't lean so heavily on romance cues (feature more of the Napier family, feature Susan alone, accentuate the dueling restaurants rather than their owners, etc).

I was mostly charmed by ALL STIRRED UP, despite some emotional blows from parent/grandparent/friend deaths (in the past, not in the action proper), former drug abuse, and depictions of an anxiety disorder/ptsd. Ultimately, I found this novel heartfelt and uplifting, with the added bonus of authentic-feeling foodie content. MJW's narration is absolute perfection, and I hope we get more Moore/Wells collabs in the future.

The Project (Courtney Summers) eBook ARC (pub date: February 2021). Slam-dunk five-star read from my favorite suspense author. My review on NetGalley:

Few writers do suspense as artfully as Courtney Summers; years after reading SADIE, I can still easily recall the tense, aching anxiety I felt while reading it, and my heartfelt sadness at its conclusion. Summers' latest, THE PROJECT, delivers big when it comes to tension, aching anxiety, and heartfelt sadness all -- but it is also a masterclass in dual timeline structure, emotional depth, enigmatic characterization, and subtlety.

Lo's and Bea's relationships to one another, as well as The Unity Project and its mysterious leader, Lev Warren, propel the action of the novel forward. Lo sets out to answer a central question: Where is Bea? And second to that, is The Project a good-works-driven charitable organization, or a cult of personality with a dark underbelly? The more Lo uncovers about The Project, the less clear its purpose becomes -- while at the heart of it all stands Lev Warren, Redeemer and redeemed, lover and beloved.

Summers is one of those very rare authors writing true "crossover" -- fiction that could be as easily assigned to YA as adult audiences. To limit THE PROJECT to either category would be to deny its importance to both. About young readers, Summers recently wrote in a PW article, that they inhabit "a world where the cost of their education could be the bullet that kills their dreams, a world where they’ve witnessed the gross government mishandling of a pandemic, a world where the brutal killings of Black Americans at the hands of police go largely unanswered for, and a world where the flagrant disregard of their future by politically powerful climate change deniers is pulling us ever closer to a global crisis from which there will be no return." Lo's life reflects the complexity of today's young adult experience without dragging the specifics of _now_. The result is nuanced portrait of a young woman living a decidedly adult life, rarely of her own volition, and with the added complication of a traumatic history.

THE PROJECT is an up-all-night, read-til-its-done page-turner that kept me guessing to the end (and I'm hard to surprise!). I'm hopeful that Netflix will pick this up for series development, as it would utterly crush when translated to the screen. Looking ever so forward to more from an author who just gets better with every release.

From Blood and Ash (Jennifer L Armentrout), eBook. Imagine if you would the most reductive, hackneyed mash-up of SJM and Twihard, and you’ll get close to understanding what FROM BLOOD AND ASH is all about. For several days last week, it felt like the readers I follow on social media were obsessing over this book; they praised the OTP romance, dynamic world-building, and nonstop plot. But what I found instead was a poorly developed world rife with all the old familiar tropes, a romance that brings up serious issues of consent and gaslighting, and reliance on poorly reinvented plot lines from better trashy fantasies. Le sigh. 

Perhaps it’s my old age, but I’ve lost my taste for books that spend significant time and narrative space developing the in-world cultural, social, political, and religious structures, only to “gotcha” the hero(ine) and reader by revealing it was aLL a LiE. This book does that in last-gasp attempt to salvage some conflict late in Act III, and it’s not okay.

Also not okay is the power imbalance between the heroine and her very-obviously-the-mysterious-baddie-no-one’s-ever-seen counterpart. Review after review praises the hot heat in FBaA, but I couldn’t get past the hate-banging. Men who yell TELL ME YOU WANT THIS while practically inside their partners are not enacting a sexy, heroic, impassioned version of consent; they’re just ticking a box for “not rape” that has nothing to do with actual desire. It’s a hard pass for me.

This was almost as much of a letdown as Serpent & Dove, but both titles can battle it out for Most Derivative Trash Fantasy 2020. 

The Bromance Book Club and Undercover Bromance (Bromance Book Club #2) (Lyssa Kay Adams), aBook (narr. Andrew Eiden, with Maxwell Caulfield on book 1). I snagged the first of this series from my library’s digital collection when I was looking for some easy listening over the weekend, and I’m so pleased to tell you this is an incredibly charming series. Adams turns some familiar romance tropes upside-down by focusing on a group of men (the titular book club) who read romance novels -- aka manuals -- to better understand their relationships with women. This hunky group of alphas has a collectively soft underbelly; they live by the lessons gleaned from the romances die-hard readers love, such as “always run for a grand gesture” and “back story is everything.” In Bromance #1, we have excerpts from a regency romance interwoven with the primary narrative, which focuses on Gavin and Thea’s almost-totally-broken marriage. Do I wish the major marital conflict had less to do with orgasms? I do. But was it a fun, intriguing, well-narrated listen with a great secondary cast and some bona fide laughs? It was. Positive rep for speech impediments added to the magic. In Undercover Bromance, Mack and Liv work the enemies-to-lovers trope to fairly great effect, though the story touches on some troublingly dark topics (CW for sexual predation, murder, domestic abuse, abandonment, childhood trauma). Still, both Liv and Mack bring some unexpected features to the narrative, and it’s great to see the dynamic secondary cast further developed from book 1. My only real complaint is the forever-dull “dead cell phone” gimmick late in Act III. I can forgive Adams this one hackneyed indulgence, though I hope she doesn’t make a habit of it. Book 3 in this series (Crazy Stupid Bromance) release October 27, and the cat/hunk/romance novel featured on the cover is all the motivation I need to preorder. 

#all stirred up #the bromance book club #undercover bromance #from blood and ash #the project #netgalley #book review #romance #fantasy

[kowlsy]

Happy Birthday @stopcallingmeapollo !! I hope this fulfills your soulmate and pining needs! I should have the second half done... after college apps are due. But I hope you have a lovely birthday! <3

--

He is holding tickets. Tickets that Courfeyrac handed to him moments ago. Tickets to the Paris Opera Ballet.

“Happy birthday!” Courfeyrac beams at him, sliding across Combeferre’s open chair between them, almost knocking over a computer, three mugs of coffee and 2 very important stacks of files Enjolras just finished organizing. Lovely.

Most of the amis were out refilling their drinks after their regular weekly meeting, before the second, unofficial, meeting began, in honor of Enjolras’ birthday.

“I was going to wrap them but, paper waste.”Courfeyrac continues, the words seeming to tumble out of his mouth without the man noticing. “They’re for a week out, it's the opening night of the last show this season, and I’m not sure yet, but I think I can get us backstage with the dancers!” The excitement in Coufeyrac’s eyes dims for a moment, as he takes in Enjolras’ less-than-ecstatic expression. “Do you like them?”

Enjolras, sitting frozen, curses himself internally, before smiling broadly at Courfeyrac. He loves the gift, it’s wonderful.

It-- it-- just isn’t what he was expecting.

He was expecting his friends to go the route they normally go- most donating to charities in his name, Combeferre and Courfeyrac buying him aid him in sleep, or relaxation.

Not...theater tickets.

But trust Courfeyrac to go above and beyond. It’s a thoughtful gift, not something bought the night before in a rush of panic; the way Enjolras himself had sometimes bought gifts for others whose birthdays coincide with big printing days.

It’s no secret that Enjolras loved theater and goes to local shows all the time. And it’s very Courfeyrac, noticing something Enjolras quietly enjoys and taking it upon himself to step up.

It’s just... Enjolras isn’t seeing the shows because he particularly...enjoys the performances. The shows are relaxing, and he has come to appreciate the finer points of a director's intention but...he started going for a for something else:

The line of script worked along the lower line of his shoulder blade. Thank you for coming tonight- I didn’t think anyone would.

The first words his soulmate will say. The one he is supposed to spend his life with, the one who is meant to compliment him, the one chosen for him by the stars. His other half will utter those words, presumably at some small showing when no one is expected to turn up.

So Enjolras goes to shows he doesn't think will be well attended, shows where he knows that he will get a chance to meet the performers afterward, shows where he knows someone may say those words to him.

Courfeyrac is looking at him nervously, and Enjolras knows that the tickets can’t have been easy to get. Courfeyrac prides himself in his ability to give good presents- and this is a good present. The show will be lovely, Enjolras can have an evening without work or searching for his soulmate, just for him and his friends. It’s sweet and thoughtful and so, so nice-- he was just caught off guard but something a little outside the norm.

He reaches over to clasp Courfeyrac hands and pulls him into a hug. “Thank you. Thank you so, so much, and I’m excited, I didn’t expect something this nice. What's the show?”

Courfeyrac leans back in his chair, placated by Enjolras’ latent response and the physical contact, and begins a rambling speech once more. “Well, it's not an official opera, but it's the company doing pop songs? To ballet? I have a friend who's in the company and is working on it, and it's not like the standard fare for a ballet but everyone in the ‘dance community’ is really hyped about it.” His grin spreads even wider. “And, that friend may be able to get us in backstage! Did I mention that already? But yeah, he upgraded our tickets so we’re in the orchestra circle, and he isn’t positive he’ll be able to get us backstage, but I'm still really excited! I have tickets for you, me, and Combeferre.”

Enjolras smiles at his friend's excitement and leans back in his chair to listen to him ramble about the restaurant they would be going to, and the critical response to this season, and whatever else that came out of his friend's mouth, simply basking in his friend's excitement.

The rest of the night is spent in much the same way, with friends coming up to congratulate him on turning 25, handing him envelopes with printouts saying that money had been donated in his name, and, in Bahorel case, teasing him about not holding a proper birthday party again.

It’s basically the perfect birthday.

-- It wasn’t that Enjolras was obsessed with finding his soulmate. He went to work, and meetings, and attended parties with his friends; all without sparing a second thought to finding his second half. It didn’t consume him.

But when he has a moment to himself, an evening without deadlines, his mind often wanders to the letters worked along his back, and the lips that may say them. The tattoos appear when a person turns 22, but you may have met your soulmate before then. If the phrase is small, in a hard to see spot it may take days for a person to find their words, but that had not been the case for Enjolras. He noticed the moment they appeared and felt the same determination he often felt tugging at him as he read the words aloud. This is my soulmate. I need to find them.

Enjolras didn’t know if his burning desire to find his soulmate was a symptom of his normal passion, or something else, the secret romantic Marius swore was hidden somewhere. Jehan was the only of his friends who wasn’t bonded and openly flaunted their soul mark, an almost cliche I thought the only pretty things in graveyards were the flowers. Jehan would wear crop tops to poetry readings and slam nights at local cafes so all could see the words lining their lowest set of ribs, encouraging others to ask or touch.

Unless someone had their mark somewhere that was hard to hide (Bossuet's are under his eyebrows That looks like it hurts! and what does your eye makeup say- wait!) people tend to hide tattoos under clothing. Enjolras doesn’t even know the words for most the amis.

For most people, soulmates are a quiet fact of life, most people meeting and settling down without a fuss. Less than 0.5% of people don’t find their soulmates, and they are often aromantic, or it turns out their soulmate died, or some other tragedy. It’s quiet, and steady, and simple. It would be nothing like the rest of Enjolras’ life-- and he wants it.

He wants to have someone to go on dates with, someone to hold and someone that will hold him. He wants to go to their performances on Friday nights and have them come to his rallies on Saturday. Nothing in Enjolras’ life is easy, nothing is simple, and he wants this one thing.

He wants to give himself to something he won’t need to fight for. --

The theater is packed. Older, richer couples dripping in jewels looking distinctly uncomfortable at the younger crowd the unorthodox show has drawn, young couples, groups of friends, even a few families with children. Everyone is dressed up, matching the gold gild walls and the impractically large chandelier hanging from the ceiling draped in a string of cut glass. Enjolras himself is in a suit for the first time in months, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre are also dressed up- wearing matching ties and so sickeningly adorable that even Enjolras found it in himself to tease them.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac never experienced the yearning that accompanied most people's tattoos, having been dating when Courfeyrac got his mark-Hi I'm Combeferre and I'm five and I love butterflies! Looping around his ankle, the first words Combeferre said to him 15 years prior. They are an odd pair, to have known each other for so long, even been dating before getting their tattoos. They are odder still because they are not monogamous, Courfeyrac has flings with many others, even if he does go home to tell his soulmate about it each night. But, they are happy, and that is all that really matters, though others scoff and gasp.

Enjolras cranes his neck to look up at the balconies -three of them-- filled with even more visitors, students, and families who couldn’t afford floor seats but love theater all the same. Each group chattering over the light music playing, exclaiming over others outfits, or the songs playing that night, or a hundred other mundane things. It was a cross-section of the city, a thousand people taking a night off to enjoy the art, the city and each other. It was hard to not love humanity when surrounded by it. Enjolras leaned back in his chair, nothing to do but enjoy himself for a few hours.

Combeferre reads from the playbill noting the different songs and dancers that would be featured that night. “After intermission, the second half opens with a solo dance by René Grantaire-”

Courfeyrac grabs the playbill out of Combeferre’s hand, breaking in “That's him!! Grantaire is who got me the ticket upgrade!” his voice fills with wonder “ He’s such a good dancer, Enjolras, Ferre, you're not going to believe it.” He sighs, draping himself over the seat handle and half into Enjolras’ lap, wrinkling both their suits in the process “It’ll be amazing. He’s been practicing for months.”

Enjolras looks down at the man half laying on him, debating if pushing him on the floor would cause a larger scene, or letting him continue to flop around however he pleases. He lightly pokes Courfs shoulder and he obligingly sits up off Enjolras’ lap; before proceeding to lean all the way over Enjolras to look at the playbill Combeferre had stolen back.

“What other songs is he in?” Enjolras asks. Being this close to the stage is incredible, and Enjolras wants to thank the man who upgraded their tickets. Enjolras had hoped the mysterious gifter would come to a meeting, and let Enjolras thank him.  He knows tickets this nice can’t be easy to get- even for a member of the company. Courf had said it was impossible, the man, Grantaire, wasn’t a fan of activism. A shame. Enjolras would love to see if he could be convinced to come to a rally or two.

Combeferre turns back the first half of the show, quickly skimming the list of dancers for each song. “ He’s in the first song, Bohemian Rhapsody, then the fourth song, then the fifth” He raises his eyebrows as his eyes travel down the page. “And the seventh and eighth as well. The only songs he isn’t in are the other solos and the female-only song. Other than that, he’s onstage.”

As he finishes the lights go down, signaling the beginning of the show, the music and chatter falling to silence. Courfeyrac sits up, and the three friends oriented themselves to the blank stage. After a moment of apprehension, the first notes begin to play, and a line of dancers file onstage, slowly spinning as they reach center stage. A measure later the male dancers dance on stage as well, just as delicate; until sets of couples were scattered around the stage. As the lyrics begin, they move in unison.

Enjolras drinks it in. He never understood the love of dance, attending local communities centers dance performances he was lucky to get through a performance without someone breaking a hip or losing a finger-- but looking at the dancers now it’s clear. They’re beautiful, each movement precise and with intent. His eyes are drawn to the couple on the end of the stage farthest from them, the man has a practical birds nest of dark curly hair, spinning his partner around him with ease, counterbalancing her movements with grace, his face is shadowed, but at times, when the music swelled, the barest hint of a smile could be made out.

The song gets faster and faster and the movements get larger and less precise as the dancers throw their entire bodies into the song, spinning and leaping faster and higher. Try as he might, Enjolras can’t tear his eyes away, he kept on returning to stare at the man at the end of the stage.

As that last few notes of the song die out, the audience enthusiastically claps, filling the auditorium, as most of the dancers, including the man, leave the stage. Courfeyrac leans over and whispers “happy birthday” as the remaining dancer, a tall woman, takes center stage.

She’s beautiful, and the song Enjolras has heard before but is in a language Enjolras doesn’t understand, Spanish perhaps. She takes long slow turns across the stage as the bass pumps out a quick beat, making it seem as if she’s suspended in jelly. After her, another solo dancer comes on dancing to some song that Courf had set as his ringtone a month or so ago, then a group comes on again, smaller than the first, only about 6 dancers.

At the same time, Enjolras and Courfeyrac sit up, the dark-haired man was back! He had changed out of the minimalistic costume he had been in before- all the dancers were wearing capes made of some flowy, multicolored fabric that trailed behind them. It only served to highlight the sharp angles of his face, the negative space of his hair. Courfeyrac leans over again, “that's him! Grantaire! He's the one that got us the tickets!”

The dancers begin to dance, something full of jumps and lifts that had the audience, including Enjolras, on the edge as the tempo upped itself over and over. He whispers back “Which one? With the red hair?” The man in question is currently standing closest to them, slowly turning as the slighter man he was partnered with spun around him in a faster circle.

“No. The one in the back, holding the girl with blonde hair”Courfeyrac says, indicating the man that had transfixed Enjolras in the first song, who was slowly lifting someone and moving toward center stage, close to them for the first time in the show.

“Oh.” Enjolras breathes, transfixed equally by the sight before him and the idea that the best dancer in the company, he must be by how he had transfixed Enjolras, had invited them here tonight.

The rest of the show passes in a blur of swirling bodies and music. Enjolras can hardly blink when Grantaire was on stage, can hardly breathe when the other was close to their side of the stage, so close he could touch. When he took center stage, alone, Enjolras felt as if he was watching something sacred. He wanted to look away, or hide his eyes for how intimate and open the dance made the man seem, rolling around on the stage as a piano seemed to pound out Grantaire’s own heartbeat.

The show comes to a close, with one final group number the dancers holding their pose as the last chord gives way to silence. Enjolras jumps to his feet, breathing hard even though he has been sitting for hours. He and the rest of the house applause for long minutes as they try to put the emotions they have experienced into pure noise. Enjolras hopes they succeed in at least letting the dancers know that they are appreciated.

As the audience quiets down Grantaire, with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, steps forward and accepts a microphone from a stagehand. Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat as he looks at the man, static for the first time all night. Smiling Grantaire brings the mic closer to his mouth and says “Thank you for coming tonight- I didn’t think anyone would.”

Oh.

Enjolras can’t hear anything beyond the words going round and round his mind, those are my words. My words, my soulmate, he’s here, I need to tell him, he's beautiful those are my words, My words my soulmate. The girl standing next to him, his partner in the last dance Enjolras realizes distantly, takes the mic and begins to properly thank the audience. The dancers file off the stage, and Enjolras stands, ignoring Combeferre as he calls to him, walking towards the front of the house need to tell him, he’s beautiful. My words, my soulmate, he’s here

“Enjolras where are you going?”

Enjolras walks as if a daze, out of the theater, taking a small hall, the crowd grows scared as he moves, taking any hall that seemed to lead deeper into the theater, that may bring him closer to the one he’s been searching for, the birds nest of hair, the mouth that forms his words, his soul mate, he’s here--

He’s accompanied by others, who also seem to be looking for someone, including a younger girl who is confidently pointing down the hall , tugging a friend behind her. “I think that the green room is this way, that’s where the dancers should be. Enjolras follows her, she seems to know where to go, maybe she’ll be able to help him find Grantaire; Enjolras’ soulmate.  They turn one final corner, just Enjolras, the two young girls, and an older man clutching a playbill and almost crash into a woman wearing a badge. Security.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s company members only beyond this point.” She smiled tightly at them, standing in front of a door labeled ‘green room’. They can see indistinct movement through the frosted glass, can hear voices.

One of the girls he had been walking with, the louder one, began to protest, walking closer to the door. “No, you don’t understand I need to meet the dancers--”

“I’m sorry Miss,” the guard spoke through her pasted on smile,“ but if you want to contact the dancers, you can contact them online. This area is for company members only.”

Enjolras felt himself step forward. “I'm sorry ma'am, but, one of the dancers, Grantaire, René Grantaire he’s my soulmate, I have his words on my back, I  just saw him, I didn't know, I didn’t even know about this company, but I need to see him, ”

The guard meets his eyes- checking him for something- does she not believe him? She has to, he’s telling the truth, she has to let him through-

“René Grantaire is your soulmate?” she asks

“Yes,” he breathes.

She smiles, less artificial, something sharp in the curve of her mouth. “ well how incredible! You see, René is a very lucky young man. You are the fourth person today to come tell me so! In fact, he has so many soul mates, that he prefers it when they contact him on social media instead of trying to barge into his green room. This area is for company members only.” She moves to pull her walkie-talkie out of her vest, but the others have already begun to file around the corner, back outside to the main hall.

“He really is my soulmate.” Enjolras protested weakly, beginning to move around the corner. The women looked at him with soft eyes, but his sense was already returning, the adrenaline of finally meeting his soulmate dying down. “No, no, I don’t mean to make you into a villain, it’s your job to keep me out of the green room, but” He searches for the right words. “I’ve been looking for him for three years.”

Before she can respond he walks the way he came- pulling his phone out to call Combeferre to ask where he and Courfeyrac are. -- Okay.

Enjolras hadn’t anticipated this.

He stares at the boiling pot of water, before slowly pouring a cup of pasta in, watching as the bubbles dissipate.

He found his soulmate. His soulmate is real, and a famous dancer, and he had sat not 10 meters away from him and heard him speak-

But then he had been unable to get to him. Enjolras grabbed his phone and checked twitter, where R, as he apparently goes by, had posted a photo of him and some of the other dancers laughing at some bar, faces flushed and happy.

All he has to do is send a message.

@GrandeEnL’air I’m your soulmate. Hi--

@GrandeEnL’air I saw you last week and you were amazing. I think you have these words somewhere----

@GrantEnL’---

He can’t even type out the username before he closed the draft. When he imagined, it would always be somewhere subdued. Something magical and soft, and easy. Something that wasn’t Enjolras making pity mac and cheese alone in his apartment, without his soulmate who doesn't even know that Enjolras has found him.

And social media is all wrong-- it’s so cold, so casual. Enjolras wants to do something romantic, something that is magical and would leave Grantaire, R, with the same feelings he had felt when Grantaire first spun close to him, the wonder as the words crossed his lips.

Enjolras stirs his pasta. This isn’t that hard. All he needs to do is take a step back. He has built his life of being objective, presenting facts with as little bias as possible. All he needs to do is apply that here, not get distracted thinking about how stupid that security guard was, and how hard it had been to answer Courfeyrac and Combeferre questions, and how incredibly fuzzy he feels scrolling through Grantaire�� twitter, watching him be happy.

Is this how Courfeyrac feels all the time?

Well, Enjolras supposes, Courfeyrac tends to do the same thing each time he tries to ‘woo’ someone. Enjolras could try to just...follow that. What would courfeyrac do? “Probably tell him he’s has a cute butt” Enjolras mutters to himself, not thrilled at the prospect. Or. Courfeyrac was also a fan of gifts. Not three weeks ago, he had been moaning over some lovely girl who always rode the bus to university, and courfeyrac had given her a cup of coffee, each day, for weeks until she agreed to take him on a date. Of course, she had promptly fled when finding out that he already had found his soulmate and was simply looking for another friend with benefits (“if they want!” Courfeyrac always insists, ‘only if they want”)

But Enjolras is looking to find his soulmate, not for something in addition to his soulmate.

Gifts could work.

But what to get him? Enjolras grabs the pan of water and dumps it out in the sink, running through the various gifts that had meant something to him. Grantaire isn’t an activist which doesn’t leave Enjolras with much personal experience, and he doubted he could get Grantaire tickets to his own show, but-

Oh. Enjolras was not a man that had been in many relationships...but there had been one. A girl, in college, who had given him flowers, a big bouquet of roses, accompanied by a note hey wanna go out for coffee some time? Enjolras had denied the gift-- no sorry, it was really sweet but I’m gay…¨

Would Grantaire like roses? What should he say? Was he allergic to flowers?

It was better than nothing. Glancing at his phone, Enjolras though, it was better than a tweet. As he began to eat dinner, he pulled up his laptop and searched for a flower shop nearby, one, Flowers and Curios by Malouf, would deliver. Enjolras pulls up an order form for a dozen red roses to be delivered to René Grantaire at the Paris Opera Ballet. He hesitates over the ‘individual message’ section of the form. It was the tweet all over again, he had a choice of the first words he would ever say to his soulmate-- in some ways a choice as to what Grantaire had on his body. He and Combeferre had debated the relative free will of those who get know they are talking to their soul mate- do they really have free will if the words are written on someone's else's body? - but now wasn’t the time for a philosophical debate, something Enjolras’ was sure he had never thought before, it was just time for him to write something- anything.

His fingers ended up writing almost without his brain’s input. You look perfect onstage.

He smiles. It’s perfect. Simple, and not presumptuous. He sends the order form of and settles down to work on a draft of his next article. And if his mind wanders to his soulmate, the man who will soon know that he and Enjolras’ and cosmically intertwined, Grantaire--

Well, there were no witnesses.

#enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #my fic #happy birthday!! #jamesturns20

[wikimakemoney]

Chaotic communication: COVID-19 is rewriting our cultural rules of connection

30-second summary:

Not only are face-to-face chats more frequent, they’re increasingly unannounced, unplanned and unavoidable. A jarring juxtaposition to our pre-COVID habits. It’s communication chaos.

While it seems haphazard, each call, chat and interaction is an expansion of community that chips away at our cultural fear of IRL intimacy and democratizes digital communities.

This migration gives brands a mandate to expand their offerings to bigger, more diverse groups of consumers as they use live-streaming and digital tools to build new communities all over the country.

The foundational cracks in the influencer veneer have been growing over the past few years, but the COVID crisis provides a magnifying glass that’s amplifying influencer’s social media shortcomings.

Wholesome, positive –if not strange and mindless– content has become a balm to cure our anxiety, a form of self-care that fills a void and provides a sense of calm that sheet masks and sourdough cannot.

When we emerge post-COVID, shell-shocked, knowing that catastrophe can hit again at any moment, we’ll still want straightforward talk from brands. Brands need to learn this lesson quickly if they hope to pivot successfully in the ‘new normal.’

Talk to any Millennial or Gen Z’er two months ago, or… text them; they would say there are fewer things more anxiety provoking than actual, in-real-time phone calls. The abruptness; the uncontrollableness; the awkward pauses. But that was the Old World. In the solitude of COVID induced quarantine, a craving for intimacy and personal connection means consumers, once notoriously adverse to spontaneous, face-to-face communications, are now clamoring to hear each other’s voices and see each other’s face.

Verizon fielded over 800M phone calls per day within the first two weeks the country was locked down; the word “Zoom” has become a stand-in to mean any “video chat,” and apps like Houseparty have seen downloads increase 70 fold.

Not only are face-to-face chats more frequent, they’re increasingly unannounced, unplanned and unavoidable. A jarring juxtaposition to our pre-pandemic habits. It’s communication chaos.

Quarantine and the COVID crisis have totally rewritten our cultural rules of communication. But the frantic ways we’re corresponding now will likely shift the way we connect long beyond the end of lockdown.

Shift 1: A quest for intimacy in digital communities

Your bestie going live. Your boss going live. Your bank going live. When we were ordered to stay home, it only took a matter of days for everyone to start broadcasting themselves, most times to seemingly chaotic and confusing ends.

Recently on IG live, comedian Whitney Cummings agreed to talk to anyone in attendance: she wound up chatting with baby squirrels.

I just did an IG live with anyone who asked me to join and I was scared but then the person I picked had baby squirrels and I will now be doing these a LOT pic.twitter.com/MztHwbIkYZ

— Whitney Cummings (@WhitneyCummings) May 2, 2020

The official, verified account of Skittles has, on more than one occasion, stirred up drama in the comments section of Bowen Yang and Julio Torres’ Instagram Live chats.

Club Quarantine— a daily digital Queer dance party that happens every night via Zoom– allows virtual clubgoers to join in with their cams, or just watch from behind a black tile, eliciting both an exhibitionism and vouyerism harking back to the random recklessness of the bygone Chat Roulette era.

But while it seems haphazard, each call, chat and interaction is an expansion of community that chips away at our cultural fear of IRL intimacy and democratizes digital communities.

Club Quarantine is not just a fun party; it’s a way for young queer people all over the world to be exposed to a community they may never have been able to access, or even imagine, before.

As more white collar workers are beginning to wonder not when they’re going to return to the office, but why they would ever return to an office at all, major coastal cities are staring at an exodus of their creative class and a bit of their cultural capital.

This migration gives brands a mandate to expand their offerings to bigger, more diverse groups of consumers as they use live-streaming and digital tools to build new communities all over the country.

Take The Wing, a women’s co-working space founded in New York City with offices in chic urban hubs like San Francisco and London.

When forced to close, they quickly pivoted from Millennial-pink meeting rooms to Zooms, making the interconnectedness of their community and celebrity-speckled programming accessible online for people all over. 

Shift 2: Exasperation with asperation

The foundational cracks in the influencer veneer have been growing over the past few years, but the COVID crisis provides a magnifying glass that’s amplifying influencer’s social media shortcomings.

When the crisis hit, Influencers and celebrities were among the first to draw our ire for using their privilege to improve their situations: fleeing from (highly infectious) cities to (highly staffed) second homes, and broadcasting (off-tune) singalongs after just a few days of being confined to their sprawling estates.

The highly-filtered, everything-is-perfect image that is the hallmark of influencer and celebrity marketing has never been less appropriate than it is now.

In a global crisis, consumers are rejecting content that screams aspiration and are instead looking for ways to share in and mitigate our collective exasperation. So what’s to fill this anti-influencer void? More unpolished, even unhinged, content.

Sixty-four year old character actor Leslie Jordan has seen his following balloon from 80k to 4.2 million thanks to a stream of monologues showcasing the absurd mundanity of lockdown: ironing for fun, baton twirling for exercise, watching porn while eating cereal.

But we’re the stars, too. From live baking and hair-coloring tutorials, to yoga flows in cluttered bedrooms, to organized weekly Zoom sessions, we’re all content creators and each other’s Influencers, now more than ever.

“Coming to you live” from the physical and emotional messiness of quarantine is recalibrating our relationship with reality, causing us to eschew unreasonable expectations and embrace “doing the best we can do” as the new form of “living our best life.”

Heiniken’s recent spot montages the relatable pain points of our endless digital gatherings and nods to the fact that quarantine life isn’t great, but we’re all trying to make it through.

Shift 3: Optimism is self-care

Optimism was already growing as a countertrend to the vitriol on the internet, but today, it’s flourishing.

During the pandemic, against a backdrop of endless doomsday news, we’re clamoring for more optimism. The sarcasm and troll-like tone that was once the hallmark of the internet is being replaced by content that uplifts.

For a moment this week, “Duck Pool Party,” a stream of ducks playing in a pool, was the most viewed Reddit livestream. Even notoriously snarky brands like Wendy’s have shifted their Twitter strategy, at least temporarily, to encourage camaraderie through games, activities and shared stories.

Wholesome, positive –if not strange and mindless– content has become a balm to cure our anxiety, a form of self-care that fills a void and provides a sense of calm that sheet masks and sourdough cannot.

Shift 4: Fascinated with facts

In March, consumers were letting out a collective sigh of exhaustion as their inboxes filled with branded emails detailing how we were all “in this together.”

But against the background of a pandemic, these vague platitudes have a counter-effect, reminding us all just how much these companies haven’t been there for us in the past: what little cooperation we received from airlines and car companies before, and what little practical application they have in this stripped back version of reality.

Instead, we want to hear the straightforward truth.

Unlikely figures like Dr. Fauci and New York’s Governor Andrew Cuomo have emerged as the leading men of the pandemic (and even more bizarrely, sex symbols), and Cuomo’s curt, distinctively Dad-toned Powerpoint slides have found a cult-following of their own.

Frito Lay’s COVID-spot “It’s About People” has won praise for saying what they were doing to help employees, instead of selling chips.

But the most trustworthy brand voice comes from a most unlikely player: Steak Umms.

The frozen meat company has emerged as a “voice of truth” thanks to their straight-forward, no-nonsense tweets that are at times, radical, at least for a corporate brand.

Their willingness to tweet bold opinions– and not mild platitudes–earned them double their pre-COVID audience, and the admiration of the internet.

When we emerge post-crisis, shell-shocked, knowing that catastrophe can hit again at any moment, we’ll still want straightforward talk from brands.

Brands need to learn this lesson quickly if they hope to pivot successfully in the ‘new normal.’

Megan Routh is a cultural anthropologist, writer and strategist at Open Mind Strategy whose expertise lies in translating cultural insights and trends into actionable strategies for Fortune 100 companies including: PepsiCo, Calvin Klein, JP Morgan Chase, Mondelez, Target and the United States Postal Service. With a decade of experience conducting research, moderating workshops and cultivating trend and cultural intelligence across countries in North America, South America, Europe and Asia, Megan has helped clients uncover emerging directions in culture, business and consumer behavior to develop strategies and innovate products, services, and experiences.

The post Chaotic communication: COVID-19 is rewriting our cultural rules of connection appeared first on ClickZ.

source http://wikimakemoney.com/2020/05/25/chaotic-communication-covid-19-is-rewriting-our-cultural-rules-of-connection/